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Sob Sistah

Interoffice Memorandum
To: Midstate Staff
From: Herbert Kornfeld
Accountz Reeceevable Supervisa
May 26, 2004

Ay yo:

Stop aksin' me about mah long-lost sistah. Y'all know what I'm sayin', muhfuckaz. Didn't I say in mah last newzpaypa column, don't fukkin' aks me about mah sistah? Sheeit.

Ever since I got our wack client SPJ Communications 2 settle up they Midstate debt by fuckin' whuppin' them ninja Blueshirt muhfuckaz it hire as muscle (peep "Enter Tha Office," January 2004), y'all all be wonderin' what that unseen mysterioso jackass meant when he said mah stone-col' skeelz bustin' tha Office-Fu moves didn't mean shit when it come 2 savin' mah sistah back in tha day. Shit, y'all, I restored tha Midstate honor an' got our $94.71 in tha process. That mo' important foe yo' purposes. If it weren't foe me an' mah superstar collectin' skeelz, Midstate'd hardly show a profit. So fuckin' show some luv. Feel me?

I tends 2 mah own bidness an' don't aks all y'all 'bout yo' own. Tha H-Dog ain't no muhfuckin' gossip. Hell, I don't givva rat's ass about what y'all do afta-hourz. I don't care if y'all gots three dicks. I only innerested in two things: What can y'all do foe Midstate, an' do y'all throw in foe tha coffee fund. Otherwise, stay outta mah grill.

This memo be addressed 2 all tha Midstate peeps, but I gots two of y'all in mah crosshairz 'specially: Dave Adenauer in Shippin' an', ain't no surprise here, that crazy bitch Judy Metzger in Accountz Payabo. Both have long tested tha H-Kool, but I almos' had 2 take these foolz out. I swear, but foe tha grace-a God go those pitiful morons.

G's: Day afta I tells the world 'bout mah run-in at SPJ, I'm walkin' 'cross tha office when that wack Dave call out mah name. I whirls around an' assume tha White Collar Warrior stance. I wuz in a lotta hurt from messin' wit' them sinistah Blueshirtz, but I could still snap into battle mode inna split-second. Murdah so thick in tha air you could taste it, but it obvious tha fool foegot his spoon.

"Hey, Herbert," Dave said. "So, what happened to your sister?"

Only the wizdom o' mah mentor, CPA-ONE (R.I.P., bro) stop me from makin' his dome x-plode wit' a single look. "Dog, sometimez it seemz tha smallest men throw up the biggest obstacles," he once say. "Remembah, they too small 2 mean nothin' real 'bout it."

Mah rage became pity. "I dunno, ya pitiful muhfuckah," I said. "Ya po' pitiful bastard. Y'all so dumb y'all must think Daylite Savin' Time be time-travelin.'"

I thought mah movin' dizplay a' sympathy would defuse the fool, but he only persisted. He aksed me if mah sistah mah twin, if she evil, an' could I teach him tha Office-Fu. So's, I aksed CPA-ONE 2 foegive me an' hurled tha muhfuckah 'cross tha Shippin' An' Reeceevin' department. But he only landed on a huge-ass pile o' Fill Air™ Inflatable Packaging.

Next day, I'm krunchin' tha steady numbahs in mah cubicle when I heard this kinda rustlin' paypa noise behind me. It weren't no spreadsheetz, tho; it wuz Judy Metzger's dry, orange, big-hair perm brushin' 'gainst her blaza. Befoe I could tell her 2 get tha hell out, bitch be layin' a plate o' lemon barz on mah deks.

"Herbert, Dave told me about how you broke down after he asked you about your sister," she said. "I just want to let you know that any time you want to talk, I'm here for you."

Then she started in on some crazy-ass bullshit 'bout how she wuz like mah sistah 'cause she run away from home when she 15 'cause her mama's man touched her funny, an' how she wuz in some God cult out in Utah run by this ol' perv, an' she got touched funny some mo', an' how she wuz a big crackhead, an' somethin' 'bout hitchhikin', then she think God be tellin' her 2 get her shit togethah, then, I dunno, Gerald Luckenbill found her in a basket at Midstate's front do'. Meanwhile, mah Executive Stress Ball's fuckin' unusable now, 'cause all the gel squirted outta it unda mah unforgivin' killah grip.

So, Judy aksed if all her touchy-feely bullshit make me feel bettah, an' I said what you foeget is that I'm a straight-up, funky-fresh P.I.M.P. an' she nuthin' but a orangutan-hair ho, an' she could stop sniffin' 'round mah Dockahs, 'cause she wuzn't gettin' none, an' that she owed me a new Executive Stress Ball. "Bitch," I said, "flag yo' bony ass back 2 Payabo." Then I dumped her barz in tha garbitch. She run out all boo-hoo-hooin', but that's what y'all gots 2 do sumtimes, hand out tha tuff luv. Well, jus' tuff in this case, but I didn't kick her 2 tha curb like I did wit' Dave. CPA-ONE (R.I.P.) woulda been mad proud.

Look, I only gonna say this once, so heads up: I hadda sistah once, but I ain't seen her since she wuz 5. Some say she wuz hijacked by tha Hong Kong mafia, some say some freaky alien Muthaship suctioned her outta tha backyard, an' some say she wuz a casualty of a custody battle between mah mama an' mah daddy. I don't remember much 'bout her, 'cause I be only a shortie when she disappear, but I recalls she wuzn't too down wit' tha Accountin'. When I was rockin' tha Li'l Professor, she wuz off marryin' her Barbie doll 2 her Care Bear. Kinda wack if y'all aks me. But I still gots mad luv foe her 2 this day, an' I hope she alive an' well, maybe managin' her own office somewheres, an' chillin' wit' her own adjustable, natural-light desk lamp, an' hopefully reimbursed foe it, if it hadda be ordered special.

Peep this, y'all: When all y'all mournin' a loss o' some sort, I don't go layin' down a card on yo' deks that say "Thinking About You" or sending y'all a "Pick-Me-Up" bouquet. Respect me like I respects you. 'Cause I knows a lotta y'all gots tha secret mad hate foe that touchy-feely shit, too. A lotta y'all won't admit it, but in yo' time o' need, I seen y'all squirm when Bob Cowan from HR be layin' his creepy eye on all y'all, sayin' "Midstate be here fo' y'all," an' "don't hesistitate 2 aks fo' help." Ain't nobody wanna get so low that they gots 2 go 2 Bob Cowan fo' anythang. It embarrassin', G's. An' tha ones who say s'all cool be pussies or frontin'.



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