Tha Autobiography Of Herbert K

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Tha Autobiography Of Herbert K

What tha dilly yo, mah homies? Tha H-Dog be keepin' it real at Midstate Office Supply, still kickin' it hardcore as tha Mack Daddy Enforca of tha Accountz Reeceevable Department. Jus' got my annual evaluation, and shit if I ain't tha baddest stone-cold supastar in tha whole third-floor administrative office. Tha comptrolla, Gerald Luckenbill, not only be approvin' me for a raise, he gonna nominate my ass for Employee Of Tha Month for April, 'cause I not only balanced tha shit out of tha Midstate ledga this month; my department led tha whole goddamn company in tha numba of cans collected foe tha muthafuckin' 1999 Kiwanis Club Food Drive. Tha future be looking SUH-WEET for tha H-Dog, Gs.

Now, most of y'all be thinkin', "Tha H-Dog, he know his bidness." And thas right, man. Shit need addin'? I creep in, adds tha shit up, and slip out, quiet as a muthafuck. Variance need resolvin'? It be gone without a trace. Uh-huh. Only a wack-ass fool ask someone besides tha H-Dog to accountz-receeve they shit.

But tha H-Dog, he didn't always have it goin' on like he do today. Man, years ago, back when I wuz just a shorty, I wuz into some crazy-ass shit. I be all psycho, wildin' and shit. But eventually, I straightened out, and I'm here to tell all y'all no-hair-on-they-balls baby punk muthafuckas who think they tha bomb to best listen to what I be puttin' down, lest you want me to go Jet Li on yo' ass.

Check this shit out: When tha H-Dog wuz in high school, he could usually be found kickin' his shit behind Arthur Treacher's Fish & Chips wit' his homies in tha Future Bidness Leadaz Of America. Or shopliftin' papa clips and gummed index tabs from tha local office-supply store. See, even back in tha day, I wuz into officin' an' shit, only I wuz unfocused, know what I'm sayin'? I didn't know if I wanted to be a stenographa, or a data processa, or a file clerk. But at tha same time, I be cocky, thinkin' I don't need no flunky teachaz to show me how to do this shit, so I be cuttin' my bidness courses all tha time.

One day, I be skippin' class to hang wit' my homies and drink 40s in tha parking lot of tha biggest accountin' firm in town, Kessler, Orbach, Cowart & Associates, LLP. I wuz checkin' out tha suits that wuz walkin' in and out of tha place, totin' they dope-ass Samsonite attaché cases, and I be thinkin,' DAMN, they muthafuckas must be KNEE-DEEP in bitches and Benjamins. It wuz at that moment tha H-Dog decided to get an accountin' degree and account shit for a livin.'

After that, I figure I best start attendin' class and catch up and shit, lest I fail and don't get accepted to no bidness college. But shit, man, that same day, after school, I be in tha typin' room practicin' my typin', when in come this fly honey cartin' a overhead projecta. I recognize her as tha only bitch in tha school A.V. Club, and damn, she be tha flyest ho I ever seen. She gots these fine A-cup titties unda her little velour top and shit, and she be wearin' them round, plastic glasses wit' tha dip in tha temple piece that make tha H-Dog wanna knock bootz. Right away, I step to this fine ho and start sweet-talkin' her, and one thing leads to another, know what I'm sayin'? Soon, we be spread out on tha desk of tha typin' teacha, Mrs. Wexler, an' she be ridin' mah jock like Willie Shoemaker. Shit.

Suddenly, we hears this scream behind us. I turns around and sees Mrs. Wexler. That old-ass dustcrotch haul my ass off to tha office of Principal Haslett, who tell me I be suspended for a whole month for freakin' a fellow pupil on school grounds. So I says, "Fuck this shit, Haslett, I ain't attendin' yo bitch-ass school no more," then I flip off Wexler and leaves. She wuz probably just jealous 'cause I be givin' that A.V. Club ho tha H-Luv instead a' her.

When my mama found out I quit school, she threw me outta tha house, so tha H-Dog wuz livin' on tha streets. A few days later, I run into this homie of mine, Harold Roukema, who used to be a Big Willie systems analyst wit' Salomon Bruthahs before he hit tha skidz. Roukema say he gonna introduce me to this street accountant who wuz wanted by tha police 'cause he wasn't certified. He say this guy be tha baddest muthafuckin' freestyle accountant around, and all tha bidnesses in town have him account they shit on tha sly. Roukema say this accountant's street name be CPA-ONE, even though he ain't certified, and if he like me, I can join his posse and learn to account shit freestyle.

For tha next year, I wuz runnin' wit CPA-ONE, and I learned my accountin' from him. CPA-ONE wuz tha best friend tha H-Dog ever had. He show me how to balance spreadsheets, reconcile ledgas and troubleshoot variations. He even teach me Lotus on this laptop computa he carry around. He also show me how to use a letta opener, which come in useful, 'cause we wuz always bangin' wit' rival accountant gangs who be tryin' to muscle in on our turf. Sometimes things wuz tough, 'cause tha pigs wuz on our dicks, and we didn't always know where we be layin' our domes at night. But in a way, mah homies, those wuz tha best days of my life, 'cause me and CPA-ONE, we wuz doin' our own thang, buck wylin' and shit, accountin' on tha run, know what I'm sayin'?

But tha good times didn't last.

One night, me and CPA-ONE met these two freaky hos at the Sunrise Motor Lodge for what we thought would be some accountin' in exchange for booty, but tha hos turned out to be undercova cops. A muthafuckin' sting operation. We wuz convicted of third-degree white-colla crime, and CPA-ONE be sentenced to three years in minimum-security lockdown, and I go to juvenile hall, 'cause I still be a minor.

One day, I gets tha news that CPA-ONE wuz killed at tha minimum-security pen by a fellow inmate who aimed a tennis ball-throwin' machine point-blank at him on tha prison tennis court. Ends up, tha muthafucka who did it wuz some accountz-payable bitch who got jailed for extortin' a shitload of dead presidents from tha insurance company he worked for. It wuz then I decided to straighten out and reform wit' a quickness. Tha H-Dog's plan wuz to get released early, get his high-school diploma followed by a two-year accountin' degree from a fully accredited bidness school, and find a job wit' a stable, mid- to large-sized company doin' accountz-reeceevable work. I wuz gonna do everything in my muthafuckin' power to avenge mah dead homey CPA-ONE and get back at them fuckin' accountz-payable muthafuckas. (Now all y'all know why I hates that Myron Schabe muthafucka, who be tha Accountz Payable Supervisa at Midstate.)

Sure enuf, shortly after my 18th birfday, I gets let out of tha j-hall on good behavior, gets my GED and go hustlin' for a job, hungry for action. Midstate Office Supply hired me, and I give crazy mad props to them for takin' a chance on a ex-con like me who gots a checkered past and shit. They even paid my tuition so's I could gets my two-year accountin' degree from Eastech Bidness & Technical College. Ten years later, mah homies, I be tha Accountz Reeceevable Supervisa, and I gots my own fly cubicle and molded foam armchair wit' pneumatic height controls and fully adjustable lumbar support. There ain't no place I rather be than Midstate, and I ain't never gonna leave, word to that. But I ain't never gonna compromise my street flava, to honor my man CPA-ONE, who teached me all tha accountin' skeelz I know. I love you, bruthah. Keep ya head up, and I'll see you at tha crossroads one day.

I be tellin' all y'all this shit 'cause I knows there be a lot of young wannabe playas out there who think tha H-Dog be tha shit, and rightly so. 'Cause a lot of y'all be actin' like tha H-Dog and talkin' my jive. And thas cool, but y'all be a buncha wack pretendas if y'all talk like tha H-Dog but ain't got tha SKEELZ, know what I'm sayin'? It all be about skeelz, not just bein' hard. And thas tha straight-up shit, mah homies. Word.

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