Sleepless hours and dreamless nights and far aways / Ooo ooo ooo, wishing you were here.
—Chicago, "Wishing You Were Here"
I be blastin' this def tune outta tha Nite Rida's sweet-ass factory-installed speakas a lot lately. Suckas always comin' up 2 me sayin', damn Dog, we thought you down wit' tha gangsta rap, not no Chicago VII. I say hell no, I gots mad hate foe that wack hip-hop shit. Hall N' Oatz, Neily D, that band that supply air: now that's tha mad slammin' shit, word dat. Tha H-Dog listens easy, always has, always will.
Plus tha tune remind me o' my ol' homie an' mentor, CPA-ONE (R.I.P.). Damn, I wish he wuz still here. I don't mean that in no homo way. It just that we could use a few moe strong Accountz Reeveevin' bruthahs among tha livin', 'cuz down here it be war all around.
Times be hard as hell in tha A.R. bruthahood. Sir Casio KL7000, AirGoNomic, Kount Von Numbakrunch, Petty Ka$h, an' tha rest o' my krew in lockdown on some bullshit freestyle accountin' charges. They tried 2 bust my ass, but they couldn't get no charges 2 stick. So now I'm one o' tha few A.R. playas representin' on tha outside while them punk-ass Accountz Payabo knockas run wild. (3-Holepunch got three-hole-punched back last July. Mourn ya till I join ya, bro, an' much luv.)
Heaven knows and Lord it shows when I'm away / Ooo ooo ooo, wishing you were here.
Midstate be changin', too. Back in tha day, they used 2 pipe in them supafly Muzak beatz. But now they just play some mystical Irish flute shit off a satellite feed. Shitload o' turnovah in tha hizzy, too. Peeps used 2 make a career o' this place; ain't that way no moe. I no soona done sexin' up a Cash Room bitch than some new big-hair ho take her place.
An' peep this: Don't nobody want no office coffee no moe. It all 'bout tha Starbux now. Ain't shit wrong with office coffee, 'specially tha way I makes it: two an' three-eighths scoops o' Folgers wit' three an' one-quarter cups o' water. That tha perfect proportion.
Jus' about only thang still tha same be Myron Schabe. That fucka coulda died at his deks tan' turned into a skeleton an' no one would notice anyhow.
Tha biggest change? Full-scale, crazy-ass turf war between tha A.R. an' tha A.P. Not a day go by without me havin' 2 use tha Letta Opener O' Death on a Accountz Payabo punk.
Back in tha day, tha A.P. posse used 2 be weak-ass amateurs. Kickin' they asses wuz like takin' a nice, long, satisfyin' shit: Y'all could bring a magazine. But now tha A.P. be thirstin' foe serious payback, an' tha H-Dog in they crosshairs. Plus, them Blueshirts still ain't particularly pleased I wasted five o' they best enforcas with my Office-Fu skeelz back in tha '04.
Tha H-Dog sleep wit' one eye open now.
My man Gary, tha assistant A.R. supervisa at Midstate, left 'bout five months ago. "I can't put my wife and daughter in danger anymore, Herbert," he say. He say I should leave Midstate an' accountz reeceeve undah a new moniker, but I say hell no, I ain't runnin' scared foe nobody. I can't. Gary never really rolled wit' my krew, but I gots mad respect foe him. Rocked Midstate's calculatas foe 11 years an' never had an overage moe than 50 cent. Big ups 2 ya, Gary.
Everythang fallin' 2 shit, know what I'm sayin'? Check it out: Not only tha A.P. out foe blood, now tha new breed o' A.R. punks be fuckin' up everythang they ol' school foefatherz worked foe. They ain't got no respect foe tha traditions o' tha past. They just clockpunchin' hos afta tha office chedda. Some-a them be comin' outta bidness college thinkin' they can round up 2 tha nearest dolla. No lie. Wack-ass wannabes.
Ain't nobody moe wack than Irving Weinbaum, Gary's replacement. I'd fire his ass wit' a quickness, but tha comptrolla Gerald Luckenbill say he one-a tha few A.R. peeps not doin' time right now an' we needs him. Hell, I don't needs him.
Irving, he think he all dat, but he ain't. Got his accountin' degree from some bullshit diploma mill an' he have tha muhfukkin' balls 2 step 2 me jus' 'cuz he landed a sweet-ass Midstate gig. Yesterday, I called tha fool into my dope cubicle and told him 2 resolve a $2 variance. "Two dollar variance?" he say. "Woot!"
"'Woot'?" I say. "You fuckin' fool, it gotta balance."
"Why?" he say. "Midstate's in the black. They can eat the cost. It's all good."
Wuz tha bitch straight trippin'? "Muhfukka, you want yo head flown?" I say, mah H-Kool slippin'. "I wants that variance resolved."
"Don't tell me what to do, bra," he say.
"Don't call me no goddamn bra," I say. "I ain't no Maidenform shit. Fuck all y'all! What, y'all sayin' I'm a bra? What? What? What? Whadju say, fucka? What? What?"
"Chill out, geezer," he say.
Next thang I knew, my Letta Opener headin' straight foe his forehead. Next thang I knew afta that, tha L.O.'s bouncin' off a phone book that Irving thrust in fronta his face, an' fallin' 2 tha flo'. Irving picked it up an' peeped it, then flashed this crazy-ass smile, his grill fulla white veneers. "That, Dog, is for opening letters," he say. He bend tha L.O. in two, an' place it in my deks drawer. Then he smile an' fold his hands ovah his chest, waitin' foe my next move. An' suddenly I freeze. 'Cuz I wuz lookin' into a mirror o' my ol' self.
"This ain't ovah, fucka," I say.
"No, it's not," he say.
Know what? Fuck Irving Weinbaum. Fuck tha A.P., an' fuck tha system that keep an A.R. bruthah down. Fuck a bitch ex who won't let her babydaddy see his shortie no moe 'cuz he supposedly "a bad influence," when she out chickenheadin' tha whole damn A.P. an' I.T. put togetha. Fuck that flute bullshit, an' fuck them Starbux-havin', no-balancin', disrespectin' Midstate punk-ass muhfukkaz. If tha world gonna dis me foe keepin' it real an' kickin' it ol' school, then fuck tha world. I can't do no else. Honor above all, CPA-ONE used 2 say. Homie would undahstand, if no one else here do.
And I'd like to change my life, and you know I would / Just to be with you tonight, baby, if I could / But I've got my job to do, and I do it well, / So I guess that's how it is.
Daddy H still in full effect, y'all. Tha bling, tha fame, an' tha bitchez keep flowin' in, but that shit ain't what matta. They ain't what kept me in tha game foe so long when so many o' my A.R. bruthahs never got promoted, or got hooked on Sharpies, or gave up on tha reeceevin' an' went into tax preparin' or auditin' or some other pitiful shit.
No, it wuz always 'bout tha numbahs. Tha numbahs. An' this Stone-Col' Funkee-Fresh Mack Daddy Supastar Enforca O' Midstate Office Supply will be crunchin' 'em an' balancin' 'em 2 tha grave. Much luv 2 ya, mah G's. H-Dog OUT. Peace.