Cash-Room Bitch Be Havin' My Shortie

Herbert Kornfeld
Accounts Receivable Supervisor

Heads up, y'all: Tha H-Dog's wildin' days be OVA. Now, I still be keepin' it real as tha Accountz Reeceevable Supervisa at Midstate Office Supply, so don't all y'all new-jack two-year accountin'-degree punks fresh outta community college be thinkin' about musclin' in on my turf, lest you want a Letta Opener Of Death in yo' ribcage. But, yo, y'all gots to understand, tha H-Dog gots a lot on his mind right now, an' he ain't bangin' like he used to, know what I'm sayin'? 'Cause, check this out, G's: I'm gonna be a daddy. One of tha Cash Room bitches, Agnes, be havin' my shortie.

I found out about a month ago. It be 5:30 on a Friday, an' I be punchin' out when Agnes motion to me to comes into tha Cash Room. I be lovin' that shit, 'cause just 'bout every Friday afta work I be gettin' my mack on wit' one o' tha Cash Room honeys, sometimes all four of they at once. "Get outta that office casual wear, hos," I say, an' soon we all just be one big heap on tha floor, suckin' an' fuckin' like there ain't no tomorrow. Hell, yeah. It's all gravy.


But on this particula Friday, Agnes wasn't in no mood foe givin' skins. Instead, she gots tears in her eyes. So I says, "Yo, fuck this cryin' shit. I out." Bitches is always usin' tears to control they man.

"Herbert," she say. "I went to the doctor today. I'm pregnant with your child."

Damn. Shit don't never faze tha H-Dog, but this time I gots to admit, I wuz pretty shook up. I thought that Agnes bitch be too old foe havin' shorties. Her titties like go down to her belly button, know what I'm sayin'? Don' get me wrong, she one straight-up chickenhead freak, but, shit, if I'da known she'd get knocked up, I'da worn a jimmy hat. Aw, fuck that shit. Tha H-Dog's cock be too big for no rubba, word is bond.


"Bitch, ain't you on tha muthafuckin' pill?" I aks. But Agnes just cry harder and say, "I stopped taking it because I wanted to have your baby so badly, Herbert. I love you so much, I can't stand the thought of being just another one of your girlfriends." No diggity, no doubt. Tha H-Luv be in great demand, an' tha ladies can't get enuf. But ain't no way tha H-Dog gonna get played by some Cash Room freak of tha week. Besides, she probably just sayin' tha shortie be mine so she can get her hands on some of tha H-Dog's mad-phat benjamins. Everybody know I gots tha flyest 401K retirement plan in town.

"Yo, I ain't havin' none of this," I tell Agnes and flags my ass outta tha buildin'. I hop into Tha Nite Rida an' peels out of tha parkin' lot so fast, I nearly take out that muthafuckin' Accountz Payabo Supervisa Myron Schabe as he step to his wack-ass Cutlass Ciera hoopty. Not that that woulda been a bad thing. Schabe tha biggest playa hata of all them Accountz Payabo bitches.


Man, as I cruisin' down tha interstate in Tha Nite Rida, my mind be reelin'. See, tha H-Dog's life be one o' bidness: balancin', journalizin', reconcilin', all that Accountz Reeceevin' shizit. Yeah, I take time out foe pleasure, too, but only on mah own terms, know what I'm sayin'? Damn, a shortie gonna fuck up mah funkee flow.

I had so many thoughtz runnin' around mah dome, I nearly fo-got that mah homey Jerry Tha Sharpie Head be gettin' out of Birchwood Minimum Security Penitentiary that afternoon, an' that we wuz gonna knock back some 40s at our old hangout, tha big vacant lot in tha white-colla district o' town. Only, tha lot be now tha site of some Big Willie tek firm that produce database and spreadsheet software, so we had ta meet up in tha parkin' lot.


When he get there, Jerry be lookin' like shit. Not only that, he drivin' this weak-ass '94 Mazda Protege. Shit, prison musta made him soft. But even so, it wuz cool to see him on tha outside afta bein' locked down foe so long. We pour out a little Old English foe our dead homie CPA-ONE, an' I aks him, "Is you still huffin' them Sharpies?" Jerry say no, but he tell me tha doc at tha prison infirmary got him hooked on highlighta penz instead. So even though he ain't jonesin' foe them Sharpies no more, he a stone-cold Highlighta Head. Sheeit, Tha Man be always tryin' to keep tha Accountz Reeceevin' bruthahs down, 24/7.

So Jerry aks wassup wit' me. I usually keeps mah troublez to myself, 'cause I don't wanna wreck my rep foe bein' hard. H-Dog gots to represent, know what I'm sayin'? But Jerry an' me, we been down since back in tha day, accountz reeceevin' freestyle togetha on tha streetz. So I tells him 'bout tha situation wit' Agnes.


"Agnes? From tha Cash Room?" Jerry say. "Ho be freakin' tha whole A.R. bruthahood. Bitch knock more bootz than Baskin-Robbinz gots flavas. You been played, Dog. You may be havin' her shortie, but you ain't tha only man she be backin' that azz up foe, true dat. Peep this: You know that perm she just got? That be foe me. She know I be gettin' outta lockdown and wanna look good. Uh-huh. She used ta come up to tha pen all tha time an' suck mah dick in tha conjugal trailer."

When I hear this, I go buckwild. "Shut tha fuck up, knocka," I say, an' give Jerry a serious beatdown wit' my Day Runner organiza wit' solar calculata and tabbed A-Z telephone directory. Nobody disrespects tha H-Dog, not even his homey who just got outta lockdown an' probably ain't hisself. Man, tha fool practically be cryin' afta that, but I gets all hard an' turns to leave. Tha last thing I hears him say is, "Do you got any highlightaz?" but I don't respond.


Man, I be furious at Agnes, first foe gettin' knocked up, then foe makin' up this boo-ya 'bout me bein' her man. Shit, I probably not even tha daddy if she be on her back foe all tha A.R. bruthas like Jerry say. I thought about teachin' tha bitch a lesson, like maybe deletin' all her e-mail or havin' tha office comptrolla dock her pay, but I decided that would just hurt tha shortie in tha long run. An' H-Dog don't wanna do that.

Why do tha H-Dog care so much about some skank-ass ho's shortie? 'Cause when tha H-Dog be a shortie hisself, his daddy run out on him. Mah daddy wuz a regional manager foe Waldenbooks, an' when I still be in mah Underoos, some Big Willie give him a job at tha corporate headquarterz of Kraft Foodz. Well, when my daddy got that promotion, he thought he wuz a stone-cold supastar an' didn't need no family holdin' him back, so he left mah mama an' me.


Well, a coupla months go by, an' tha Kraft high rolla decides Pops ain't meetin' his sales quotaz foe tha quarta, so he fires his ass. That night, Pops gets blind drunk at a bar next to tha Kraft plant and wanders off. Tha next morning, they finds his body face-down in a outdoor holdin' tank filled with that orange powda they use foe tha macaroni an' cheez. Afta that, H-Dog had to learn to be a man on his own.

So even though there ain't no way I gonna marry that no-account, two-timin' Agnes ho, I gonna be down foe her kid no matta what, even if he ain't mine. I gonna give him all tha thingz I never had as a shortie. He gonna have his own dry-erase board wit' multicolored markers, a set of looseleaf accountin' ledgas, a all-purpose desktop monthly planner, and a full supply o' Scotch tape, paypa clips, an' Post-It notes 'til he turns 18 and can fends for hisself. Hell, I might even spring foe a filin' cabinet. Nothing be too good foe mah kid, 'cause I gonna see to it that he learn to OFFICE PROPER.


Mah days as a playa be ova, Gs. No more stickin' them freaky Cash Room hos, lest I want mo' shorties runnin' around. I gots to check myself, before I wreck myself. From now on, it be strictly them ova-the-hill bitches foe H-Dog. Like that one who work in tha cafeteria, Eloise. She look pretty hot. I checked her from all sides.

Prior to his death on April 30th, 2007, Herbert Kornfeld wrote about workplace issues for The Onion. He worked as the Accounts Receivable Supervisor at Midstate Office Supply, the state's oldest wholesaler and retailer of office supplies and business machines.


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