Accountz Reeceevin' Ain't For No Candy-Ass Temps

      Whassup, G's. Yo, check this shit out: Ever since I be testifyin' about how I be tha Stone-Cold Hardcore Mack Daddy of Midstate Office Supply, all y'all wanna be part of my Accountz Reeceevable posse. Thas cool, but if you wanna run with tha H-Dog, you gots to have skeelz, know what I'm sayin'? You gots to EXECUTE.

      Do you gots a willingness to work in a team environment and handle multiple tasks? Can you efficiently process bank deposits and accountz-reeceevable transactions and shit? Reconcile the general ledger and prepare billing statements? Resolve billing disputes and carry out the collection of past-due accounts through telephone contact and the periodic issuance of dunning letters? Interface with tha office comptrolla, revenue analyst, sales-support and customer-service staff and, to a lesser extent, bank representatives? Be proficient in Microsoft Word and Excel, and possess a two-year accounting degree with one to two years accounting work experience?

      If y'all be all these things, you 'bout it 'bout it, mah homey. But if you ain't, you wastin' mah time, you no-skeelz-havin' muthafucka. So you best step tha FUCK off, before I beats down yo' sorry ass.

      That's just what I had to do a few months back wit' this pitiful wack-ass fool what came to Midstate Office Supply from TrustiTemps to help out tha Accountz Reeceevable Krew during tha Christmas rush. Now, normally, my posse don't need no muthafuckin' Christmas-rush help from no punk-ass temp agency, but my ho Gladys be havin' a shortie, so she take eight weeks leave. That leave just me and Gary, and we was willin' to put in tha extra hours to take care of bidness and shit, but tha muthafuckin' comptroller Gerald Luckenbill say he don't wanna pay me and Gary time-and-a-half when he can saves Midstate Office Supply crazy dead presidents by payin' some sucka-ass temp worker minimum wage for a full day's work. That don't surprise me none, 'cause Luckenbill be a cheap fuckin' cocksucka.

      Temp's name be Doug Fleisch or Fleischert or some bullshit like that, and he say he be wantin' to work a second job for tha extra benjamins. His other job be at Mickey D's. That shoulda been a dead giveaway to Luckenbill that tha sucka was wack. But Luckenbill ain't worried.

      "I'm sure that, with just a little bit of training and supervision, Doug can be a big help with some of the smaller departmental tasks, like organizing the billing statements and processing the daily deposit," Luckenbill say. "That should free up you and Gary to complete the state sales-tax return and the accounts-receivable fiscal-year report. And, who knows, you may even get a head start on your statistical analysis for the March departmental budget meeting."

      That temp-lovin' Luckenbill bitch be wrong as usual. First day Doug comes in, right off tha muthafuckin' bat, I find tha muthafucka sittin' in my dope cubicle, messin' wit' my fly Executive Stress Ball. Tha last fool who did that got his ass kicked Yuen Biao-style, but I decide to let it slide this time, 'cause tha bruthah be new and everything. I aks Doug what kind of experience he gots in accountz reeceevin', and he say none. "Ain't you never even took no Principles of Accountin' in high school?" I says. He say no. Damn. Thas straight-up wack, man. I figure everybody take that introductory shit in school. Except tha H-Dog, that is. I learned my accountin' on tha street.

      Tha fool could tell I be pissed, so he say he worked at some punk office doin' clerical work, like typin' and light filin' and shit. Sucka be buggin'! That ain't accountz reeceevin'! Sheeit.

      So I starts Doug out real slow, havin' him add up some spreadsheetz. Turns out, muthafucka can't even work a goddamn addin' machine. He punch in somethin' like three numbaz a minute, and he be hittin' tha muthafuckin' decimal point over and over, and he didn't even have to, 'cause I already gots tha fucka set.

      So when tha wack TrustiTemp bitch finally finish with tha spreadsheetz, he go, "Anything else, Mr. Kornfeld?" Like he a playa or somethin'. "Sure, fool," I says. "Go Xerox, collate and staple this here expenditure-outlay shit, and when you done, puts a copy in every departmental manager's mailbox."

      Now, how hard is that shit? But half a hour later, fool be back. "I was wondering," he say. "I've been collating these reports according to page number, but the pages that only have charts on them don't have page numbers. Should those go in the same order with the numbered pages as I find them, or should they be put in the back of the packet?"

      Man, under my desk, I be fingerin' my Letta Opener Of Death. I be half a second from cuttin' tha bitch. But I chill. "Put 'em in tha order in which I gaves them to you, muthafucka," I says.

      "Oh, good," he say. "That's the way I've been doing it. Thanks!" And he walk away.

      Candy-ass muthafucka.

      This shit go on for a week. And not only do tha sucka be useless, he always be callin' his bitch on company time. Once, I answer tha phone when he be out to lunch, and she be on tha line.

      "When Doug gets back from lunch, could you please tell him that Stephanie called?" she aks.

      "Tell him yo' own damn self, skank-ass ho," I says. "This be a bidness line, understand? Personal calls during break time only, beeee-yotch!"

      Come end of tha week, Doug ain't done shit for tha Accountz Reeceevable Krew. So I gots no choice but to take tha bitch down.

      Friday at 5 p.m., I aks him, do he want to go to Gridiron Greg's Sports Bar & Good-Tyme Brew Pub and have a frozen margarita. He say yes, so we gets into Tha Nite Rida and start drivin'. Only, we ain't goin' to no Gridiron Greg's Sports Bar & Good-Tyme Brew Pub. Twenty miles from town, I pull over in a deserted spot and hands tha no-skeelz tempin' bitch a serious beatdown. Fists be flyin', and I be goin' all Wu-Tang shaolin on his ass. Now, I know all y'all be sayin', "Please H-Dog, don't hurt 'em." It cool, homies. Tha H-Dog just be showin' tha kid some tuff luv. He probably still out in that cornfield off tha interstate, freezin' he sorry li'l ass off. But that wack fool won't be botherin' tha Accountz Reeceevable Krew no more.

      So heads up all y'all muthafuckas: If y'all ever be comin' 'round Midstate Office Supply, wantin' to be down with H-Dog and tha Accountz Reeceevable posse, not only do you gots to be a playa, you can't be frontin' neither, pretendin' you gots basic office skeelz when you don't. Know what I'm sayin'? It ain't just about bein' a supastar and gettin' tha benjamins and tha dope-ass split-pea soup them cafeteria bitches downstairs make. It be about skeelz. It be about HONOR.

      But tha point be moot, 'cause, hell, only a wack-ass fool aks someone besides tha H-Dog and his Mad Phat Krew of Gary and Gladys to accountz reeceeve they shit.

      Fuck Gerald Luckenbill. Don't listen to a word that wack muthafucka say. Accountz reeceevin' be tha realm of professionals, not no candy-ass TrustiTemps, so fuck all y'all pretendas.

      Peace.