Yo yo yo yo yo yo, whassssup, bruthas and sistas of H-Dog, Tha Lowdown Funky-Fresh Gangsta Bad Ass of the Accountz Reeceevable Department of Midstate Office Supply, Tha Righteous Funk Masta, Tha Stone-Cold Muthafuckin' Playa with all tha dope spreadsheets and fly alphabetized invoice files and shit. Y'all be down with the H-Dog, know what I'm sayin'? And those who ain't, y'all can kiss my ass, muthafuckas. Some cocksuckas tried to fuck wit' the H-Dog last week and got they fuckin' asses WHUPPED.
The sorry cocksuckas in question was the Tech Support staff on the west wing of the third-floor general administrative office. Me and my crew here on the east wing of the third floor, we hate them west-wing tech-support muthafuckas. They always be tryin' to muscle in on our turf wit' they muthafuckin' control of the company's computa network and fuckin' wit' my accounting software and otherwise tellin' me what to do and shit. Thass bullshit! The only person who can tell the H-Dog what to do is his mama. And Allah. All the rest of y'all muthafuckas can go fuck yo'selves.
This whole east-west beef started about three months ago. Before that, it was all good: All the departments be chillin', doin' they own thang, know what I'm sayin'? But then, this past March, this muthafucka named Ted Wegerle gets hired as the new Tech Support supervisor, and he starts makin' all these changes around the office, devisin' ways to make the computa system run more efficient and shit.
About a week after he be hired, Wegerle send his computa bitches around to check all the extensions and power cords and shit in every department to make sure they be secure and don't need no replacement. So one of these computa bitches rides up to my cubicle and starts snoopin' around on his knees under my desk, his li'l Dockers-wearin' ass pokin' up like he gonna give me head or something. So I says to him, "Yo, what tha fuck you be doin' under there?" He raise his head and say that I gots too much plugged into my power strip, including two adding machines and another extension cord, an' that I should have nothing but my computer and desk lamp plugged in there. So I say, "Well, then why don't yo' pussy supervisor get my department bigger power strips, you wack-ass bitch?" When I says that, the li'l bastard turns all red and runs back to his fuckin' turf.
He was shit-scared, I know it, 'cause I gots a rep for being the hardest muthafucka on the whole damn third floor.
Then, a few weeks after that, Wegerle goes and upgrades my accounting software without consultin' me. When me and my posse logged on to Lotus, we got all this weird extra shit I ain't never seen before. Man, I was so pissed, I packed my Letter Opener Of Death and fuckin' invaded the west-wing turf, demandin' to see Wegerle. So I says to him, "What the fuck y'all do wit' my accounting shit? It was def before all y'all changed it. Change that shit back before I cuts you and the rest of you wack computa bitches."
I was about to go all American Psycho on those muthafuckas, but Wegerle says, all cool and shit, "Herbert, the only real changes on your software are some upgrades to the graphics, the addition of a few hot keys, and a quicker downloading time. Otherwise, nothing has substantially changed.
If anything, you'll be able to do your spreadsheets much more efficiently now."
So he talked me out of slicin' him and his software-installin' bitches, which ended up being the worst fuckin' mistake I coulda made, 'cause it sent them the message that they could fuck wit' tha H-Dog. When I figured this out, I decided to get me some allies against Tech Support, in case those fuckas tried to invade my turf again. So I goes up to Myron Schabe, the Accountz Payable supervisor.
Now, normally, I just be laughin' at Myron, 'cause he be this old candy-ass fool who wear Sansabelt slacks every day to work. But Accountz Payable be in the middle of the third floor, in between tha east and west wings, so they in the crossfire when the shit go down. They is, therefore, of strategic significance and all that army shit. If Tech Support tried to invade our turf, the Accountz Payable Krew could tell them to back the fuck off, and ain't no way they could reach tha east wing. So I ask Myron to join my posse and offer him some of my secret stash of Wisconsin Dells admission discount coupons I be keepin' in my desk.
But Myron just say, "I'm not getting involved in this, Herbert. If you have a problem with Ted, you can take your grievances to Bob Cowan in Human Resources." I shoulda known that dickless ol' bastard would say somethin' like that. "Thass cool, sucka," I say. "When tha shit goes down, you just be in tha middle anyway."
Sure enough, last Thursday, the shit with Tech Support went down when I made this hardcore, dope-ass image for my desktop. Man, that desktop image was the shit. I went down to the Marketing Department and used their scanner to scan this picture of a forest with tha inscription, "Attitudes Are Contagious... Is Yours Worth Catching?" You ain't kiddin', muthafucka! I saved it on a disk and loaded into my computer, so when I reboot, I get this muthafuckin' dope-ass shit on my desktop instead of that goddamn Windows logo.
The next day, the entire office be gettin' these memos in they mailboxes.
"Lately, it has come to my attention that several people have been creating personalized desktop images for their computers. We ask that people stop doing this and return to using one of the default desktop images included in the office-wide Windows 95 operating system. Aside from being an unnecessary activity which wastes office time and resources, creating a desktop image takes up a lot of memory and can create problems within your departmental LAN. If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me. Have a good day. Ted Wegerle, Tech Support Supervisor."
It was muthafuckin' zero hour, man.
I stands up on my chair and shouts across tha floor, "Yeah, I gots a question, Ted Wegerle, you muthafucka. Why you be fuckin' with tha H-Dog and the East-Wing Office Krew? I gots a vendetta out against you and the rest of the west-wing tech-support bitches, 'cause you be dissin' me and my posse and makin' me look the fool in front of my homies. You can't tell tha H-Dog what to do. I gots seniority, muthafucka. I gots da money, da shorties, and tha Employee Of Tha Month plaques to prove it. You only been here three months and still be on probation, cocksucka. Just because you know computa shit don't mean you can fuck everybody over. You think you all that, but you ain't, muthafucka. You just frontin.' So fuck you, bitch. Fuck you and yo' homies and yo' wack-ass Spiderman neckties, too, 'cause you ain't no playa, beeee-yaaaatch! H-Dog over and OUT."
I sits back down, and everyone in tha east wing be whoopin' and givin' me high-fives like they be on Arsenio. Myron Schabe be shakin' his head and havin' this hangdog look on his face, 'cause he be in the crossfire and can't get no work done. That was Myron's goddamn problem, though. He coulda joined my dope posse.
The next day, there be another memo in our mailboxes, this time from Lawrence Kanner, the Midstate Office Supply vice-president. "In order to improve the effectiveness of the Technical Support Department, we have decided to move Ted Wegerle and the rest of his staff to the second floor in the space adjoining the mainframe computer. The Marketing Department will relocate to Tech Support's former offices on the west wing of the third-floor general administrative office."
Like I said before, those who fuck wit' the H-Dog get they sorry asses BEAT DOWN. I didn't even have to say nothin' to the vice-president: He knew that the H-Dog was out for muthafuckin' blood, and that he had to defuse tha situation before things got violent. I gots more clout with Kanner than that muthafuckin' Ted Wegerle pussy and the rest of his wack posse combined.
And, on top of all that, right before Wegerle left the third floor, I stole the ball out of his fuckin' mouse, too.
I don't expect no problems with Marketing, 'cause Marketing's full of some of the flyest hos you ever seen, and they'll all be wantin' to freak tha H-Dog, 'cause they know I be hung like a muthafuckin' horse. H-Dog over and OUT.