Daddy H. Day CareCommentary • children • ISSUE 39•35 • Sep 10, 2003 By Herbert Kornfeld, Accounts Receivable Supervisor Yo, this is foe tha day-care peeps who tend to mah shortie, Baby Prince H Tha Stone Col' Dopest Biz-ook-kizeepin' Muthafuckin' Badass Supastar Kornfeld Tha Second. (His mama call him Tanner, but she a bitch.) First off, I wanna say that I ain't down wit' this lame-ass daycarin' bullshit. Agnes—that's Baby H's moms—decide she wanna get educated. So, she said either I tend to tha shortie durin' tha day while she at school, or he gots to go to this Little Britches place on Commercial Road. So I said, "Shit, you high? Days I spend tendin' to bidness at Midstate Office Supply. Can't that fuckin' mama o' yours, who always hatin' on tha H-Dog, look afta tha Prince?" An' she said her mama have corns, or cancer, or somethin' beginnin' wit a 'C', an' so she can't look afta tha shortie no more. So, whut that mean is, a bunch o' muthafuckin' strangers be lookin' afta my son an' heir to tha storied Kornfeld accountz- reeceevin' legacy. Tha H-Dog don't play that shit. But I ain't gonna give up my sweet, sweet gig at Midstate. Tha place be givin' up tha mad scrilla, plus I just got one o' those desktop fridges you can keep yo' lunch in. Y'all best believe it goin' to good use, muhfuckaz. Besides, who gonna keep tha Prince in Pull-Ups if I don't keep krunchin' those numbahz? You daycarin' amateurs ain't in tha clear wit' me, though. Y'all got a shitload o' shortiez in tha hizzy, but I don' want nobody forgettin' who Daddy H's boy be. I don't wanna come collect tha boy one day an' find him wit' a load in his pants an' about to stick his tongue inna 'lectric socket, 'cause all y'all off in anothah room playin' some candy-ass game wit' chutes an' laddaz. So I come up with this list o' rulez y'all best heed. 'Cause y'all workin' foe me now. An' if y'all don't like it, go find a betta payin' gig wit' Blu Kross/Blu Shield benefizets, where y'all get treated wit' some respect. Feel me? Make sure he wear his goddamn sweata. He got this li'l acrylic sweata-vest just like his Pops, an' I keeps it in his backpack next to his solah calculata. I know how you muhfucks like to keep tha thermoshizat down 'cause you figure all tha shortiez create they own heat when they runnin' around. But ain't no boy o' mine gonna catch his death 'cause some pencil-pusha wanna cut corners. Yo, an' check this: Y'all gots my permishizzon to trash that ill doll his moms keeps in his backpack. You know, that freaky-lookin' thing wit' tha red yarn hair an' check shirt. Thing got a tattoo on its chest sayin' "I love you." Tell her some other kid shit all ovah it or somethin', so you hadda torch it. Don't feed him none o' that nasty-ass strained-carrot shit his mama give him. He almos' 2 now, and he ol' enuf foe Skittles an' Slim Jims an' Andy Capp Hot Fries. If it good 'nuf foe tha Midstate employee- breakroom vendin' machine, then it good 'nuf foe mah shortie. I better not hear no muhfuckaz dissin' tha office eats, not evah. Rolez he can play wit' his li'l shortie homiez durin' playtime: CPA, bank tella, collections rep. If they play house, he can bust in an' audit 'em. Huh. That'll teach the li'l muhfucks. If they play store, he can play cashier, but he gotta be all bidness: no sleepin' on tha job or quittin' his post an' goin' shoppin' like a li'l pussy girl. An' he can't claim no employee discount. An' if they play office, I betta not see him workin' tha accountz payabo. Give that shit to one o' tha weaker shortiez. I best never see mah boy in one o' them huge-ass strollaz that carry a dozen or so shortiez. I got mah reasons. He can watch tha show wit tha freaky puppet bloodsucka that counts off tha numbahz. Back inna day, that same show used to have a pinball-machine cartoon wit numbahz in it, too. That wuz dope. But my boy can't watch nothin' else, 'specially not that wack sponge wit' no dignity. Don't let none o' tha shortiez use his special sippy-cup, neither. It gotta blue top an' somethin' on its side—uh, what's the shit—oh, yeah. A duck. It a gift from my ol' faculty advisa at Eastech Bidness & Technical College, Mr. Sherman. He wuz mad proud when he find out his supafly protégé got his freak on an' made a shortie. That don't happen too often in tha accountin' profession. But mah accountz reeceevin' posse gonna change that, no doubt. That remind me... If all y'all daycarin' peeps spot some officin'-lookin' homiez kickin' back an' drinkin' wine coolahz on yo' property, don't call tha 5-0. That jus' mah posse. They used to chill in tha H&R Block parkin' lot, but them tax foolz decided they had enuf an' called tha pigz. The homeboys got they asses outta there befoe they could be busted foe vagrancy, but all this pig harassment mean they runnin' outta places to hang. So I tol' 'em about Little Britches, how y'all got this big-ass parkin' lot y'all hardly use and those def monkey-barz an' shit. Yo, don't hate. They peaceable, they got crazy love foe Baby H, an' they ain't lookin' to brawl. Although tha monkey-barz might come in handy if the homiez go toe-to-toe wit' tha pigs, an' they gotta do some freaky mystical Shaolin shit. You know, twirlin' aroun' an' as they dismount, they kick in a sucka's head somethin' like 60 times in a half-second befoe touchin' the ground. Jus' sayin.' Shee-it. Writin' up this list be somethin' no self-respectin' A.R. bruthah should evah do. Daycare. Huh. Back inna day, mah moms an' pops both led tha Workin' Life, but they didn't put me in no day care. I wuz straight-up latchkey. Got my ass off tha schoolbus, let myself in, stripped down to my Underoos, fixed me a bowl o' Quisp, an' sat down to a aftanoon o' 3-2-1 Contact an' Tic Tac Dough. I ain't lookin' foe yo' goddamn sympathy. I wore that house-key bling aroun' my neck wit' mad pride. Even then, tha H-Dog took care o' bidness, an' didn't need no daycare sucka chasin' afta him wit' a ass-wipin' cloth an' a juice box. Solitude good foe a shortie; it build characta an' shit. Peep this: Soon as tha Prince in kindergarten, he gonna kiss muhfuckin' daycare goodbye an' wear his own house key on a bright orange shoelace, jus' like his pops. I'll see to it. H-Dog out.