H-Dog Jr.

Herbert Kornfeld
Accounts Receivable Supervisor

Yo, check it out, Gs: Last week, that freaky ho Judy from tha wack-ass Accountz Payabo krew steps to mah fly cubicle, all smilin' an' shit. I thought she wuz straight trippin'.

"Bitch, flag yo' ass back to tha A.P. before I go buckwild on yo' ass," I say. "I gots a variance here what needs reconcilin', an' I gots no time foe distractions from some A.P. ho."


No diggity, mah homeys. There wuz a negative $194.07 balance in tha subsidiary accountz-reecevable ledga, an' it needed to be balanced wit' a quickness, lest tha controlling account look all fucked up. Tha Code O' The H-Dog say, shit gots to be balanced before tha end o' tha bidness day. It a matter of HONOR.

"Herbert," Judy say. "Guess what… Agnes from the Cash Room had her baby last night! It's a boy!"

Damn. I be attendin' to bidness 24/7, and I almost forgot about Agnes an' tha shortie. Agnes tell me tha shortie be mine, 'cuz we be knockin' mad bootz in tha Cash Room afta hours. She say I tha only man she be hittin' skinz wit' lately, but then I gets word from my homey Jerry Tha Sharpie Head that tha freaky chicken-head bitch be givin' it up to all tha Accountz-Receevable highrollas. So I may not even be tha biological.

But at tha same time, when I hears tha shortie be a boy, I be mad proud, word is bond. I always wanted a Baby H. Jr. to carry on tha family trade of accountz reeceevin.' It just a damn shame that his mama be a lowdown, two-timin' beeyotch.


Judy say that ova tha lunch hour, tha whole Midstate Office Supply krew be goin' down to tha hospital to check out Agnes an' tha shortie. I mad hyped to peep mah son foe tha first time, but I just acts all hard an' tell Judy, "Whut about it, bitch?" 'Cuz tha bitch don't needs to know about mah bidness wit' Agnes and tha shortie. But even though I gots this fuckin' variance to contend with, I resolve that I must attend to tha shortie wit' a quickness, lest his mama school him in tha ways o' bein a no-skeelz-havin' Cash Room sucka what be backin' azz up foe all tha Midstate Big Willies.

But, damn, afta I finally lose that fool Judy, I remembers that mah hoopty, Tha Nite Rida, be in tha shop. Mah mechanic homey Kurt, he be installin' one a them dope-ass GPS DVD Navigation Systems. Plus, he be throwin' in, free o' charge, a pair of them phat bead seat covas that supposed to be good for yo' posture an' a fly vanilla air freshener shaped like a crown. So tha H-Dog be without his ride, an' it look like he gots to take tha bus. Unless you wants every hole in yo' body stapled shut, y'all best not make no wisecracks.


Nite Rida or no Nite Rida, H-Dog don't ride no bus, so I decide to call in a fava from a co-worka who owed me big-time. Namely, that wack bastard Dave from Inventory, whose sorry ass I saved when he OD'd on Liquid Paypa during tha Midstate office picnic last summer. I dialed his extension an' told tha muthafucka that he best give me a ride to tha hospital if he didn't want a swift beatdown.

Problem is, Dave still ain't got no clue about tha H-Dog protocol. When he be drivin' me to tha hospital, he be tellin' jokes like he Bernie Mac at tha muthafuckin' Apollo.


"Hey, Herbert," Dave say. "What's a shy and retiring accountant?"

"How tha fuck should I know, you corny-ass muthafucka?" I reply.

"It's an accountant who's half a million shy, and that's why he's retiring! Get it?"


Damn. If there ever a time to go balls-out Jeet Kune Do on that stupid fool, it wuz then. Huh. He crackin' wise when that missin' $194.07 wuz hangin' ova my head like a muthafuckin' Sword of Damocles. Not to mention them deep thoughtz I be havin' about seein' mah newborn shortie. But I decided to chill an' put tha muthafucka's demise on hold, 'cause we wuz at tha hospital by then. Besides, this a day foe life, not death.

I gets to Agnes' room, an' I spots her sittin' wit this old, flabby-ass ho I later learn be her mama. Man, she wuz tha oldest bitch I seen since fuckin' Myron Schabe, an' I could tell right off she wuz a stone-col' playa hata. She give me tha evil eye, an' I gives it back, because I don't take no shit from nobody. An' check it out: I don't see no shortie nowheres, but there be all these flowers, an' them shiny mylar balloons you can see yo' face in, an' some stuffed bearz, an' all this otha plush shiznit tha Midstate krew musta left behind foe tha shortie.


"Damn, I glad I bring this box o' thumbtackz," I say. "How tha shortie gonna be raised proper if he don't got no officin' supplies?"

Agnes' mama say some straight-trippin' bullshit about tha shortie bein' too young foe officin.' Man, you GOTS to start them YOUNG. What tha fuck would she know 'bout officin', anyway? Man, them fuckin' new-jack amateurs wuz really fuckin' wit' mah flow.


Agnes say that tha shortie, who ain't even got no name yet, be off gettin' his picture taken. A coupla minutes later, tha nurse carry him in. But he don't look like no shortie I ever seen. He all red an' shit, an' his face be all pinched up. He don't even look like no boy.

"Yo, thas one sorry-lookin' li'l punk you gots there, Agnes," I say. "How you know it mine? Maybe it Jerry Tha Sharpie Head's. Or Sir Casio KL7000's. Or AirGoNomic's. Or any o' tha otha A.R. bruthahs you be ballin' on tha second-floor copier. Shit, bitch, you think you can keep yo' two-timin' ways from me? Fuck all y'all!"


Agnes' mama grab tha shortie away from me. She tell me she know about my rep foe bein' hard an' that I ain't welcome around her grandson, 'cause she don't want him to turn out to be no "two-bit mid-level office drone." DAMN. Tha saggy-titted pigeon actually had tha balls to disrespect tha H-Dog to his face. Man, I wuz about to lose tha storied H-Kool. I gots this $194.07 variance, this damn fool Dave thinkin' we tight, an' Agnes' mama be ridin' mah jock. Under mah Members Only gear, I wuz fingerin' tha Letta Opener, ready to go 187 on these foolz.

Then, just as I about to start some mad drama, tha shortie goes an' pukes up a bunch of Gerba baby food on his old-ass grandma. Man, that was so off tha hook, I fo-get my rage an' start laughin' my ass off.


"Hell yeah, that gotta be my shortie," I say. "Mad propz to tha shortie. He don't take no shit from nobody, just like his daddy."

Agnes' mama say shorties do that all the time after they get they eat on, but she just heated 'cause tha shortie show her up, know what I'm sayin'? I wuz startin' to feel mad luv foe tha kid. Suddenly, he didn't look like some Yoda-lookin' freak, but a true son an' worthy heir of tha H-Dog.


I say tha kid's name gonna be Baby Prince H. Tha Stone Col' Dopest Biz-ook-kizeepin' Muthafukkin' Badass Supastar Kornfeld Tha Second. Agnes' mama be sayin' she want tha name to be Andrew Michael, but I be ignorin' her ass, 'cause it suddenly occur to me the source of tha $194.07 variance.

"Yo, I out," I say. "Shortie or no shortie, I gots A.R. bidness to attend to, know what I'm sayin'?"


Check it out, G's: Back during tha commencement o' tha fiscal year, I recalls getting a check foe $215.63 from this customer what be behind in his bill payments. Shit, I almost had to fade his late-payin' ass, but he got all paid up wit' a quickness once he realize he in tha H-Dog's crosshairs. Anyhow, I couldn't remember no $215.63 check on tha A.R. ledga, but there be one for $21.56. Tha muthafuckin' check had been recorded wrong! Sho' 'nuf, there wuz tha difference, $194.07. An' accordin' to Midstate accountin' guidelines, tha company can eat tha rest o' the cost as long as it under $10.

Mah phat skeelz as a stone col' troubleshoota who saves tha company mad benjamins already be legendary. But, shit, I fuckin' outdid myself this time. An' it all 'cause o' the shortie. Times were tough foe Daddy H., but tha luv foe mah shortie helped me once again get mah roll on.


Right now, I be sexin' that ova-tha-hill Eloise from the cafeteria, but I gonna get me some of them freaky Marketing hos. An' if I eva accidentally knock one of them bitchez up, I get to decide what the shortie's name be. Thas 'cause it turn out that fuckin' Agnes name tha shortie Tanner behind my back. What tha fuck kinda pussy name is that, Tanner? Shit.

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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