Keepin' It Real In Tha Midstate Crib

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Keepin' It Real In Tha Midstate Crib

Very first time I wrote this column, it wuz to inform all y'all nonbelievaz out there that tha H-Dog wuz a BAD ASS who best not be fucked with. That wuz nearly six yearz ago, and ain't a damn thing changed. If y'all think I gone soft 'cause I gots a shortie now, you dangerously mistaken. I still as hardcore as they come, know what I'm sayin'? Cross me, an' I'll samurai on yo' ass. Word is bond.

Damn, tha public think officin' peeps all be these pitiful, candy-ass bitchez watchin' Jenny Jones in tha break room or hangin' snapshots of they dumb-ass cats in they cubiclez. That be true o' some office workaz, like that wack Judy Metzger in Accountz Payabo, always wearin' a fool grin an' pushin' her muthafukkin' snickerdoodle cookiez on tha Midstate krew. But real office playas be all bidness, and don' stand foe no weak shit. Like my homiez Sir Casio KL7000 an' Kount Von Numbakrunch. We mad tight, but durin' tha work day, we don't talk at all. We tend to our respective bidness an' nothin' else. No phone calls, no e-mail, no gettin' our lunch on togetha at Applebeez.

It part o' tha Accountz Reeceevable code. See, back in tha day, this one A.R. bruthah got busted forwardin' a e-mail list of Monica Lewinsky jokes to anotha bruthah. When word got 'round, we put tha muthafucka in traction wit' a quickness, even though he wuz jus' a new-jack punk only five months certified. His mama told tha newzpaypas that tha A.R. wuz responsible, but even from his hospital bed, that bitch never pressed no charges 'cause he wanted to roll with our posse so bad. Didn't show him no mercy, tho'. Ain't no excuse foe that wack e-mailin' shit. Don't nobody want to get them lame jokes, 'specially not no hardcore A.R. enforcas.

So in tha rare event that A.R. bruthahs get togetha durin' bidness hourz, y'all best believe some serious shit be goin' down. And thas jus' what happen tha other mornin'. I hears a tap at my cubicle door, I turns aroun', and there be Sir Casio and Numbakrunch. First thing I think is, "Oh, snap, Jerry Tha Sharpie Head got hisself letta-opened in lockdown." But they didn't come ta bring no news about Jerry. Whut they said wuz a lot worse, true dat.

"Yo, Dog," Sir Casio say. "Me an' Krunch, we came to give you this here." And he hands me mah personalized double-gusset organiza wit' solar calculata.

Holy FUCK, y'all. I musta left it in tha SpeediBanc parkin' lot tha previous night. I ain't never fo'get mah organiza befoe. No self-respectin' A.R. bruthah ever leave his crib without his letta opener and organiza.

But befoe anythang can be said, Judy Metzger stick that big-ol' pumpkinhead of hers into mah cubicle. She all grinnin' that dipshit grin o' hers. Bitch has a serious love jones foe yours truly, but she ain't gettin' none o' tha H-Luv, unless she cross ova to tha A.R. And lose them muthafukkin' snickerdoodle cookiez. And get them front teeth removed, know what I'm sayin'?

When Judy pops in mah cubicle, she startle Casio an' Krunch so bad, they reach foe they letta openas, but I calm 'em down, sayin', "S'cool, she A.P., but she Midstate, too."

"Oh, Herbert," she say in this wack sing-song voice, like she Helen muthafukkin' Reddy or somethin'. "Can you come to the conference room for a minute? We're having a quick staff meeting."

"Aw, sheeit, bitch, this betta be important," I say. I be mad vexed, y'all. First, tha organiza thang and now a staff meetin'. I follow Judy to tha conferizence room, wit' Casio an' Krunch close behind.

But when I gets to tha room, ain't nobody there. "Goddamn, bitch, where tha krew at?" I aks. "You tryin' to play me? I oughta smack you upside yo' ugly head, you Aerosoles-wearin' ho."

Alla sudden, tha whole Midstate krew leaps out from under tha big ol' conferizence table. FUCK. It some kinda ambush. I whip out tha Letta Opener Of Death, grab Judy, and stick her ugly-ass permed head in tha ovahead projecta.

"Any y'all step to me, I turn on tha projecta bulb, and Judy will be seein' spots foe dayz," I say.


Dag, yo. I completely forgot. It be my muthafukkin' birfday.

Everybody in tha house: Bob Cowan from Human Resourcez, office comptrolla Gerald Luckenbill, all tha fly hos in Marketin', Mike and Phil in Inventory, Hal Tha Janitor, and, of course, mah Cash Room bitchez. Even muthafukkin' Myron Schabe, tha Accountz Payabo supervisa. Harriet from tha Cash Room bust out this big ol' cake all lit up wit' candlez and shit. Then they all set to singin'.

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Herbert, happy birthday to you."

Man, I was mad embarrassed bein' tha subject of some pussy-ass birfday party. Plus, they wuz wastin' valuable company time in mah name. As peeps be helpin' theyselves to cake an' ice cream an' soda an' them muthafukkin' snickerdoodles, I resheath tha L.O.D., release Judy, an' turns to face Casio an' Krunch.

"Yo, I gots to get outta here. This ain't no place for a hardcore gangbanga like H-Dog," I says. "Besides, we gots important bidness to discuss."

We ditch tha conferizence room an' returns to mah cubicle. I takes up mah organiza an' lays it on tha floor. Same wit' tha L.O.D.

"Bruthahs," I say, "I brought shame to tha A.R. game today. I fo'get mah organiza. Thas why, effective immediately, I'm resignin' mah position as Accountz Reeceevable Supervisa at Midstate Office Supply and from tha A.R. bruthahood at large."

Then Casio speak up. He say there ain't no need foe no resignation. He point at my attaché case an' tell me there be a organiza right there inside it. Sho' nuff, he right. Casio 'splain that when we wuz 'bout to leave tha SpeediBanc parkin' lot las' night, we takes up each othas organizaz by mistake, which look identical an' was layin' side-by-side on tha outdoor night-deposit box.

"An' as foe tha birfday partay, sheeit, y'all know them wack bitchez be pullin' that girlie shit all tha time on tha A.R. posse," Casio say. "It be a occupational hazard. Like, you know, carpal tunnel syndrome."

"No doubt," Krunch say. "They be pullin' that kinda wack pussy shit all tha time 'round here. Winta last, muthafukkin' coworkas tried to make me throw in foe Secret Santa. I didn't want no part of it, 'cause I wanted to keep it real and represent tha A.R. code to tha fullest. So I didn't give nothin', but I got somethin' anyway: a muthafukkin' crocheted pencil holda. I wuz like, dang, I don't want none o' this wack Secret Santa bling-bling. But if I returned tha gift, tha heat woulda been turned up on me like mad. You know, office politics an' shit. And rememba, tha Reeceevable Code say, serve and honor yo' employa at all costs. S'all good, s'all good."

Usually Numbakrunch ain't too bright, but I gotta give him mad propz foe makin' a bruthah see things anew. I ain't never realized that it ain't really violatin' tha Code if y'all have that weak shit thrust upon you. It only violatin' tha Code if tha weak shit be perpetuated BY tha A.R. bruthah HISSELF, like what that e-mailin' sucka did. In a perfect world, foolz like Judy Metzger would be locked out o' all officez, but tha world ain't perfect, an' it up to tha A.R. bruthahood to maintain a high officin' standard, even when they surrounded by the wackest of shit. Much love to mah homiez Casio an' Krunch foe they wizdom and understandin'.

When Casio an' Krunch leave, I goes back to tha conferizence room to get mah eat on. I even chokes down a muthafukkin' snickerdoodle. But tha second I finish tha las' bite, I outta there an' back to my fly cubicle, where I start balancin' shit like a MOTHERFUCK. Birfday or no, ain't nobody gonna keep me from mah true callin'. Some officin' peeps may think tearin' off pages from they 365-days-a-year Far Side calenda be work, but not this banga. Daddy H be keepin' it real, representin' to tha fullest in tha Midstate crib 40/5.

Sheeit, what a A.R. bruthah gotta do jus' to stay alive in tha officin' world.

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