Yo, whassup, Gs? H-Dog in tha house. Do all y'all recall, back in tha day, tha beef between tha Accountz Reeceevable posse an' tha west-wing Tech Support krew? Them computa bitchez wuz fuckin' wit' mah flow, switchin' mah software on me an' tellin' me I can't put no desktop image on mah computa screen. Well, I called bullshit on that. I won't go into all tha detailz again, but suffice it to say I had them computa bitchez runnin' scared an' didn't have no mo' trouble wit' them. That is, until yestidday.
Turns out, there be a whole new posse o' computa suckas to contend wit'. Only, they ain't on tha Midstate Office Supply payroll. They do free-style consultin' wit bidnesses, tellin' them how to run they computas better. And they be rollin' in tha scrilla, flashin' tha mad bling-bling, 'cause they problem-solvin' skeelz and networkin' solutionz be in crazy demand. What's worse, they got it in foe Daddy H an' all tha other officin' peoples what crunch numbas.
It all started afta work. I was in tha Nite Rida, cruisin' ova to Agnes' crib to pick up mah li'l shortie, Baby Prince H Tha Stone Col' Dopest Bizook-kizeepin' Muthafukkin' Badass Supastar Kornfeld II. Only, his no-good, dirty-ass ho of a mama call him by the wack name she gave him, "Tanner." Huh. That boy ain't gonna do no tannin'. He gonna be a white-colla office highrolla like his daddy. Matta of fact, I wuz plannin' on takin' him to mah crib to show him mah computa wit' all tha def Microsoft Office 98 software an' shit. Uh-huh. I even got Minesweeper on mah hard drive. I got it goin' ON.
But that wasn't tha only reason I went ova to Agnes' crib. I got wind from one a them fine bitchez in Marketing that Agnes be backin' that azz up foe some free-style computa consultin' sucka. Course, I ova her long ago, but I still don't like hearin' 'bout some fool gettin' his freak on wit' mah ex-bitch. So I head ova to Agnes' crib, figurin' he probably ova there an' that I can scares him off with a li'l flexin', know what I'm sayin'?
As I'm gettin' out of tha Nite Rida, I peeps some movement behind tha chain-link fence in front of Agnes' yard. I whips around wit' a quickness and see this pitiful li'l man starin' back at me like he a deer caught in tha headlights. Then he take off behind tha house, runnin' scared. Tha computa bitch! I leap tha fence like a muthafuckin' ninja an' trail his ass to tha backyard patio, where mah shortie be kickin' back in his bassizinet an' Agnes be tendin' to tha gas grill an' stirrin' a big pitcha of Hi-C. So I says to tha computa bitch, "Time to throw down, muthafucka, 'cause y'all be bumpin' uglies wit' mah boo." Shit, he so scared, he looked like he wuz gonna piss his Cool-Max travel shorts. I wuz jus' messin' wit' tha fool, seein' what he wuz made of. But Agnes starts buggin' out, sayin', "Herbert, what are you doing here? I cannot believe you would come here uninvited and act like this around the baby! Leave right this instant, or I'm calling the police."
So I be like, "Yo, chill, bitch. S'cool. Show yo' shortie's babydaddy some respect."
Agnes want me gone, but mah bidness wit' Mr. Computa Bitch ain't finished. I aks tha fool his name, and he say it be Neil Sundquist. Then he try to impress tha H-Dog wit' some o' his computa jive, but I ain't havin' it. Save it foe tha suckas that be innerested in that boo-ya. Don't get me wrong: Lotus software be tha BOMB, an' a big shoutout to all tha homiez at Dell, 'cause all y'all help tha H-Dog do his thang in STYLE. But a real man don't make his livin' wit' his ass parked in front of a computa all day, know what I'm sayin'? It one thing to use a computa to assist you in yo' day-to-day bidness, but when tha computa be yo' whole hustle, that shit be WACK. Ever see what them computa bitchez do to numbas? It ain't natural. Numbas ain't supposed to be code, they supposed to quantify shit. I could go into it mo', but all that deep shit's probably way ova yo' head.
Anyway, I turns to Agnes an' say, "Get me a Hi-C, bitch." But instead of gettin' me a Hi-C, she start in on me again.
"Do you know what, Herbert?" she say. "Neil says that within the next five years, bookkeeping operations are going to be completely computerized in all but the smallest businesses, and Accounts Receivable and other such accounting departments will be rendered obsolete. Herbert, you haven't got a future."
"Izzat true, muthafucka?" I aks Neil.
"Well, I wouldn't have put it in quite the way Agnes did, Herbert," Neil say, all sweatin' an' stammerin'. "I mean, people still program the computers, and having people around with solid foundation in accounting can only be a plus. What if there were a problem? An unforeseen glitch? Something not balancing? Someone with the keen troubleshooting skills borne of years of experience in accounting work could come in very handy in such situations."
"Ain't no errors now, muthafucka," I say. "I see to that. What tha point of havin' a fuckin' computa do all your accountin' if it gonna fuck up anyhow?"
Before Neil can say anythin', fuckin' Agnes butt in: "The answer is simple, Herbert: speed. A computer can crunch far more numbers than the fastest human in just a fraction of the time. Get with the program."
Now, normally, y'all, if a bitch mouthed off to me, I'd give her a smackdown. But there wuz sumthin' in what Agnes say that got me thinkin'. Ten yearz ago, when I wuz accountin' on tha streetz wit' mah homie an' mentor CPA-ONE (R.I.P., bro–mourn you 'til I join you), we wuz kickin' back wit' some Bartles & Jaymes wine coolas in tha parkin' lot of Northcentral Family Insurance. Tha quittin' time whistle blows, an' all tha flunkies come out, hop into they hooptys, an' blow outta there wit' a quickness. Tha last sucka to leave be this old-ass geeza. He had this hangdog look on his face, like he about to keel ova. He look even older than Myron Schabe an', man, thass OLD.
I start laughin' at tha geeza. "Check out that ol' dude," I say to CPA-ONE. "He belong in diapas."
"That ain't funny," CPA-ONE say to me. "Dog, I brought you to this 'hood so you could peep this guy. Back in tha day, he be tha king pimp of all tha accountantz. But now, they lettin' him go 'cause he can't get used to computas. He insists on kickin' it old school, an' he can't keep up wit tha young, computa-literate hustlas. So they canned his ass. Today be his last day. He lost his retirement pension, his health benefitz–ev'rythang. He too old to get hired anyplace else. Shit, he be lucky if he land a gig mannin' tha condiment station at Taco John's."
CPA-ONE wanted to learn me a lesson, which wuz that you gotta stay on top of that computa shit if you wanna be a true playa on tha accountin' scene. So what Agnes say made me wonda if I wuz goin' tha way of that Northcentral Family Insurance geeza. I always figured that by tha time computas an' robotz be doin' ever'body's work, I'd already be retired and livin' large in Branson, MO, chillin' wit' mah homies Roy Clark an' Jim Muthafukkin' Stafford.
But if what this computa-consultin' sucka say be true, tha H-Dog in trouble. Shit. An A.R. bruthah like me, I always looked at them Accountz Payabo foolz as tha enemy. I ain't never considered that maybe tha real enemy be computas.
But then it hit me: If mah hustle be threatened 'cause computas be makin' it obsolete, why can't tha same shit go down on muthafuckin' Neil Sundquist? One a these dayz, some young punk gonna step to him an' say, "Fuck all y'all, I gots tha mad skeelz, I know shit y'all ain't never even heard of, so step tha fuck OFF."
Yeah, H-Dog gonna be a-ight. Besides, it ain't tha H-Dog's style to doubt his skeelz.
Peep this: Accountz Receevable be my reality, y'all, and I'll put mah old-school accountin' skeelz up against a computa's any day. A computa may crunch numbas fasta, but it gonna have to go tha distance wit' me, 'cause tha H-Dog don't surrenda, know what I'm sayin'? It be like John Henry an' tha Inky Poo all ova again. Except I ain't gonna die like John Henry, Gs. I can journalize an' troubleshoot foreva, 'cause it my CALLIN'.
Numbas. Numbas. Numbas. They my true love anyway. Fuck everybody and everything else. Fuck them two-timin' freak-o'-the-weeks. Fuck them computa-consultin' bitchez who wanna wreck mah rep. Fuck computas. 'Cause when y'all get down to it, it only about one thing: tha ACCOUNTIN'. And, by tha way, don't think I about to go soft on them Accountz Payabo bitchez. Daddy H still has mad beef with all y'all. Fuck wit' me, and you WILL get sprayed Danny Lee-style. H-Dog OUT.
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.