FLIGHT-13

What do you think

2006-11-18T17:40:00.000-08:00

Awards to Somali Bloggers Statff members

2006-11-18T12:57:00.000-08:00

Yo Yo Yow sup peepz, HollyWood does it, and all those awards goes to their freaks, why not give awards to Somalibloggers staff.... here comes Flight13 awards of the year:

First Goes to.........FIREFLY

Your Great ass contribution is highly appreciated, therefore flight13 joint awards you this certificate.....
to the one and only Greatest ass on the blog Ms Firelady...lol

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Second Award goes to Sleeping Lady......

You are too sexy to Ignore,,,, and your contribution is highly appreciated...this SEXY award goes to Ms SleepLady

MySpace Comments

Last if not least...... Ms FOC you seem to be tied up a bit lately but anyways we will give you this for now and hope you can get back on blogging after you UNTIE yourself.....this awards goes to
Ms FOC or tied up lady...

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There are more awards to come for Somali Bloggers, specially the new Kid on the Blog Mr Shafi and his Krew and My little dolly doll Ms Pucca..... Stay tune

JURY DUTY.......Escaping blot!

2006-10-20T04:54:00.000-07:00

Yo, Yo wuzz up ! Y'all may not realize this, but tha Accountz Reeceevin' bruthahood be forced to live in two worlds: tha supafly world o' officin' an' tha bleak-ass world of all y'all amateurs. And it ain't easy. When punchout time roll around, there be a lot o' A.R. bruthahs who don't know what to do with theyselves. Sometimes, they go to Chiliz or Applebeez, but them places be full of playa-hatas who don't approve of tha reeceevin' lifestyle, and in no time, suckaz start flexin'.

'Bout a month ago, me and mah homes Petty Ka$h wuz in WILLIAMS, and some o' dem stripey-shirt muthafukkaz didn't like how he ordered a jalapeño-poppah appetizah 'steada a full entrée. They dragged his ass into tha kitchen, doused him with that teriyaki-lime-juice-mesquite-sauce shit all they food be cooked in, an' stabbed him wit' them wack pins an' buttons they wear on they suspendas. Then they threw him in tha Dumpsta outside. A month lata, Ka$h still be tryin' to get that teriyaki-margarita-whateva-tha-fuck-it-is smell outta his Dockaz.

Shit's gotten so bad, some A.R. bruthahs don't even go out no more afta work. They just chill in they cribs wit' they bitchez an' shortiez, wishin' they could be out on tha street reeceevin'. Ever read in tha police blotta 'bout some A.R. bruthah gettin' arrested foe bustin' into his own place-a work aftahourz to do a li'l freestyle numba-krunchin'? Or jus' to dick aroun' on tha addin' machine a little, even if it just be to punch in 7734 40, which upside-down read "OH HELL"? Bruthahs jus' wanna keep they minds active, but in tha fucked-up non-officin' world, all tha 5-0 see is breakin' an' enterin'.

In spite o' all that bullshit, tha A.R. krew still be willin' to play by tha rulez o' tha non-reeceevin' world. We tip our waitressez, park our hoopties in designated spotz, an' sort our lightz an' darkz. An' if all y'all show tha proper respect, shit, we be known to tie our cardboard recyclables into bundlez.

But, dag, yo—y'all crossed tha line when y'all tried to force yo' lame-ass jury-duty shit on mah homie Sir Casio KL7000.

Last month, I was kickin' tha spreadsheetz in my dope cubicle when tha phone rang. It be Petty Ka$h. I'm thinkin', shit, where he gettin' his ass throwed outta now, Bombay Bicycle Club? Instead, Ka$h say Casio got this summons to appear down at tha county courthouse an' serve on some weak-ass jury.

"Ka$h, get tha posse together wit' a quickness," I say. "We gonna bum-rush tha courthouse an' bust our homie out."

A.R. bruthahs gots to contend wit' this jury-duty shit from time to time. And we ain't havin' it. We such stone-col' supastars in our respective officez, it be out o' tha question foe us to serve on a jury. Not only dat, Casio's fiscal year wuz set to end DEC 1, so it wuz muthafukkin' krunch time all around.

Time wuz runnin' out. Petty Ka$h called just afta lunch hour, which meant Casio mighta been picked foe juryin' already. I arrived at tha courthouse in tha Nite Rida 'round 1:20, an' a few minutes later, I see Petty Ka$h, Kount Von Numbakrunch, AirGoNomic, and 3-Holepunch pull up in Ka$h's Tercel. Everybody come fully strapped, but I told 'em to leave they letta openers an' bindah clips in tha hoopty, lest they want tha courthouse metal detectaz to go apeshit.

See, I know dat courthouse up an' down from mah own run-ins wit' Tha Man. I go into tha trunk o' tha Nite Rida an' hauls out some leatha sportz jacketz an' baseball capz, an' tells everybody to put them on. Tha homiez start in to bitchin', but I say that if tha courthouse muscle see us in our officin' gear, they might get wise to our scheme. As anotha smokescreen, I give 'em all some juror passes I sweet-talked from this courtroom stenographa I once balled.

"An' deep-six tha street verbals," I tell mah homies. "Talk like this: 'How do you do, I am an average citizen, and I like jury duty and other activities that take place outside offices.' I know it wack, but that be how these muthafukkaz talk."

Afta some tense momentz (tha guardz want to know why Ka$h stank of honey-mustard sauce), we made it inside an' split up to find Casio. I had tha mad stealth of a muthafukkin' jungle cat an' chameleon combined, stalkin' tha corridorz foe mah homie an' blendin' in wit' tha suckaz. It all paid off when I found Casio gettin' his drink on from a water fountain outside a courtroom on tha fourth flo'. He say somethin' about gettin' picked foe some civil case that settle outta court befoe tha trial can begin, but I ain't got time to listen. I get his ass downstairz to tha lobby, callin' Ka$h on his cell an' leavin' a coded message foe the krew to split tha courthouse, lest tha 5-0 be listenin' in. Wit' Numbakrunch an' 3-Holepunch distractin' tha pigz wit' questions 'bout where tha Soldiers An' Sailors' Memorial at, Casio an' me hustle tha fuck outta there an' into tha Nite Rida.

It wuz mad dangerous foe Casio to return to his office. That's tha first place tha 5-0 woulda looked, no diggity. So I takes him to a safehouse tha A.R. posse keep foe when one-a our own gots to lay low. Casio stay there foe almost three weekz, doin' all of his end-o'-fiscal-year bidness from undaground. He use a network o' couriers to relay his shit to his office by foot every night, cuz e-mail can be traced. An' I ain't tellin' none o' y'all where tha safehouse at, 'cause when you reeceeve accountz foe a livin', tha first thang you learn is TRUST NO ONE.

Yo, headz up, non-officin' muthafukkaz. Peep this: We know yo' world be bigger than ours, an' that y'all gots tha benjamins, tha muscle, an' tha sheer numbahz to do yo' biddin'. But we got tha brains an' tha cunning. An' if you try to push us, we push back. We push playa-hatas back to tha muthafukkin' Stone Age, know what I'm sayin'? An' we wouldn't trade tha 24-7 Reeceevin' Life foe yo' gardenin' or yo' bowlin' league or yo' microwave-cookery classes or whatever weak shit all y'all do in yo' spare time. In tha A.R. World, ain't no such thing as spare time. Tha only spare time we eva gonna have be in tha grave. An' thass all good wit' us, 'cause we be straight-bangin' hardcore badasses to tha end. Top-Dog OUT.

A FRIEND IN NEED...IS A FRIEND INDEED!

2006-10-14T20:43:00.000-07:00

A HOMEY IN NEED IS HOMEY INDEED

All y'all disciples of tha Top-Dog know that The Man always be tryin' to playa-hate on tha Accountz Reeceevable bruthahood, 24-7. On any given day in tha office park what contain MapleLeaf Office Supply, tha 5-0 be bustin' some A.R. bruthah on some trumped-up charge, like jaywalkin' or findin' a ounce or two of correction fluid on his person an' claimin' he wuzn't usin' it for no correctin'. That shit don't never happen to no Accountz Payabo muthafuckas, 'cause they got all tha dead prezident an' can bribe tha pigs so they look tha other way. A.R. bruthahs ain't got nothin' but debits, an' they thankful if they just balance at tha end of tha goddamn day.

So tha A.R. krew gots to be vigilant at all times and take care of they own. When one of us be down on our luck, tha others gots to tend to him, 'cause one day, they could find theyselves in that same situation, know what I'm sayin'?

Yo, peep this: 'Bout a month ago at quitting time, tha Top-Dog be punchin' out foe tha day, lookin' forward to kickin' back in his crib wit' tha latest issue of Consuma Reportz an' a steamin' bowl of Dinty Moore stew, when I spots this fool leanin' on tha Nite Rida out in tha Mapleleaf parking lot. It be dusk, an' I can't makes him out too good, but that don't matter, 'cuz tha Letta Opener Of Death always finds its target, know what I'm sayin'? So I creep up on tha guy, my Spidey Sense all tinglin', but before I can stick tha bitch, he whirl around an' grabs my arm. It mah homey Jerry Tha Sharpie Head.

"Shit, fool," I say. "Y'all be leanin' on mah hoopty. You outta yo' mind?"

Jerry Tha Sharpie Head be one crazy-ass muthafucka. He always trippin' on them felt-tip pens an', as a result, ain't capable of observin' tha most basic of Top-Dog protocol, which be, stay tha fizuck off tha Nite Rida, lest you wanna get sprayed. But Jerry still gots tha reflexes of a muthafuckin' jungle cat, an' he can balance and journalize wit' tha best of them. Word is bond. Only, Jerry look like shit: He be sweatin' an' shakin', his Membaz Only windbreaker be all soiled, tha underside of his nose be stained wit' black Sharpie ink, an' ledga sheets be fallin' out of his attaché case.

"Yo, Top-Dog," Jerry say. "I need somethin'."

"Shit, Jerry," I say, "I ain't got no Sharpies."

"Nah, I don't need no fix, Dog," Jerry say. "That ain't it. You gotta help me wit' somethin' else. Don't nobody wanna hire me 'cuz I just got outta lockdown. They think I ain't to be trusted around they benjaminz, 'cuz I been in tha pen. But that be straight-up bullshit, G, 'cuz I didn't get busted foe no embezzlin' or money-launderin' or no fiscal shit like that. I got busted foe theft of certain office supplies. I did my time and paid mah debt to society. What moe they want a brutha to do?"

"Yo, Jerry, chill," I say. "Whatchu want from me?"

"I wants you to let me join tha Mapleleaf A.R. posse."

Damn. Picture Jerry an' me, accountz-reeceevin' together like back in tha day. That would be off tha hook, no doubt. Only thing was, tha MapleLeaf A.R. krew already be full. Wit' Gary an' Gladys backin' up tha Top-Dog in his day-to-day bidness, I don't needs no more homeys protectin' mah neck. Tha only work I'd have foe Jerry would be pitiful shit like copyin' an' collatin,' which I wouldn't even make no bitch-ass temp do, let alone a Seventh-Degree A.R. Masta like Jerry. So I tells Jerry that I write him a reference instead. Tha Top-Dog be known far and wide as tha Tony Montana of tha A.R. scene, an' a reference from me be worth its weight in gold, know what I'm sayin'?

So Jerry an' me, we go back to my cubicle, an' I gets on tha computa an' types up tha phattest reference letta a A.R. bruthah ever got. I write how tha Top-Dog be down wit' Jerry since back in tha day, when we wuz just two hungry young street punks hustlin' to reeceeve. I write how he wuz a disciple of tha legendary A.R. masta CPA-ONE. I write how he be tha hardest workin' muthafucka of them all, an' how you'd have to be a stone-cold fool of a human-resources director not to hire his azz. I didn't say nothin' about him bein' in tha pen or about his Sharpie-huffin'. This letta be nothin' but mad props.

Tha next day, I be chillin' in my crib, just checkin' my phone mizessages. One of them be from Jerry, sayin' that thankz to my off-tha-heezy reference letta, some Big Willie textbook publisher hired his azz on tha spot. I be crazy proud to help out a homey in need, especially one from back in tha day like Jerry, even if he a Sharpie Head.

A few weeks go by, an' I be tendin' to bidness as usual. Then, one day, I be in tha Midstate break room, and associate shipping supervisa Jim Eberthaler steps to mah grill.

"Oh, hi, Moahamed," Jim say. "Say, did you know that my wife works over at Enrichment Publishing? Apparently, a good friend of yours, Jerry, was recently hired over there. I understand he's the new accounts-payable supervisor. That's terrific. Small world, huh?"

DAMN.

Tha next few hours wuz a blur. All I could think about wuz Jerry crossin' ova to tha A.P. side. I took a long lunch that day, only I don't recall gettin' my eat on. What I do remember is cruisin' ova to tha other side of town, grabbin' a bat from tha trunk of tha Nite Rida, hustlin' up to tha seventh floor of Enrichment Publishin' corporate headquarters, draggin' Jerry's ass out of his cubicle, and beatin' tha livin' shit outta him until he was a mass of bloody pulp an' shredded Membaz Only nylon. Some big-hair office ho called tha 5-0, but tha Top-Dog wuz long gone by the time they arrived.

I went back to mah cubicle at MapleLeaf and tried to chill, focusin' on mah Executive Stress Ball. But crazy thoughts be flyin' through my dome. Then I hears tha 5-0's sirens down below in tha parkin' lot. I be thinkin', come an' get me, pigs. Jerry an' me wuz mad tight back in tha day, but I don't regret nothin'. It be worth doin' time for what I did. Tha A.R. bruthahood cannot be betrayed.

I gets up from my fly pneumatic desk-chair wit' tha height control an' tha lumbar adjustment for tha last time, thinkin' about how them cold steel cuffs gonna feel against tha skin of my wrists. But as I nears tha MapleLeaf loadin' dock, about to give myself up, there be that wack inventory-department bitch Dave Weintraub, who for some reason think we tight.

"Hey, Mohamed, your friend Jerry just got caught stealing a case of dry-erase markers from our warehouse," Dave say. "He didn't even try hiding the markers–he just walked out with them in broad daylight. Right under the 'We Prosecute Shoplifters' sign, no less."

"You fuckin' wit' tha Top-Dog?" I say to Dave. "You better not be fuckin' wit' tha Top-Dog, or I slit yo' muthafukkin' throat."

"No, Mohamed, that's the absolute truth," Dave say. "Scout's honor."

"Then I hope you took tha case from him an' gave him tha beat-down of his life foe stealin' MapleLeaf inventory," I say. "You better say that to me, beeyotch."

"Oh, no, Mohamed. I would never take the law into my own hands like that," Dave say. "I phoned the police. They just drove off with him a minute ago. Boy, he didn't look too good, either. It almost looked like he fell down a flight of stairs or something."

Out of mah head, I grab Dave and slam his bitch ass against a bunch of boxes. Only, tha boxes be filled wit' nothin' but packin' peanuts, an' they be all ova tha fool as I peel outta tha parkin' lot in tha Nite Rida. Foe tha first time in my MapleLeaf career, I takes tha aftanoon off.

Damn. After I whupped him, Jerry musta found tha strength to get into his hoopty an' follow me to MapleLeaf. Then he got hisself busted intentional 'cuz of me.

Maybe I shoulda...

Aw, fuck that shit. Jerry broke tha sacred Code Of Tha Reeceevable. Crossin' ova to Payabo be beyond forgivin', man.

I stuck mah neck out foe Jerry Tha Sharpie Head, and he go A.P. on me. Then he go and steal a bunch of dry-erase markers in broad daylight. Why he wanna do that right when he get out of tha pen and be turnin' his life around? Maybe Jerry one of them bruthas who can't live on tha outside. Whateva. All I knows is, that fool gonna have a rough time in minimum-security lockdown when all them A.R. bruthahs on tha inside find out he be a traitor to tha cause. He probably gonna be made some junk-bond trader's bitch. Shit

Top-Dawg...out

Tha Autobiography Of Top-Dog

2006-10-12T21:40:00.000-07:00

Yo, yo yow.... What tha dilly yo, mah homies? Tha Top-Dog be keepin' it real at MapleLeaf Office Supply, still kickin' it hardcore as tha Mack Daddy Enforca of tha Accountz Reeceevable Department. Jus' got my annual evaluation, and shit if I ain't tha baddest stone-cold supastar in tha whole third-floor administrative office. Tha comptrolla, Gerald Luckenbill, not only be approvin' me for a raise, he gonna nominate my ass for Employee Of Tha Month for Oktowba, 'cause I not only balanced tha shit out of tha MApleLeaf ledga this month; my department led tha whole goddamn company in tha numba of Bidnez awards collected foe tha muthasuckin' 2006 Multi-Plantinum Siera Bidness Club. Tha future be looking SUH-WEET for tha Top-Dog, Gs.

Now, most of y'all be thinkin', "Tha Top-Dog, he know his bidness." And thas right, man. Shit need addin'? I creep in, adds tha shit up, and slip out, quiet as a muthafuck. Variance need resolvin'? It be gone without a trace. Uh-huh. Only a wack-ass fool ask someone besides tha Top-Dog to accountz-receeve they shit.

But tha Top-Dog, he didn't always have it goin' on like he do today. Man, years ago, back when I wuz just a shorty, I wuz into some crazy-ass shit. I be all psycho, wildin' and shit. But eventually, I straightened out, and I'm here to tell all y'all no-hair-on-they-balls baby punk muthafuckas who think they tha bomb to best listen to what I be puttin' down, lest you want me to go Jet Li on yo' ass.

Check this shit out: When tha Top-Dog wuz in high school, he could usually be found kickin' his shit behind Arthur Treacher's Fish & Chips wit' his homies in tha Future Bidness Leadaz Of Canada. Or shopliftin' papa clips and gummed index tabs from tha local office-supply store. See, even back in tha day, I wuz into officin' an' shit, only I wuz unfocused, know what I'm sayin'? I didn't know if I wanted to be a stenographa, or a data processa, or a file clerk. But at tha same time, I be cocky, thinkin' I don't need no flunky teachaz to show me how to do this shit, so I be cuttin' my bidness courses all tha time.

One day, I be skippin' class to hang wit' my homies and drink 40s in tha parking lot of tha biggest accountin' firm in town, Kessler, Orbach, Cowart & Associates, LLP. I wuz checkin' out tha suits that wuz walkin' in and out of tha place, totin' they dope-ass Samsonite attaché cases, and I be thinkin,' DAMN, they muthafuckas must be KNEE-DEEP in bitches and Benjamins. It wuz at that moment tha Top-Dog decided to get an accountin' degree and account shit for a livin.'

After that, I figure I best start attendin' class and catch up and shit, lest I fail and don't get accepted to no bidness college. But shit, man, that same day, after school, I be in tha typin' room practicin' my typin', when in come this fly honey cartin' a overhead projecta. I recognize her as tha only bitch in tha school A.V. Club, and damn, she be tha flyest ho I ever seen. She gots these fine A-cup titties unda her little velour top and shit, and she be wearin' them round, plastic glasses wit' tha dip in tha temple piece that make tha Top-Dog wanna knock bootz. Right away, I step to this fine ho and start sweet-talkin' her, and one thing leads to another, know what I'm sayin'? Soon, we be spread out on tha desk of tha typin' teacha, Mrs. Wexler, an' she be ridin' mah jock like Willie Shoemaker. Shit.

Suddenly, we hears this scream behind us. I turns around and sees Mrs. Wexler. That old-ass dustcrotch haul my ass off to tha office of Principal Haslett, who tell me I be suspended for a whole month for freakin' a fellow pupil on school grounds. So I says, "Fuck this shit, Haslett, I ain't attendin' yo bitch-ass school no more," then I flip off Wexler and leaves. She wuz probably just jealous 'cause I be givin' that A.V. Club ho tha M-Luv instead a' her.

When my mama found out I quit school, she threw me outta tha house, so tha Top-Dog wuz livin' on tha streets. A few days later, I run into this homie of mine, Harold Roukema, who used to be a Big Willie systems analyst wit' Salomon Bruthahs before he hit tha skidz. Roukema say he gonna introduce me to this street accountant who wuz wanted by tha police 'cause he wasn't certified. He say this guy be tha baddest muthafuckin' freestyle accountant around, and all tha bidnesses in town have him account they shit on tha sly. Roukema say this accountant's street name be CPA-ONE, even though he ain't certified, and if he like me, I can join his posse and learn to account shit freestyle.

For tha next year, I wuz runnin' wit CPA-ONE, and I learned my accountin' from him. CPA-ONE wuz tha best friend tha Top-Dog ever had. He show me how to balance spreadsheets, reconcile ledgas and troubleshoot variations. He even teach me Lotus on this laptop computa he carry around. He also show me how to use a letta opener, which come in useful, 'cause we wuz always bangin' wit' rival accountant gangs who be tryin' to muscle in on our turf. Sometimes things wuz tough, 'cause tha pigs wuz on our dicks, and we didn't always know where we be layin' our domes at night. But in a way, mah homies, those wuz tha best days of my life, 'cause me and CPA-ONE, we wuz doin' our own thang, buck wylin' and shit, accountin' on tha run, know what I'm sayin'?

But tha good times didn't last.

One night, me and CPA-ONE met these two freaky hos at the Sunrise Motor Lodge for what we thought would be some accountin' in exchange for booty, but tha hos turned out to be undercova cops. A muthafuckin' sting operation. We wuz convicted of third-degree white-colla crime, and CPA-ONE be sentenced to three years in minimum-security lockdown, and I go to juvenile hall, 'cause I still be a minor.

One day, I gets tha news that CPA-ONE wuz killed at tha minimum-security pen by a fellow inmate who aimed a tennis ball-throwin' machine point-blank at him on tha prison tennis court. Ends up, tha muthafucka who did it wuz some accountz-payable bitch who got jailed for extortin' a shitload of dead presidents from tha insurance company he worked for. It wuz then I decided to straighten out and reform wit' a quickness. Tha Top-Dog's plan wuz to get released early, get his high-school diploma followed by a two-year accountin' degree from a fully accredited bidness school, and find a job wit' a stable, mid- to large-sized company doin' accountz-reeceevable work. I wuz gonna do everything in my muthafuckin' power to avenge mah dead homey CPA-ONE and get back at them fuckin' accountz-payable muthafuckas. (Now all y'all know why I hates that Myron Schabe muthafucka, who be tha Accountz Payable Supervisa at MapleLeaf)

Sure enuf, shortly after my 18th birfday, I gets let out of tha j-hall on good behavior, gets my GED and go hustlin' for a job, hungry for action. MapleLeaf Office Supply hired me, and I give crazy mad props to them for takin' a chance on a ex-con like me who gots a checkered past and shit. They even paid my tuition so's I could gets my two-year accountin' degree from Eastech Bidness & Technical College. few years later, mah homies, I be tha Accountz Reeceevable Supervisa, and I gots my own fly cubicle and molded foam armchair wit' pneumatic height controls and fully adjustable lumbar support. There ain't no place I rather be than Mapleleaf, and I ain't never gonna leave, word to that. But I ain't never gonna compromise my street flava, to honor my man CPA-ONE, who teached me all tha accountin' skeelz I know. I love you, bruthah. Keep ya head up, and I'll see you at tha crossroads one day.

I be tellin' all y'all this shit 'cause I knows there be a lot of young wannabe playas out there who think tha Top-Dog be tha shit, and rightly so. 'Cause a lot of y'all be actin' like tha Top-Dog and talkin' my jive. And thas cool, but y'all be a buncha wack pretendas if y'all talk like tha Top-Dog but ain't got tha SKEELZ, know what I'm sayin'? It all be about skeelz, not just bein' hard. And thas tha straight-up shit, mah homies. Word.

Top-Dog out.

THE BREAKING ....NEWS by CNN!

2006-10-10T21:05:00.000-07:00

Yo, Check this out, I nevva understan those white-Foolz and their dump ass freakz so called NEWZKASTA, They will annoy the sheeit out of you at your own hizzy...via TV dat iz if you is dump enuv 2 watch their lame-ass lie....News.

You know how we do, from work you set back on your kowj, relax and get that remote control... here is the news

Peep this:

CLICK.....Start from PHUCKING CNN

HeadLine...

Latest Jihad Has Something For Everyone

MIDDLE-EAST, MUSLIM WORLD—Leaders of the New Mujahideen jihadist movement say their latest holy war should appeal to people from all walks of Muslim life. "If you like bombing, bomb manufacturing, effigy-burning, maintaining inflammatory websites, or just 'hajjing out,' for the heck of it, the Nu MIM - Mujahid-In-the-Making has something for you!" read a statement on the group's home page. "Jihad is better when friends come together!" The Nu MIM is expected to recruit several hundred like-minded fanatics to their holy cause of fighting Western imperialism before factional violence tears it apart later this year.

CNN reporting from middles east.

Here is FOX NEwS

Pectoral Muscles Targeted By Fitness Fundamentalists

MOGADISHU, SOMALIA—A videotaped statement shown Monday on Union-of-Islamic-Court television provides the most conclusive evidence yet that the Muslim bodybuilding extremist group AL-FURQAN has acquired dumbbells from an unknown source and could use them to target vulnerable, undeveloped muscle groups in their pectoral region. "I call upon the world to stand witness as I violently and repeatedly blast these pecs, purifying and rebuilding them into a shape pleasing to Allah!" a masked, shirtless weightlifter said in the tape, over the strains of Journey's "Don't Stop Believing." "Seven! Eight! Nine! God is great, and so are my pecs, trapezius muscles, lower back, and abs! Thirteen! Fourteen! The great Satan Of Flab will soon feel the burn!" State Department officials said the group is almost certainly a danger to themselves if they do not use better form and stretch thoroughly afterward. No one knows how they will build their skinny legs, state department assigned expert team to analayze this new terrorist trend with a big forehead and skinny legs.

Fox news reporting life from Mogadishu.

Damn, I can neva understand this newz machines..can you?

Wait, more newz to come.

Top-dog out.

My Shortie Day Care!

2006-10-06T20:38:00.000-07:00

Yo, this is foe tha day-care peeps who tend to mah shortie, Baby Prince baby-Dawg M Tha Stone Col' Dopest Biz-ook-kizeepin' Muthasuckin' Badass Supastar Mohamed Tha Second. (His mama call him other freaky names, but she a bitch.)

First off, I wanna say that I ain't down wit' this lame-ass daycarin' bullshit. Adna—that's Baby M's moms—decide she wanna get educated. So, she said either I tend to tha shortie durin' tha day while she at school, or he gots to go to this Little Britches place on Commercial Road. So I said, "Shit, you high? Days I spend tendin' to bidness at MapleLeaf Joint. Can't that fuckin' mama o' yours, who always hatin' on tha Top-Dog, look afta tha Prince?" An' she said her mama have corns, or cancer, or somethin' beginnin' wit a 'C', an' so she can't look afta tha shortie no more.

So, whut that mean is, a bunch o' muthasuckin' strangers be lookin' afta my son an' heir to tha storied Moahmed Dixon accountz- reeceevin' legacy. Tha Top-Dog don't play that shit. But I ain't gonna give up my sweet, sweet gig at MapleLeaf. Tha place be givin' up tha mad scrilla, plus I just got one o' those desktop fridges you can keep yo' lunch in. Y'all best believe it goin' to good use, muhfuckaz. Besides, who gonna keep tha Prince in Pull-Ups if I don't keep krunchin' those numbahz?

You daycarin' amateurs ain't in tha clear wit' me, though. Y'all got a shitload o' shortiez in tha hizzy, but I don' want nobody forgettin' who Daddy M's boy be. I don't wanna come collect tha boy one day an' find him wit' a load in his pants an' about to stick his tongue inna 'lectric socket, 'cause all y'all off in anothah room playin' some candy-ass game wit' chutes an' laddaz. So I come up with this list o' rulez y'all best heed. 'Cause y'all workin' foe me now. An' if y'all don't like it, go find a betta payin' gig wit' Blu Kross/Blu Shield benefizets, where y'all get treated wit' some respect. Feel me?

Make sure he wear his goddamn sweata. He got this li'l acrylic sweata-vest just like his Pops, an' I keeps it in his backpack next to his solah calculata. I know how you muhfucks like to keep tha thermoshizat down 'cause you figure all tha shortiez create they own heat when they runnin' around. But ain't no boy o' mine gonna catch his death 'cause some pencil-pusha wanna cut corners. Yo, an' check this: Y'all gots my permishizzon to trash that ill doll his moms keeps in his backpack. You know, that freaky-lookin' thing wit' tha red yarn hair an' check shirt. Thing got a tattoo on its chest sayin' "I love you." Tell her some other kid shit all ovah it or somethin', so you hadda torch it.

Don't feed him none o' that nasty-ass strained-carrot shit his mama give him. He almos' 2 now, and he ol' enuf foe Skittles an' Slim Jims an' Andy Capp Hot Fries. If it good 'nuf foe tha MapleLeaf employee- breakroom vendin' machine, then it good 'nuf foe mah shortie. I better not hear no muhsuckaz dissin' tha office eats, not evah.

Rolez he can play wit' his li'l shortie homiez durin' playtime: CPA, bank tella, collections rep. If they play house, he can bust in an' audit 'em. Huh. That'll teach the li'l muhfucks. If they play store, he can play cashier, but he gotta be all bidness: no sleepin' on tha job or quittin' his post an' goin' shoppin' like a li'l pussy girl. An' he can't claim no employee discount. An' if they play office, I betta not see him workin' tha accountz payabo. Give that shit to one o' tha weaker shortiez.

I best never see mah boy in one o' them huge-ass strollaz that carry a dozen or so shortiez. I got mah reasons.

He can watch tha show wit tha freaky puppet bloodsucka that counts off tha numbahz. Back inna day, that same show used to have a pinball-machine cartoon wit numbahz in it, too. That wuz dope. But my boy can't watch nothin' else, 'specially not that wack sponge wit' no dignity.

Don't let none o' tha shortiez use his special sippy-cup, neither. It gotta blue top an' somethin' on its side—uh, what's the shit—oh, yeah. A duck. It a gift from my ol' faculty advisa at Eastech Bidness & Technical College, Mr. Sherman. He wuz mad proud when he find out his supafly protégé got his freak on an' made a shortie. That don't happen too often in tha accountin' profession. But mah accountz reeceevin' posse gonna change that, no doubt. That remind me...

If all y'all daycarin' peeps spot some officin'-lookin' homiez kickin' back an' drinkin' wine coolahz on yo' property, don't call tha 9-11. That jus' mah posse. They used to chill in tha H&R Block parkin' lot, but them tax foolz decided they had enuf an' called tha pigz. The homeboys got they asses outta there befoe they could be busted foe vagrancy, but all this pig harassment mean they runnin' outta places to hang. So I tol' 'em about Little Britches, how y'all got this big-ass parkin' lot y'all hardly use and those def monkey-barz an' shit. Yo, don't hate. They peaceable, they got crazy love foe Baby M, an' they ain't lookin' to brawl. Although tha monkey-barz might come in handy if the homiez go toe-to-toe wit' tha pigs, an' they gotta do some freaky mystical Shaolin shit. You know, twirlin' aroun' an' as they dismount, they kick in a sucka's head somethin' like 60 times in a half-second befoe touchin' the ground. Jus' sayin.'

Shee-it. Writin' up this list be somethin' no self-respectin' A.R. bruthah should evah do. Daycare. Huh. Back inna day, mah moms an' pops both led tha Workin' Life, but they didn't put me in no day care. I wuz straight-up latchkey. Got my ass off tha schoolbus, let myself in, stripped down to my Underoos, fixed me a bowl o' Quisp, an' sat down to a aftanoon o' 3-2-1 Contact an' Tic Tac Dough. I ain't lookin' foe yo' goddamn sympathy. I wore that house-key bling aroun' my neck wit' mad pride. Even then, tha Top-Dog took care o' bidness, an' didn't need no daycare sucka chasin' afta him wit' a ass-wipin' cloth an' a juice box. Solitude good foe a shortie; it build characta an' shit. Peep this: Soon as tha Prince in kindergarten, he gonna kiss muhsuckin' daycare goodbye an' wear his own house key on a bright orange shoelace, jus' like his pops. I'll see to it. Top-Dog out.

BONUS TIME FOR SLAVE WAGE EARNERS!

2006-10-06T16:03:00.000-07:00

Yo! it is about time when all corporate slaves think about their bonus....this year you could be like this one guy here. I hope you enjoy your phat cheque from human resource department for your hard fucking work! peanuts..duh!

Peace.

TOP REMODELING

2006-09-27T11:50:00.000-07:00

A DAY OFF? ..................SHEEIT

2006-09-26T15:31:00.000-07:00

'Sup, G's. Check it out: Debbilyn Sundquist, tha MapleLeafe human-resources secretary, e-mailed me.

"Hi Mohamed," she wrote. "This is just a friendly reminder to inform you that you have some paid personal days you haven't used. They do not carry over into the next year, so please be sure to use them soon!!!"

"Accountz Reeceevable don't take no personal dayz off," I wrote back. "We been through this shit befoe. I ain't havin' it. Fuck all y'all an' yo wack no-workin' bullshit."

I trashed her e-mail an' go back 2 krunchin' tha numbahs. Few minutes later, I hear a noise behind me.

I whipped around, assumin' tha White-Colla Warrior stance. It tha office comptrolla, Gerald Luckenbill, an' Bob Cowan, tha human-resources directa. "What? What? What?" I aksed. "You wanna step 2 me? What?"

Cowan peed himself. But Luckenbill wuz straight-up chillin'. "Mohamed," Luckenbill said. "I want you to take tomorrow off. Gary will oversee things here."

Next mornin', I got up when it was still dark, could not take my nite rida as it wuz wit automobile Doctor and took tha 4:52 express bus 2 MapleLeaf. Got there so early, not a sucka in sight. I slipped my keycard into tha electric lock on tha front doe. Tha magnetic strip don't read. Dag. Luckenbill musta blocked my keycard foe tha day. Muhfukka know tha Top-Dog's ways too well. Y'all gots 2 recognize that. I bowed 2 MapleLeaf in deep respect an' hustled back 2 my hood.

Foe a while, I lifted weights, but then I wuz like, fuck this, I already mad ripped. Then I caught some-a tha bitchez on Court TV. That sweet, sweet ho Nancy Grace wuz on, an' I had 2 whip it out an' start hittin'. She wuz in one-a her hard-ass moods, bitchin' 'bout it ain't right some ho from small town got off foe shankin' her man, so it wasn't two minutes befoe I busta nut and switched tha bullshit off. Work is where us A.R. bruthahs thrive. Once on tha outside, it a different story, y'all. They less numbahs 2 krunch. Some y'all can balance yo' checkbook or figger yo' taxizzes, true dat. But that ain't enuf, know what I'm sayin'? Bruthahs got 2 keep they minds occupied.

I called Adna, my ol' boo an' my shortie's moms. "Yo, chickenhead, muhfukkas be makin' me take a personal day," I said. "Is Baby Prince H Tha Stone Col' Dopest Biz-ook-kizeepin' Muthafukkin' Badass Supastar Mohamed Tha Second at that wack-ass day care? I wanna bust him out an' take him 2 tha park or tha Chucky-Cheez or some shit like that."

"He is with me today," Adna said, usin' dat goddamn moniker again. "My class was canceled. You can visit him Sunday like we agreed, Mohamed."

I hung up on tha bitch an' called Vi, one-a tha hotties that work tha MapleLeaf cash room, an' tol' her, get yo' fine ass down 2 my hizzy, I treat you right. She say she workin'. I say I gots crazy personal days, you can have one-a mine if you just come down here an' give it up 2 tha Top-Dog. She say personal days ain't transferable.

Hell, what's a man 2 do in these unfavorable circumstizances? I was hungry for some reeceevin', y'all. I hopped into tha Nite Rida an' cruised tha bidness district, lookin' foe action. Outside o' Kessler, Orbach, Cowart & Associates, LLP, tha biggest accountin' an' auditin' firm in town, I peeped a posse o' office bitchez gettin' they lunch on.

"Bitchez," I shouted from my hoopty. "Give up some numbahz 2 Daddy M so's he can krunch 'em."

The li'lest one speak up, a nasty skank wit' her goddamn cross-trainin' shoez on ovah her pantyhose, like wearin' heels gonna break her ass or somethin'. "What happened, Mohamed Dixon, MapleLeaf fire your skinny ass?" she said. "Go away. You're not getting anywhere near our numbers."

Damn, y'all, I wuz about 2 put tha smack down on that li'l skank when tha 5-0 pull up behind me. I recognize tha cop from back in tha day, after I got busted foe illegal street accountin'. He aksed how come I ain't at MapleLeaf. I aksed how come he ain't retired. That made all tha bitchez laugh, 'cept foe tha li'l one. "Mohamed just asked if we've got any numbers to crunch, officer," she said.

She knew tha cop was itchin' foe reasonable suspicion 2 search my hoopty, an' she give it 2 him. Well, took tha cop 20 seconds 2 find a old wirebound columnar book an' a pencil undah my seat. He said that groundz foe arrestin' me on suspicion foe unsolicited accountin', cuffed me, an' hauled me into HQ. Fuckin' buncha bullshit. That columnar book wuz mine, true dat, but it wuz all used up and didn't have no mo' room 2 write numbahz in. An' tha pig fuckin' planted tha pencil. It had a punk-ass rubbah grip. Tha Top-Dog don't need no rubbah grip. Tha M-Dog so dope, he give tha pencils calluses. Tha first call I made wuz 2 Gerald Luckenbill, tell him he' hadda come down an' bail my ass out. He told tha precinct captain that my personal day wuz legit an' I wuz fully certified, meanin' they case against me wuz mad weak. Tha cops released me wit' a warnin' not 2 go near tha bidness district durin' workin' hourz.

Luckenbill learned that day that personal dayz be not only a pain in tha azz foe A.R. bruthahs, they downright dangerous. He talk 2 Bob Cowan, an' they decide 2 not make me take any mo' personal dayz, lest they wanna be wastin' they time keepin' they best employee outta lockdown. So, you know what that mean, G's: a sweet-ass deal foe Daddy M. Nothin' but straight-up officin' 8-2-5, wit' tha exception o' weekendz an' major holidayz. On those dayz, I on my own an' gotta watch my back. But at least I don't got them goddamn personal dayz 2 contend wit' no mo'.

An' incidentally, come next day, that li'l accountant bitch got a surprise when she come in an' fire up her addin' machine. When she punched in some numbahs, all of them come up in red ink on tha calculata tape, like they wuz bein' subtracted, even though she wuz addin'. After she peeped that blood red, she ran outta her cubicle, jumped into her hoopty, peeled down tha parkin' ramp, an' ain't been seen since. When office flunkies cross a A.R. playa, they get served that blood-red ink sheet as a warnin'. What it a warnin' foe, I ain't sayin,' lest I incriminate myself, know what I'm sayin'? I had enuf o' this shit, G's. May be she got curse from C.A.P-ONE who knows?
Top-Dog OUT

A Motivation Seminar

2006-09-25T04:27:00.000-07:00

Tha Nite Rida cruised like a muhfukkin' barracuda into tha MapleLeaf parkin' lot an' wit' typical mad stealth executed a perfect 90-degree turn into her designated spot. "It Monday, bitchez," I said as I flew outta my hoopty an' hustled 2 tha employee entrance. "Aw yeah, y'all know how we do it. Bitchez best fo-get that punk-ass, no-workin' weekend shit an' be down wit' tha hardcore officin', or y'all gonna have tha Top-Dog up in yo' shit. Word dat."

Ain't nobody in tha third-floor administrative office when I walked in. No matta, I usually tha first one in anyhows. But come 9:30 in tha ay-em, still nobody in tha hizzy. I went 2 tha front window an' peeped all tha hoopties in tha lot, but no peeps. What tha fuck? I went downstairs 2 investigate, Letta Opener O' Death poised 2 strike.

Half down tha stairs, I peeps Gary, my Accountz Reeceevin' bruthah, standin' there wit' Nick, my homie down in Shippin', an' Lois, one-a tha Cash Room hottiez. "What tha fuck, muhfukkaz? What?" I say. "Where tha Mapleaf posse at? Don't no one show up fo' work 2-day? Is this some muhfukkin' Nightmare On Elm Street or some shit like that? What? What? Y'all zombies 2? I'll whup yo' undead asses."

"Didn't you get this interdepartmental memo in your mailbox Thursday?" Gary aksed.

He whipped out a piece-a paypa from his pocket an' show me. It go: "Attn: All MapleLeaf employees: You are invited to the first-floor conference room on Monday, Feb. 21 at 9 a.m. to enjoy a presentation by workplace and time-management expert Dr. Charles Rich, PhD, author of 1:1— The Productivity:Attitude Ratio. Are stress and negative feelings affecting your work performance? Dr. Rich offers convincing data that indicates that the amount of productivity one achieves in the workplace is evenly proportional to one's overall attitude. Dr. Rich explores ways one can increase their motivation through positive thinking, stress-relieving health habits, and better interpersonal communication. Says Dr. Rich: 'Bettering your future begins with you.'"

Fuck, it obvious why I didn't get one-a them memos. Top-Dog don't need no fuckin' motivizational seminar. Gerald Luckenbill, tha office comptrolla, probably say, "Give memos 2 all tha peeps but tha Top-Dog. Y'all can't improve on perfection." But none o' this xplained why Gary, Nick, an' Lois wuz blowin' tha seminar off. They claimed they wuz goin' 2 tha john, but I wuzn't havin' none o' it. I give Gary tha look 'til he crack, say that he, Nick, and Lois left 'cause they thought it all a buncha bullshit.

I aksed them, is they punched in? They said yes. I said, "Y'all gots mad hate fo' seminizars? Well, I'll give y'all one my own damn self. Only it fo' reals. I ain't wrote no muhfukkin' book wit' some wack-ass PhD, but what I gots 2 lay down be straight-up dope-ass wizdom from tha street. Time 2 get educated, mah homies."

We went into mah cubicle, an' tha three sat at mah feet like li'l lambs. I pointed 2 a geranium, chillin' in a hangin' basket above my deks. "Peep this, mah children," I said. "It a geranium. A muhfukkin' office geranium. Gary, y'all knows this geranium, am I right?"

"Sure, Mohamed," Gary said. "That's been in your cubicle as long as I can remember."

"Damn straight, mah man," I say. "Ain't nothin' special 'bout this geranium, right? It gots red bloomz an' green leaves. It real healthy, tho'. I mist tha shit outta it daily, an' every year I change its soil."

"It's real pretty," said Lois.

"No shit, freak," I said. "Yo, but check it: Back in tha day, when I first peeped this plant, it be near-dead. Tha leaves wuz all yellow an' tha blooms wuz fallin' off. It wuz a muhfukkin' lowdown dirty shame. An' y'all know where I found this thang?"

Tha trio shook their heads.

"Right up here on tha third flo'. Thas right, MapleLeaf."

So I begun 2 tell tha story o' tha geranium. I had jus' passed mah one-year anniversary at MapleLeaf. I wuz a ex-con, a newjack officin' prince busted foe unlicensed accountin', an' still mournin' mah tight homie an' mentor, CPA-ONE. One day, I peeped Myron Schabe, tha Accountz Payabo supervisa. He a geeza even then, an' he wuz hunched ova a addin' machine, bruisin' his ol'-ass fingas 'gainst tha buttons. I aksed him where that bitch that help him at, an' he looked at me thru his thick-ass bifocals all vexed. "If you're referring to Sheila, I'm afraid she left the company this morning," Myron said. "Didn't bother to give notice. Mohamed, if you have some free time today, I'd appreciate your assistance..."

But I wuz long gone. Even then, I wuz hatin' on tha A.P. I cruised past tha bitch's cubicle an' peeped some-a tha MapleLeaf krew goin' through her shit. Damn, tha bitch left everthang behind—office supplies, paperz, a umbrella, an' even a sweatah. An' in tha corner o' her cubicle, on tha flo', I spotted a geranium, all brown an' shit. It had a ol' ribbon 'round its pot, like it musta been a gift once, maybe fo' Sheila's birfday. G's, it mad vexed me 2 see a innocent office plant forced 2 die 'cuz some bitch decided 2 bail. So I hustled tha flower back 2 mah cubicle.

Sheeit, I didn't know how 2 take care of no muhfukkin' geranium. Fo' dayz, I gave it nothin' but water-coolah water an' stuck it under mah 40 watt deks lamp with adjustable arm an' burnished chrome finish. I even repotted it wit' soil from tha Mapleleaf lawn, but tha fucka still wouldn't grow. Finally, I snapped. I went 2 tha breakroom vendin' machines, bought a can o' Dad's Root Beer, a bagga Combos, an' some Skittles, an' dumped 'em all in tha plant's pot. "Fuck this weak shit, asshole," I yelled. "Y'all better gets yo' eat on wit' a quickness. If y'all don't, prepare 2 get iced come daybreak."

Next mornin', I walk in tha cubicle, an' tha geranium be all green again. New growth wuz shootin' outta tha pot. So, I kept waterin' it wit' Dad's Root Beer an' feedin' it on candy an' chips from tha vendin' machine. Five yearz later, tha geranium still goin' strong. Snyder's Pretzel Thins be its favorite. A true office plant, no diggity. Matta o' fact, fo' weeks after, tha plant wouldn't stop gettin' its grow on. I hadda cut shit off it, an' I started plantin' tha cuttins aroun' MapleLeaf.

"And that's where all those pretty geraniums along the sidewalk came from!" shrieked Lois.

"No doubt," I said. I aksed them what tha lesson be from all this.

"Are you trying to get us to go to church or something?" Nick aksed.

"Shut tha fuck up, Nick," I said.

"Out of bad situations, good things can result, and that can apply in the workplace, too," Lois said. "You can find worth and meaning in your job if you know where to look."

"Hell no, that ain't what I wuz sayin'," I said. "Damn, woman."

Gary nailed it. He said it was 2 show how bumpin' tha Top-Dog wuz, an' how lucky tha MapleLeaf staff wuz 2 have tha One An' Only Funky Fresh Ovahlord O' Tha A.R. Universe in full effect. How much motivation a homie need? I raised a fuckin' office plant from tha dead by hollerin' at it an' feedin' it root beer an' Skittles, y'all. Thas off tha hook. Sheeit. Mad props 2 Gary fo' recognizin' tha ultimate truth.

Top-Dog out.

Take This Job And Love It !

2006-09-22T22:05:00.000-07:00

Yo, yo, yo, Top-Dog is back in tha house, all-new an' luvvin' tha boos in tha houze ' know what I'm sayin'? First off, big upz to tha whole Maple Office Supply Accountz Reeceevable posse, who took top honaz at tha officewide holiday banquet foe Best Departmental Attendance of last Q3-2006. we got one more, tha final Q before the end of the year. Aw, yeah, you know how we do.

Some of yo complaining my english being too hard to read or it takes too long to read. If i try to relax a bit, them some of yo call me a softie like that lil mama FOCK! Top-Dog is not a soft and may never will be one. G's up Ho'z Down.. word is bond.

Yea, first I want to give big shout out to all ma cyber pals and wish them Ramadan Karim, the top-dog be fasting this year, I be in KhaLid Bin Walid every Tarawiih with some of my Ex-baby mama who wantz to reprent all they sins. word is bond. Allah will forgive us all this month and he will remove all the sin accounting on his big ledger then balance with good deads that take us to Jannah! word is bond. ( Can't wait to get there, I heard there are good beautiful bitches that drive you crazy) AMEN!

Now, back to bidnez on ma favorite subject, ma muthasucking company Da MapleLeaf!, well some banquet attendees wuz hatin' on tha Accountz Reeceevable posse, sayin' Human Resourcez shoulda won cuz of all tha ovatime Bob Cowan put in when he revised tha employee handbook. I say, fuck them H.R. bitchez. Buncha lightweights. They may have tha shorties an' tha fame, but when it come to gettin' tha hardcore accountin' done, A.R. beats they sorry asses hands down.

Ordinarily, yours truly, tha K-Hova, gots no time foe no silly holiday banquetz. But my homegirl Gladys be leavin' MapleLeaf, an' she an' her babydaddy wuz takin' off foe Edmonton Calgary tha next day. She say she got a job balancin' tha bookz foe some Big Willie R.V. dealership her uncle owns. Whateva. Beatz me why she wanna leave a bangin' outfit like MapleLeaf, but as long as she continue to represent tha Principles of Accountin' to tha fullest, I gots no beef. Mad love to mah homegirl Gladys.

Now, tha banquet wuz pretty cool foe a banquet, but by about 9 p.m., I had enough. So afta I say goodbye to Gladys, I head ova to the buffet table, toss a bunch of pigs-in-blankets an' potato salad into a Gladware containa I brought foe tha occasion, and cut outta there. Yo, I know what you thinkin', but if they be delvin' into tha company scrilla to give tha Mapleleaf krew a big spread foe tha holiday banquet, then it ain't freeloadin'. Ain't no shame in tha Top-Dog livin' large on tha company coin. I worked my ass off this year.

As I revved up tha Nite Rida, my cell phone ring. It be my homey Sir Casio KL7000.

"Yo, Dog, all-you-can-eat popcorn shrimp tonight at Williams," Casio say. "Tha whole reeceevable posse gonna be there. You in?"

"Shit, man, I gots to refrigerate these muthafukkin' cocktail weenies wit' a quickness," I say. "Popcorn shrimp? Why didn't you give me no advance heads-up?"

"I gave you a holla as soon as I heard, Dog," Casio say. "I just found out mahself."

"S'all good," I say. "Them weenies can probably last in tha Nite Rida foe a few hourz, anyway. I'm in."

"Cool. I see you there in 20 minutes," Casio say. "Actually, Dog, I gots somethin' more to tell you 'bout tonight. Check it out: Mike Pisano is back in town. He just graduated from O of T- University of Toronto) and is gonna hook up wit tha ol' krew tonight ova at Williams."

Mike Pisano? Damn. I ain't seen Mike since he left tha hood to go to U of T. He wuz a local kid, and when he wuz 16, I took him unda mah wing and educated him in tha wayz of accountin'. He took to my teachin' well, and in no time, he wuz practically mah right-hand man at MapleLeaf. Tha A.R. bruthahs called him "Tha Addin' Machine," because even though he wuz still underage, he krunched numbahs faster than a Power Mac G4. But I didn't call Mike no "Addin' Machine." I gave him the dope moniker "ACO-LYTE," cuz he wuz practically my protégé, jus' like I wuz to CPA-ONE back in tha day, when I accounted freestyle on tha streetz wit' him as mah mentor.

Back in tha day, ACO-LYTE an' I wuz mad tight, only we didn't see eye-to-eye on tha college thang. He thought a college education wuz tha tikket to a lifetime of success, an' I said fuck that boo-ya. Now, tha Top-Dog gots nuthin' but respect foe anyone who wantz to get they learn on. But I ain't down wit' that liberal-arts bullshit. I into vocational schoolin', the kind where you learn a real trade. I got mah accountin' degree from Bidness College, an' I ain't never looked back. I ain't got time foe none o' that liberal-artz shit, wit' its history and philosophizizin' an' all them books that say how you should be nice to tha bitchez even if they playin' you like a fool. Huh. ACO-LYTE kept sayin' that learnin' that shit would broaden his mind, but what's any of that got to do wit' gettin' yo'self some SKEELZ?

Tha day ACO-LYTE left MapleLeaf wuz a tough one, 'cause he wuz like mah baby bruthah. But when I walk into Williams and peep him chillin' at a long table wit' tha rest o' tha Reeceevable posse, I couldn't believe what I saw. ACO-LYTE wuz all decked out in some wack threads. He wasn't wearin' no short-sleeved button-down shirt and tie, or no acrylic sweata vest and Dockaz slaxx like any self-respectin' A.R. bruthah, but jeanz an' a black T-shirt. An' a black leatha jacket slung ova his chair. He also let his hair grow long an' looked like he ain't shaved in maybe two days.

"Ay, yo, ACO-LYTE, what tha dilly?" I say. "'Sup wit tha Fonzie shit? You look like some kinda sellout, bro." I didn't like to be hatin' on mah homey, but that Fonzie shit wuz mad foul, know what I'm sayin'?

"Come on, Mohamed, let's just relax and have a good time," ACO-LYTE say. "I may not look the same on the outside, but I honestly haven't changed inside. I'm just trying to update my look a little, okay?"

"Yeah, Dog," Kount Von Numbakrunch turn to me and say. "I think Tha Addin' Machine looks mad cool. Thas a muthafukkin' Wilson's leatha jacket he got on there."

"Shut tha fuck up, Numbakrunch," I say. "ACO-LYTE, you trippin' or somethin'? Why you be frontin' like that? You look wack. Back in tha day, you wuz mah numba-one disciple. You wuz mah hand-picked successor, tha one who would take up tha Top-Dog throne after I retired and headed off to Branson wit' mah mad 401(k) retirement scratch. What tha fuck happened? You ain't even kickin' tha A.R. talk no more. You sound like a little A.P. bitch."

"I'm sorry, but you've got it all wrong, Mohamed," ACO-LYTE say. "There's no use trying to hide it from you, so I'll just come right out and say it: I don't want to be in the A.R. anymore. Or do accounting of any kind. I graduated in December with a double major in political science and Russian history."

"You did what, muthafukka?"

"Mohamed, I'm not the sellout. You are," ACO-LYTE say. "You act all tough, but the truth of the matter is, you're suffering from a wage-slave mentality. You only care about material things—getting paid and getting laid."

DAMN.

ACO-LYTE go on to tell me that since I a non-union employee of MapleLeaf Office Supply, tha Top-Dog be vulnerable as shit. He hear MapleLeaf employees wuz payin' twice tha health-insurance premium we wuz last year wit' no raise in salary, an' that MapleLeaf laid off 10 percent of its workforce, even though it took in mad loot last fiscal year.

I ain't tryin' to hear that. "You wrong," I say. "If MapleLeaf don't give a shit about its peeps, how come they give us a big spread foe Holiday? Back in tha Nite Rida, I gots a Gladware containa, all full of leftova weenies an' shit. Besides, if tha A.R. bruthahood don't hold it down at MapleLeaf, there ain't nobody to keep them wack Accountz Payabo foolz in check."

But ACO-LYTE say that bullshit, too. "Don't you see, Mohamed? The whole A.R./A.P. rivalry only serves to keep the company's employees divided, and to distract both sides from the real enemy: the upper management of MapleLeaf Office Supply," he say. "You guys should be uniting to let management know that you can't be pushed around. Just because you work for them doesn't mean you can't make demands on them."

I ain't no fool. I know bullshit when I hear it. So I gets right to tha heart of tha matta and aks ACO-LYTE, "If you care so much about tha Accountin' bruthahs an' sistahs, why didn't you get certified instead of chasin' some wack poli-sci and Russian degree?"

He start shiftin' his feet a little and hesitatin', mutterin' somethin' about attendin' grad school. That only get mah bullshit detector goin' off all tha more. I press him, and he finally say it.

"Well, I guess that I, uh, ultimately decided that, for me, from a career standpoint, accounting is too... boring."

Half tha A.R. bruthahs at that table had to hold me back. Tha Letta Opener of Death wuz practically burnin' a hole in the pocket of my Membaz Only jacket. It didn't take long foe tha Williams hostess to notice, an' soon tha manager be clearin' us out. That manager has a runnin' vendetta against me ever since I dunked some A.P. sucka's head in a vat of Thousand Island dressing at the Williams salad bar a few years ago. But that A.P. fucka deserved to be dunked, just like ACO-LYTE deserved a date wit' tha L.O.D. afta what he said.

Dag, yo. What's been goin' on these days? First, Jerry Tha Sharpie Head crosses ova to Payabo. Now, tha bruthah who once stood to inherit mah phat collection of hangin' file folders, dope-ass three-hole punch, and pneumatic desk chair wit' adjustable lumbar support decides that mah life's work not only beneath him, it boring, too.

Afta walking out of Williams, tha A.R. posse wuz still holdin' me down as ACO-LYTE hustled to his hoopty. "It saddens me that we can't have a civilized conversation about this, Mohamed," he say as he pull away. "Someday you'll finally learn that you can't solve your problems by whipping out your letter opener every time somebody disagrees with you."

Shit, man, what wuz wit' all that preachy aftaschool-special shit? ACO-LYTE be buggin' out. I let him have tha last word, though. Not 'cause he had somethin' on me, but 'cause I couldn't undastand how a dude could experience tha joys of balancin' an' journalizin' and still give it all up foe some poli-sci and Russian boo-ya.

I still can't understand it. An' to this day, them cocktail weenies an' that potato salad be sittin' in mah fridge, turnin' all green and shit 'cause I didn't think I'd enjoy them afta what happened. Top-Dog OUT.

Brotha Guard Yo' Grill Against Them Computa Bitchez

2006-09-20T20:42:00.000-07:00

Yo, whassup, Gs? Top-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 MapleLeaf 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 wuz in crazy demand. What's worse, they got it in foe Big Daddy M an' all tha other officin' peoples what crunch numbas.

It all started afta work. I was in tha Nite Rida, cruisin' ova to Adna's crib to pick up mah li'l shortie, Baby Prince M Tha Stone Col' Dopest Bizook-kizeepin' Muthafukkin' Badass Supastar Mohamed 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 latezt Microsoft Office 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 Adna's crib. I got wind from one a them fine bitchez in Marketing that Adna 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 Adna's' 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 Adnas' 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' Adna 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 Adna starts buggin' out, sayin', "Mohamed, 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."

Adna want me gone, but mah bidness wit' Mr. Computa Bitch ain't finished. I aks tha fool his name, and he say it be Farah. Then he try to impress tha Top-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 Top-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 Adna 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, Mohamed?" she say. "Farax 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. Mohamed, you haven't got a future."

"Izzat true, muthafucka?" I aks Farahl.

"Well, I wouldn't have put it in quite the way Adna did, Moahmed," Farax 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 Farax can say anythin', fuckin' Adna's butt in: "The answer is simple, Mohamed: 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 Adna 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 Adna 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 Top-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' Farax? 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, Top-Dog gonna be a-ight. Besides, it ain't tha Top-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 Top-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 M still has mad beef with all y'all. Fuck wit' me, and you WILL get sprayed Danny Lee-style. Top-Dog OUT.

ANOTHA' CASH-ROOM BITCH BE HAVIN' MY SHORTIE!

2006-09-19T15:38:00.000-07:00

Heads up, y'all: Tha Top-Dog's wildin' days be OVA. Anotha shortie is on the way, I'm spreading ma seeds all ova those Biatches in da cash rooom joint. Now, I still be keepin' it real as tha Accountz Reeceevable Supervisa at MapleLeaf 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 Top-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 again. One of tha Cash Room bitches, Halimo's, be havin' my shortie.

I found out about a month ago. It be 5:30 on a Friday, an' I be punchin' out when Halimos 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, Halimos 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.

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

Damn. Shit don't never faze tha Top-Dog, but this time I gots to admit, I wuz pretty shook up. I thought that Halimos 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 Top-Dog's cock be too big for no rubba, word is bond.

"Bitch, ain't you on tha muthafuckin' pill?" I aks. But Halimos just cry harder and say, "I stopped taking it because I wanted to have your baby so badly, Mohamed. I love you so much, I can't stand the thought of being just another one of your girlfriends." No diggity, no doubt. Tha M-Luv be in great demand, an' tha ladies can't get enuf. But ain't no way tha Top-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 Top-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 Halimo 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 401 in Tha Nite Rida, my mind be reelin'. See, tha Top-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 even mo', I already had enuv with three shorties an they mama, those bitch ass nagging Ho'z calling 24/7 an be aksing that shorties needz thiz and needz that Damn!

I had so many thoughtz runnin' around mah dome, I nearly fo-got that mah homey Abdi Tha Sharpie Head be gettin' out of Kingston 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, Abdi 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?" Abdi 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 Abdi 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 Abdi 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' Halimo.

"Halimo? From tha Cash Room?" Abdi 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 Abdi a serious beatdown wit' my Day Runner organiza wit' solar calculata and tabbed A-Z telephone directory. Nobody disrespects tha Top-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 Halimo, 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 Abdi 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' Top-Dog don't wanna do that.

Why do tha Top-Dog care so much about some skank-ass ho's shortie? 'Cause when tha Top-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, Top-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' Halimo 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 Top-Dog. Like that one who work in tha cafeteria, Hana. She look pretty hot. I checked her from all sides....

Top-Dog OUT!
Peace y'all

REPLY FROM GOVERNOR GENERAL

2006-09-18T17:25:00.000-07:00

Mr. Mohamed Dixon. a.k.a Top-Dawg.

Accounts Receivable Supervisor

MapleLeaf Office Supply

Office Of The Governor

State Capitol Building

Dear Mr. DIXON:

We recently received your letter requesting a formal pardon from Governor Michaelle Jean for your felony conviction for uncertified, or "freestyle," public accounting so that you may proceed with your application for a state notary commission.

We are happy to report that, in the time since receiving your request, the governor has signed into law the Accounting Practices Reform Act, which, among other provisions, declares null and void any uncertified accounting convictions prior to 2002. Because your conviction took place in 1998, it will be erased from your record. Since this is your only such conviction, you are now eligible to apply for a notary commission.

The governor is deeply impressed by your commitment to civic service and desire to improve yourself through honest means. Incidentally, she continues to be mindful of the Accounts Receivable community's support of her governorship and its crucial role in saving Lieutenant Governor Michaelle Jean's life in 2006. Should you or any of your associates have a concern that you feel should be brought to her attention, please do not hesitate to do so.

Yours very sincerely,

Xalimo Faraax

Chief Of Staff

LETTER TO GOVERNOR GENERAL

2006-09-18T14:35:00.000-07:00

Joinin' Tha Notariouz Club

Governor GeneralHer Excellency the Right Honourable Michaëlle Jean
State Capitol Building, Ottawa Ontario, Canata

Accountz-Reeceevable Supervisa

MapleLeaf Office Supply

To tha Honorable Mrs. Michaëlle Jean

Ay, yo, Governor Michaelle Jean, big ups to you an' yo' posse representin' to tha fullest down at tha Capitol. This be Mohamed Dixon, a.k.a. Top-Dog,a.k.a High-Dawg a.k.a. Daddy M, a.k.a. Tha M-Luvva, tha man who professionally be known as tha Supabad Hardcore Enforca o' tha Accountz Reeceevable department of Mample Leaf Office Supply, tha largest an' dopest retaila an' distributa' of office supplies in tha whole muthafuckin' Canada.

Now, normally, tha only lettas I ever write be tha ones tellin' our bitch-ass deadbeat clients to pay they accountz tha fuck up, lest they wanna get smoked. But circumstancez be forcin' me to write you a big-ass letta aksin' you to give me my notary-publik license, cuz in these important mattas a bidness, Daddy M go straight to tha top dogg an' not no muthafuckin' small-time publik-clerk bitch.

Madam Governor, I would make tha flyest muthafuckin' notary publik this Country eva seen, no doubt. But tha Man be denyin' this strong, hardworkin' A.R. Bruthah a license, cuz a my jail record. My rep be on tha line. If I don't get no notary-publik license, I can't office proper. That mean only tha Accountz Payabo supervisa, Myron Schabe, can notarizize documentz, an' that would be to tha detriment of tha company, cuz Myron be this senile ol' geeza who'd affix his notary seal to a wet piece o' toilet paypa stuck to tha ceilin' if he could reach it. Y'all gots to let me notarizize shit, an' wit' a quickness, lest Myron keel ova an' they pass his title on to that wack amateur A.P. bitch Judy Metzger, know what I'm sayin'?

Madam Governor, y'all seem like a reasonable bitch, an' a stone-col' playa, you is black too, You wuz Fugee from Haiti like me representing Somalia, as well. I don't gots to tell you that a notary publik be a Provenze-licensed and bonded publik servant who serve as a impartial witness to tha certification and signature of official documents, and who also administer oaths and affirmations. It be one a tha highest honors a man can receive, an' to tha Top-Dog, ain't nuthin' more important than HONOR. Eva since I wuz still in my Underoos, I wanted to be a notary publik. My daddy wuz a notary publik, an' even though bidness take him away from our crib foe weeks on end, some a my best memories growin' up be when Daddy come in late an' get me outta bed, his right hand still all achin' an' blistered from workin' his seal, an' he tell me all about his notarizizin'. Damn, wit' all his dope stories 'bout takin' sworn statementz and notin' protests of negotiable instruments, I didn't never wanna get my sleep on. Notary publikin' be in my blood, true dat. Most muthafuckas can't tell a affidavit from a jurat, but y'all betta fuckin' believe I can. Aks me anythin' about notarizizin', like, during a notarial act, is it cool to affix yo' official seal or stamp? I be all like, sho, s'cool, but y'all gots to provide yo' handwritten signature, too, or tha act be invalid. I dodge that shit like a muthafuckin' bullet.

But as I said earlier, tha Man won't let me do no notary publikin' cuz of mah jail record. Back in tha day, I wuz convicted foe felony freestyle accountin' and spent a year in juvy. Afta serving mah time, I went legit an' ain't been in no trouble eva since, but that shit still bite me in the ass. Thass where you come in. Enclosed wit' this letta be copiez o' my original court paypas, a letta from my parole offica attestin' to my good character, an' another letta o' recommendation from my immediate supervisa, Gerald Luckenbill, who took a chance on a ex-con tryin' to make good an' hired me straight outta bidness college. Madam Governor, what I aks is that you show some luv an' pardon my ass. I straight an' I ain't never looked back. I put tha thug life behind me foe good, word is bond.

Man, if I wuz a notary publik, I'd do shit in STYLE. I'd get me tha flyest engraved official seal. No muthafukkkin' cheap-ass rubba stamp foe me. Fuck that. MapleLeaf gots a mad line o' notarizizin' seals an' a engrava on tha premises, too. See? This shit wuz meant to happen. This be mah DESTINY.

I also wanna say that, if you pardon me, an' I gets my notary license, I won't never gonna fo'get my duties to the A.R., nor will I ever fo'get my street flava. Don't be fooled by tha notary-publik license that I got—I still Top-Dog from tha block. Y'all may have caught wind of otha Accountin' bruthahs applyin' to become notariez publik, but a lot o' them be doin' it strictly foe tha bitchez an' tha fame. But foe me, this ain't no muthafuckin' game. It ain't about me. Never wuz. Shit gots to be witnessed an' verified an' attested. It what our society based on, y'all, lest everythang go straight to hell, know what I'm sayin'?

Yo, Madam Governor, I gots accountz to reeceeve, so I OUT. Lookin' forward to your response an' all that. An' a special shout-out to Lieut. Governor The Honourable James Bartleman. Dat lil phat Baztard, he is top dawg, give shout out to that sistah in yo offizing. We never fo'get what tha A.R. posse did foe him, an' I trust he don't, either, know what I'm sayin'?

Peace out,

Mohamed Dixon

A.R. Supervisa

MapleLeaf Office Supply

OFFICE MAX

2006-09-16T22:00:00.000-07:00

Yo, this is a message foe all y'all wack muthafuckas at Office Depot: Step tha FUCK OFF, lest y'all wanna brawl wit' tha Top-Dog an' tha rest of tha MapleLeaf Office Supply krew. 'Cuz if it come to that, shit ain't gonna be pretty. Tha Top-Dog and his Mapleleaf ballers will WASTE yo' sorry li'l red-polo-shirted asses. Word is bond.

Y'all wuz warned to stay tha fuck off MapleLeaf's turf. MapleLeaf be in this 'hood foe near 40 years, servin' tha community an' buildin on 320-330-340 plus joint 370-380-390 Dixon Road' a loyal customah base, an' it don't take kindly to no new-jack pretendas. So whatchy'all do? Y'all open a new store on Kipling/Rexdale Plaza Avenue in tha space where tha Kmart wuz befoe they fuck up an' go bankrupt. Y'all be braggin' in yo' muthafuckin' Sunday insertz, if all y'all shoppaz can find a lower advertised price on office supplies, Office Depot will match it. If that ain't groundz foe muthafukkkin' war, I dunno what is.

But if all y'all Office Depot suckas think MapleLeaf be runnin' scared, you sadly mistaken. Lemme tell you a little story 'bout some wack playa hatas called Office Max who tried to move in on MapleLeaf's turf a coupla years ago.

Peep this:

When Office Max roll into town, most of tha MapleLeaf krew be buggin'. Office Max be a big ol' nizational chain, and MapleLeaf only regional. Everybody talkin' 'bout how they got lower prices than us thankz to they size. You know, lower ovahead due to economiez of scale and shit. Our office comptrolla Gerald Luckenbill send out a memo to all tha department headz sayin' that we best start thinkin' 'bout some ways to stay competitive an' retain our customa base, lest Office Max start makin' off wit' our benjamins.

So, one aftanoon, all us MapleLeaf supavisas get called in foe this Big Willie interdepartmental meeting. This meeting so important, even tha vice-president, Howard Dinwiddie, be there. Everybody startz prezentin' Dinwiddie wit' suggestions on wayz to deal wit' tha Office Max sizituation. Our marketin' supervisa, Cheryl Stover, she say we oughta build up our mail-order division, 'cuz she think we can break out of our region and make our customa base all national an' shit wit' catalog sales. Fuckin' Bob Cowan from Human Resources propose some weak-ass plan to improve customa service. He bring this ovahead projector in an' show us a buncha transparencies wit' muthafukkkin' acronyms on 'em, where every letter stand for some motivational bullshit thass s'posed to make tha MapleLeaf posse practically wanna suck tha customahs' dicks. Took every inch o' tha M-Kool not to cut Cowan wit' tha L.O.D. Then, Accountz Payabo supervisa Myron Schabe say somethin', but no one remember what he say 'cuz tha ol' fool put everybody to sleep.

Me, I don't say nothin' tha whole time. Afta tha meetin', Dinwiddie aks me why, 'cuz he know I tha stone-col' superbaddest employee at MapleLeaf. "Listen, Dinwiddie," I say. "Fuck that bullshit 'bout expandin' this and improvin' that. Tha problem ain't us, it be Office Max. You want Office Max outta tha picture? Let H-Dog take care of it. Don't aks no questions, just let me take care of it."

Dinwiddie don't say nuthin. He just clasp my shoulder an' smile befoe walkin' away. Dinwiddie ain't dumb. He knew mah skeelz as a enforca be legendary. I wuz mad grateful foe his trust, so much so that I chose not to fade his ass foe touchin' me.

Bringin' down Office Max wuzn't easy, but I did it. It wuz some o' tha hardest shit I ever had to do. I wuz livin' a double life, splittin' my time between MapleLeaf an' tha Max. Tha three months I spent undacova as a O.M. cashier an' stocker could be a novel in an' of itself, mah homeys.

To fit in, I had to drop mah mad lyrical flow an' talk like a ordinary sucka. "Is there anything I can help you with, sir?" "Do you need assistance getting that to your car, ma'am?" "Will that be cash or charge?" "Thanks for shopping at Office Max, and have a great day." DAMN. I don't know how all y'all can talk like that. S'pitiful. Guess I shouldn't bitch, though, since that shit got me two Office Max employee-of-tha-month plaques an', eventually, tha assistant-managa position that wuz my ticket straight into tha belly o' tha beast.

Now, unfortunately, I can't tell you exactly what I did, 'cuz a lotta what went down still be classified info, know what I'm sayin'? When tha secret Top-Dog Archives be open to tha public 45 yearz afta my death, all y'all will learn tha real 411, straight up. Foe now, I can only say that thankz to me, to this day, tha top brass at Office Max can't take a piss without lookin' ova they shoulder. I ain't sayin' nothin' that could incriminate me, but they never did figga out who uncapped all tha highlighta pens in stock. Or how tha wetlandz five miles north o' tha store got contaminitated wit' copier toner. (Suckas settled outta court wit tha EPA-environmental Protection Agency- foe a undisclosed sum. Huh.) Or why some lucky shoppas found some Hewlett-Packard CP1160 color inkjet printers foe tha bargain price of $2.99, marked down from $299.99. A simple accountin' error, but that sorta shit eat into a profit margin real fast.

Long story short, ain't no Office Maxxin' at that space no mo'. They wuz replaced by Petco, some wack pet-food supastore, an' they ain't shown they face in tha 'hood since.

I ain't sayin' Office Depot will go down tha same way as Office Max. But y'all best not bring any of that "we won't be undasold" shit round here. 'Cuz if you do, befoe long, y'all won't have nothin' to undasell.

No use gettin' yo' guard up neither, 'cuz tha MapleLeaf avengas will strike where you least expect it. Maybe all y'all cash registas suddenly start spittin' up they detail tape smack in tha middle of transactions, and they can't be stopped, know what I'm sayin'? Or maybe yo' customas be mad vexed that they can't find nothin', 'cuz somebody rearrange all tha signs hangin' ova tha aisles.

Thass just a taste of tha world o' hurt y'all gots in store if y'all persist wit yo' "unbeatable savings, selection, and service" bullshit. Only thing that be unbeatable be MapleLeaf, an' it gonna stay that way, you wack muthafukkkas.

Y'all wanna fuck wit' MapleLeaf Office Supply? If you do, you betta bring yo' A-game, 'cuz Top-Dog ready to ball. Know what I'm sayin'?

M-Dog OUT

Keeping It Real in ma Blogging Crip!

2006-09-16T21:07:00.000-07:00

Very first time I wrote this Blog, it wuz to inform all y'all nonbelievaz out there that tha Top-Dog wuz a BAD ASS who best not be fucked with. That wuz nearly a years ago, and ain't a damn thing changed. If y'all think I gone soft 'cause I gots a shortie now, you dangerously mistaken. I still as hardcore as they come, know what I'm sayin'? Cross me, an' I'll samurai on yo' ass. Word is bond.

Yow FOCK-Lady flower- of-whateva fucking you be, stay da phuck away ma sistah story. be warned! Don't make be use ma leta openah on ya, dat will be shame for top dog to use his letta openah on somali sistah! iz dat what you aksing?

Damn, tha public think officin' peeps all be these pitiful, candy-ass bitchez watchin' Jenny Jones in tha break room or hangin' snapshots of they dumb-ass cats in they cubiclez. That be true o' some office workaz, like that wack Judy Metzger in Accountz Payabo, always wearin' a fool grin an' pushin' her muthafukkin' snickerdoodle cookiez on tha ML krew. But real office playas be all bidness, and don' stand foe no weak shit. Like my homiez Sir Casio KL7000 an' Kount Von Numbakrunch. We mad tight, but durin' tha work day, we don't talk at all. We tend to our respective bidness an' nothin' else. No phone calls, no e-mail, no gettin' our lunch on togetha at Applebeez.

It part o' tha Accountz Reeceevable code. See, back in tha day, this one A.R. bruthah got busted forwardin' a e-mail list of Monica Lewinsky jokes to anotha bruthah. When word got 'round, we put tha muthafucka in traction wit' a quickness, even though he wuz jus' a new-jack punk only five months certified. His mama told tha newzpaypas that tha A.R. wuz responsible, but even from his hospital bed, that bitch never pressed no charges 'cause he wanted to roll with our posse so bad. Didn't show him no mercy, tho'. Ain't no excuse foe that wack e-mailin' shit. Don't nobody want to get them lame jokes, 'specially not no hardcore A.R. enforcas.

So in tha rare event that A.R. bruthahs get togetha durin' bidness hourz, y'all best believe some serious shit be goin' down. And thas jus' what happen tha other mornin'. I hears a tap at my cubicle door, I turns aroun', and there be Sir Casio and Numbakrunch. First thing I think is, "Oh, snap, Jerry Tha Sharpie Head got hisself letta-opened in lockdown." But they didn't come ta bring no news about Jerry. Whut they said wuz a lot worse, true dat.

"Yo, Dog," Sir Casio say. "Me an' Krunch, we came to give you this here." And he hands me mah personalized double-gusset organiza wit' solar calculata.

Holy FUCK, y'all. I musta left it in tha SpeediBanc parkin' lot tha previous night. I ain't never fo'get mah organiza befoe. No self-respectin' A.R. bruthah ever leave his crib without his letta openah and organiza.

But befoe anythang can be said, Judy Metzger stick that big-ol' pumpkinhead of hers into mah cubicle. She all grinnin' that dipshit grin o' hers. Bitch has a serious love jones foe yours truly, but she ain't gettin' none o' tha M-Luv, unless she cross ova to tha A.R. And lose them muthafukkin' snickerdoodle cookiez. And get them front teeth removed, know what I'm sayin'?

When Judy pops in mah cubicle, she startle Casio an' Krunch so bad, they reach foe they letta openas, but I calm 'em down, sayin', "S'cool, she A.P., but she MapleLeaf, too."

"Oh,Mohamed," she say in this wack sing-song voice, like she Helen muthafukkin' Reddy or somethin'. "Can you come to the conference room for a minute? We're having a quick staff meeting."

"Aw, sheeit, bitch, this betta be important," I say. I be mad vexed, y'all. First, tha organiza thang and now a staff meetin'. I follow Judy to tha conferizence room, wit' Casio an' Krunch close behind.

But when I gets to tha room, ain't nobody there. "Goddamn, bitch, where tha krew at?" I aks. "You tryin' to play me? I oughta smack you upside yo' ugly head, you Aerosoles-wearin' ho."

Alla sudden, tha whole Mapleleaf krew leaps out from under tha big ol' conferizence table. FUCK. It some kinda ambush. I whip out tha Letta Opener Of Death, grab Judy, and stick her ugly-ass permed head in tha ovahead projecta.

"Any y'all step to me, I turn on tha projecta bulb, and Judy will be seein' spots foe dayz," I say.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Mohamed!"

Dag, yo. I completely forgot. It be my muthafukkin' birfday. Ma Mama fixed dat Sheeitwhen we arrived here in Canada for some wack reason and made me younga than i waz or I be whateva.

Everybody in tha house: Bob Cowan from Human Resourcez, office comptrolla Gerald Luckenbill, all tha fly hos in Marketin', Mike and Phil in Inventory, Hal Tha Janitor, and, of course, mah Cash Room bitchez. Even muthafukkin' Myron Schabe, tha Accountz Payabo supervisa. Harriet from tha Cash Room bust out this big ol' cake all lit up wit' candlez and shit. Then they all set to singin'.

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Mohamed, happy birthday to you."

Man, I was mad embarrassed bein' tha subject of some pussy-ass birfday party. Plus, they wuz wastin' valuable company time in mah name. As peeps be helpin' theyselves to cake an' ice cream an' soda an' them muthafukkin' snickerdoodles, I resheath tha L.O.D., release Judy, an' turns to face Casio an' Krunch.

"Yo, I gots to get outta here. This ain't no place for a hardcore gangbanga like Top-Dog," I says. "Besides, we gots important bidness to discuss."

We ditch tha conferizence room an' returns to mah cubicle. I takes up mah organiza an' lays it on tha floor. Same wit' tha L.O.D.

"Bruthahs," I say, "I brought shame to tha A.R. game today. I fo'get mah organiza. Thas why, effective immediately, I'm resignin' mah position as Accountz Reeceevable Supervisa at MapleLeaf Office Supply and from tha A.R. bruthahood at large."

Then Casio speak up. He say there ain't no need foe no resignation. He point at my attaché case an' tell me there be a organiza right there inside it. Sho' nuff, he right. Casio 'splain that when we wuz 'bout to leave tha SpeediBanc parkin' lot las' night, we takes up each othas organizaz by mistake, which look identical an' was layin' side-by-side on tha outdoor night-deposit box.

"An' as foe tha birfday partay, sheeit, y'all know them wack bitchez be pullin' that girlie shit all tha time on tha A.R. posse," Casio say. "It be a occupational hazard. Like, you know, carpal tunnel syndrome."

"No doubt," Krunch say. "They be pullin' that kinda wack pussy shit all tha time 'round here. Winta last, muthafukkin' coworkas tried to make me throw in foe Secret Santa. I didn't want no part of it, 'cause I wanted to keep it real and represent tha A.R. code to tha fullest. So I didn't give nothin', but I got somethin' anyway: a muthafukkin' crocheted pencil holda. I wuz like, dang, I don't want none o' this wack Secret Santa bling-bling. But if I returned tha gift, tha heat woulda been turned up on me like mad. You know, office politics an' shit. And rememba, tha Reeceevable Code say, serve and honor yo' employa at all costs. S'all good, s'all good."

Usually Numbakrunch ain't too bright, but I gotta give him mad propz foe makin' a bruthah see things anew. I ain't never realized that it ain't really violatin' tha Code if y'all have that weak shit thrust upon you. It only violatin' tha Code if tha weak shit be perpetuated BY tha A.R. bruthah HISSELF, like what that e-mailin' sucka did. In a perfect world, foolz like Judy Metzger would be locked out o' all officez, but tha world ain't perfect, an' it up to tha A.R. bruthahood to maintain a high officin' standard, even when they surrounded by the wackest of shit. Much love to mah homiez Casio an' Krunch foe they wizdom and understandin'.

When Casio an' Krunch leave, I goes back to tha conferizence room to get mah eat on. I even chokes down a muthafukkin' snickerdoodle. But tha second I finish tha las' bite, I outta there an' back to my fly cubicle, where I start balancin' shit like a MOTHERFUCK. Birfday or no, ain't nobody gonna keep me from mah true callin'. Some officin' peeps may think tearin' off pages from they 365-days-a-year Far Side calenda be work, but not this banga. Daddy M be keepin' it real, representin' to tha fullest in tha MapleLeaf crib 40/5.

Sheeit, what a A.R. bruthah gotta do jus' to stay alive in tha officin' world.

Top-Dog iz out!
Peace y'all

WHAT HAPPEN TO MA SISTAH?

2006-09-16T00:50:00.000-07:00

Yo all akzing ma sistah, you betta not aks again as I put this Offishiyal memo.

Interoffice Memorandum
To: MapleLeaf Staff/ all yo on Somali blogger joint
From: Mohamed Dixon
Accountz Reeceevable Supervisa
Sept 16, 2006

Ay yo:

Stop aksin' me about mah long-lost sistah. Y'all know what I'm sayin', muhfuckaz. Didn't I say in mah last joint blog column, don't fukkin' aks me about mah sistah? Sheeit.

Ever since I got our wack client SPJ Communications 2 settle up they MapleLeaf debt by fuckin' whuppin' them ninja Blueshirt muhfuckaz it hire as muscle (peep " Tha Office," Sept 14 2006), y'all all be wonderin' what that unseen mysterioso jackass meant when he said mah stone-col' skeelz bustin' tha Office-Fu moves didn't mean shit when it come 2 savin' mah sistah back in tha day. Shit, y'all, I restored tha Mapleleaf honor an' got our $94.71 in tha process. That mo' important foe yo' purposes. If it weren't foe me an' mah superstar collectin' skeelz, ML hardly show a profit. So fuckin' show some luv. Feel me?

I tends 2 mah own bidness an' don't aks all y'all 'bout yo' own. Tha Top-Dog ain't no muhfuckin' gossip. Hell, I don't givva rat's ass about what y'all do afta-hourz. I don't care if y'all gots three dicks. I only innerested in two things: What can y'all do foe ML, an' do y'all throw in foe tha coffee fund. Otherwise, stay outta mah grill.

This memo be addressed 2 all tha MapleLeaf peeps, but I gots two of y'all in mah crosshairz 'specially: Dave Adenauer in Shippin' an', ain't no surprise here, that crazy bitch Judy Metzger in Accountz Payabo. Both have long tested tha M-Kool, but I almos' had 2 take these foolz out. I swear, but foe tha grace-a God go those pitiful morons.

G's: Day afta I tells the world 'bout mah run-in at SPJ, I'm walkin' 'cross tha office when that wack Dave call out mah name. I whirls around an' assume tha White Collar Warrior stance. I wuz in a lotta hurt from messin' wit' them sinistah Blueshirtz, but I could still snap into battle mode inna split-second. Murdah so thick in tha air you could taste it, but it obvious tha fool foegot his spoon.

"Hey, Mohamed," Dave said. "So, what happened to your sister?"

Only the wizdom o' mah mentor, CPA-ONE (R.I.P., bro) stop me from makin' his dome x-plode wit' a single look. "Dog, sometimez it seemz tha smallest men throw up the biggest obstacles," he once say. "Remembah, they too small 2 mean nothin' real 'bout it."

Mah rage became pity. "I dunno, ya pitiful muhfuckah," I said. "Ya po' pitiful bastard. Y'all so dumb y'all must think Daylite Savin' Time be time-travelin.'"

I thought mah movin' dizplay a' sympathy would defuse the fool, but he only persisted. He aksed me if mah sistah mah twin, if she evil, an' could I teach him tha Office-Fu. So's, I aksed CPA-ONE 2 foegive me an' hurled tha muhfuckah 'cross tha Shippin' An' Reeceevin' department. But he only landed on a huge-ass pile o' Fill Air™ Inflatable Packaging.

Next day, I'm krunchin' tha steady numbahs in mah cubicle when I heard this kinda rustlin' paypa noise behind me. It weren't no spreadsheetz, tho; it wuz Judy Metzger's dry, orange, big-hair perm brushin' 'gainst her blaza. Befoe I could tell her 2 get tha hell out, bitch be layin' a plate o' lemon barz on mah deks.

"Mohamed, Dave told me about how you broke down after he asked you about your sister," she said. "I just want to let you know that any time you want to talk, I'm here for you."

Then she started in on some crazy-ass bullshit that white folks do 'bout how she wuz like mah sistah 'cause she run away from home when she 15 'cause her mama's man touched her funny, an' how she wuz in some God cult out in Utah run by this ol' perv, an' she got touched funny some mo', an' how she wuz a big crackhead, an' somethin' 'bout hitchhikin', then she think God be tellin' her 2 get her shit togethah, then, I dunno, Gerald Luckenbill found her in a basket at Mapleleaf's front do'. Meanwhile, mah Executive Stress Ball's fuckin' unusable now, 'cause all the gel squirted outta it unda mah unforgivin' killah grip.

So, Judy aksed if all her touchy-feely bullshit make me feel bettah, an' I said what you foeget is that I'm a straight-up, funky-fresh P.I.M.P. an' she nuthin' but a orangutan-hair ho, an' she could stop sniffin' 'round mah Dockahs, 'cause she wuzn't gettin' none, an' that she owed me a new Executive Stress Ball. "Bitch," I said, "flag yo' bony ass back 2 Payabo." Then I dumped her barz in tha garbitch. She run out all boo-hoo-hooin', but that's what y'all gots 2 do sumtimes, hand out tha tuff luv. Well, jus' tuff in this case, but I didn't kick her 2 tha curb like I did wit' Dave. CPA-ONE (R.I.P.) woulda been mad proud.

Look, I only gonna say this once, so heads up: I hadda sistah once, but I ain't seen her since she wuz 5. Some say she wuz hijacked by tha Hong Kong mafia, some say some freaky alien Muthaship suctioned her outta tha backyard, an' some say she wuz a casualty of a custody battle between mah mama an' mah daddy. I don't remember much 'bout her, 'cause I be only a shortie when she disappear, but I recalls she wuzn't too down wit' tha Accountin'. When I was rockin' tha Li'l Professor, she wuz off marryin' her Barbie doll 2 her Care Bear. Kinda wack if y'all aks me. But I still gots mad luv foe her 2 this day, an' I hope she alive an' well, maybe managin' her own office somewheres, an' chillin' wit' her own adjustable, natural-light desk lamp, an' hopefully reimbursed foe it, if it hadda be ordered special.

Peep this, y'all: When all y'all mournin' a loss o' some sort, I don't go layin' down a card on yo' deks that say "Thinking About You" or sending y'all a "Pick-Me-Up" bouquet. Respect me like I respects you. 'Cause I knows a lotta y'all gots tha secret mad hate foe that touchy-feely shit, too. A lotta y'all won't admit it, but in yo' time o' need, I seen y'all squirm when Bob Cowan from HR be layin' his creepy eye on all y'all, sayin' "Mapleleaf be here fo' y'all," an' "don't hesistitate 2 aks fo' help." Ain't nobody wanna get so low that they gots 2 go 2 Bob Cowan fo' anythang. It embarrassin', G's. An' tha ones who say s'all cool be pussies or frontin'.

Mad 2 yo all.
I am out!

LAYBA DAY WEEKEND ! ( Labor day weekend off)

2006-09-15T13:37:00.000-07:00

A True Bruthas Don't Take No Layba Day Off

G's Up, Ho'z Down......Ay yo, wassup, Gs? If y'all aksed me what paradise wuz to tha Top-Dog, I'd say it be three things: customas payin' they accountz on time without me having to go all Walkin' Tall on they ass, a endless supply o' Nutrageous barz in tha break-room vendin' machine, an' last but not least, a seven-day work week wit' no muthafukkin' dayz off to fuck wit' mah flow.

As I've said in this space before, tha Top-Dog's life be all bidness. Weekendz an' holidayz just ain't mah thang, know what I'm sayin'? When I ain't officin', it's like I get all unbalanced. Tha only good thang I can say about havin' time off is that it afford me tha opportunity to spend Q.T. wit' mah shortie, Baby Prince M. Tha Stone Col' Dopest Biz-ook-kizeepin' Muthafukkin' Badass Supastar Jr. Mohamed Tha Second.

A couple Mondays ago, I be in tha Nite Rida, cruisin' ova to mah ex-bitch Adna's crib to drop off our shortie, who I had foe tha weekend. But who answer tha door? Thass right, Adnas' old-ass mama. She all in her big-ass flowa-print housecoat, doin' that slow walk of hers. She ack like she got tha rheumatism, but I know she jus' takin' her sweet-ass time 'cause when it comes to Daddy Mo', she a stone-cold playa hata.

"Yo, Grandma," I say, handin' her tha shortie. "Take Baby Prince M. Tha Stone Col' Dopest Biz-ook-kizeepin' Muthafukkin' Badass Supastar Mohamed Tha Second. I gots bidness to attend to at MapleLeaf."

"If you're talking about baby Jr. Mo', I'll be glad to," she say. "Say, what did you do with him all weekend, Mohamed? Stuff envelopes? Make coffee? Collate?"

See what I mean 'bout this bitch? A stone-col' playa hata. She got it in foe officin' peeps. She don't even approve o' her daughta workin' in tha ML cash room, let alone havin' a baby wit' a reeceevable bruthah like me. I don't know why. I gots tha dopest Blu Cross/Blu Shield benefitz package, includin' full medical and dental foe me an' mah dependentz.

"Yo," I tell Adnas' mama, "you be forgettin' that I coulda made yo' daughta a queen if she wuz mah bitch. I gots a rep foe bein' tha stone-coldest A.R. playa in tha area. But now you an' yo' daughta can get the hell on. So kiss mah Dockas-covered ass, Grandma."

But this bitch be persistent. "You know, Mohamed, for 33 years, I was married to a slick business-type. He was a lot like you, full of hot air and always talking about 'the boss has really taken a shine to me' this and 'I just know I'll get that promotion' that. Thirty years go by, and he's still in the same lousy junior sales position, never making more than 12K a year. Some hot shot."

She jabbered some mo', but I tuned it out. She just bitta 'cause she didn't have tha goodz to hook up wit' a real playa. She think that just 'cause her man's officin' skeelz wuz wack, that meant officin' be a dead-end life. Well, thas BULLSHIT.

She runnin' at tha mouth so much, I almos' didn't catch what she saved foe last.

"Not that I don't appreciate the fact that you dropped Junior off early, but what kind of person would choose to work on Labor Day?" she say. "I know for a fact that all Maple Leaf Office Supply employees have today off. What, you can't tear yourself from your precious subsidiary-accounts-receivable ledger for even one day?"

"Layba Day?" DAMN. I fo'got 'bout Layba Day. On tha H-Dog's calenda, Layba Day be up there wit' Memorial Day an' and all those wacky Holidays' as tha unholiest dayz of tha fiscal year. Think how much tha A.R. bruthahood could get done on those dayz if tha Man would let us do our thang. FUCK tha Man.

I be back in tha Nite Rida and gone before that ol' bitch could detect any cracks in tha storied H-Kool. Cruisin' 'round town, I be lookin' foe some Layba Day officin' action, but I couldn't find none. Tha MapleLeaf parkin' lot be empty, an' tha public parkz be teemin' wit' people who be picnicin' an' throwin' them muthafukkin' Frisbeez aroun'. It wuz like tha inside of a office be tha last thing on they minds. DAMN.

I wuz contemplatin' goin' back to my crib an' chillin', only I wuzn't sure what I'd do there. Watch TV? Vacuum? Sheeit, those ain't no dignified activities foe a A.R. bruthah on a Monday. Y'all can see what kinda quandary I wuz in.

Fortunately, I hadda hunch to check out mah ol' alma mater, Bidness College. Sho 'nuff, when I pull up, I peep some of mah A.R. homies kickin' back on tha front lawn: AirGoNomic, Sir Casio KL7000, an' Count von Numbakrunch.

"Yo, Top-Dog, we wuz tryin' to call you all mornin'," says KL7000, tossin' me a Zima. "It Layba Day, we ain't gotta do no laborin', an' we got tha whole Eastech crib to ourselves. This be tha life, blood."

"Sheeit, what a pitiful sight you bruthas be," I say. "We all should be journalizin' an' reconcilin' right now. Y'all be reduced to drinkin' Zimas on a school lawn. Tha accountz-reeceevin' life ain't got no room foe that."

"Yo, when did you get so uptight, Dog?" Numbakrunch say. "If Tha Man give us a day off every now an' then, so what? We muthafukkin' deserve it. I don't see no Accountz Payabo knockas frettin' 'bout no day off. Why should we?"

Man, when Numbakrunch say that, I see RED. I kick that sucka to tha curb, open his attaché case, and dump his paypas all ova him.

"Thas why, mutherfukka," I say. "What you think be written on them paypas, muthafukka? Sniglets? Shit, no. Numbas. Numbas you been given tha task to reconcile. Y'all oughta be proud that y'all gots this responsibility. When tha work day be done, do you think them Accountz Payabo bitches take they work back to they cribs like we do sometimes? Hell no. They get they eat on, watch Everybody Loves Raymond, and maybe take a long hot shower. Then they have a cuppa chamomile tea and go to sleep. Well, fuck that boo-ya."

Numbakrunch just lay there unda his paypas, lookin' all confused. Suddenly, it dawn on me that maybe I just pissin' into tha wind. Numbakrunch be five, six yearz younga than me, and already I can see that tha new breed o' A.R. bruthah be soft. They all think accountz reeceevin' be about tha bitchez an' tha money and tha fame. Thas part of it, no doubt, but us old-school homies know there be more.

But, yo, check out what happens next: A Ford Escort rolls up to us, an' this muthafukka on tha passenger side pops his pasty face out. I can make out three more in tha back seat.

"Hey, Top-Dog—balance this," tha muthafukka say, flippin' me tha bird. So I flips him my Letta Opener Of Death. I be aimin' foe tha area betwixt his eyes, only it miss him an' just bounce off tha car door. That scare them enough, though, an' tha Escort peels off.

AirGoNomic grab my arm. "I know that punk: He be Don Kadish, tha new Accountz Payabo supavisa at Datech Management Systems. He all cocky an' think he got somethin' to prove, so he goin' afta all tha top A.R. playaz. I bet they headin' foe tha Payabo picnic at tha fairgroundz. You got tha fastest ride, Dog—let's ice those fuckas."

At that moment, I fo'gets all about my beef wit' mah A.R. bruthahs. I help Numbakrunch to his feet, an' we all pile into tha Nite Rida. KL7000 knew a dope shortcut to tha fairgroundz, so when those A.P. foolz pulled up, we wuz lyin' in wait. BAM. They never knew what hit 'em. We disabled 'em by sneakin' up on them ninja-style an' snappin' binder rings on the palms of they hands. While they wuz screamin' in pain, we grabbed they polo-shirt collas, pulled them ova they heads, and buttoned they collas to the top so's they couldn't see nuthin'.

Don Kadish panicked and started runnin' blindly in tha direction of tha Payabo picnic, but tha sucka only got as far as that old-ass A.P. geeza Myron Schabe. Schabe and his bone-ugly wife Sandy be sittin' on a blanket, havin' a picnic, when Kadish come runnin' straight at 'em. Kadish runs onto the blanket and wipes out all ova tha potato salad an' baloney meat. I be followin' in hot pursuit an' proceed to hand out tha beatdowns in rapid succession. Even though Kadish had me in his crosshairs, I hands Numbakrunch mah three-hole punch an' let him deliver tha final blow. Kadish be screamin' foe mercy and Sandy Schabe be screamin' foe tha 5-0, but ol' Myron jus' be sittin' there wit' his usual hangdog look on his face. That geeza ain't got no self-respect at all. If he did, he'd-a been defendin' his turf an' his A.P. bruthah in need. It jus' go to show what kinda pussies tha A.P. krew truly be.

That whole Layba Day incident taught me that when tha A.R. bruthahood be in a tight corner, we come through foe each other. We may diffa in our philosophizeez, but challengin' us be like wakin' a sleepin' dragon or some Oriental shit like that. 'Cuz at heart, y'all, a true A.R. bruthah never takes no day off. Top-Dog OUT

Peace ya all.

Da Offize !

2006-09-13T23:30:00.000-07:00

Yo! ya'll suckers do know dat it ain't eazy being Somalien? Well, let me drop some shyt bomb.

Check it out, G's: Lotta shit in this joint blogging ain't foe tha eyes a' amateurs. If you a pussy, you best skip ovah this thang an' tune in tha ladiez' channel or somethin', cuz what I about 2 lay down deserve its own parental-advisory stickah, know what I'm sayin'? This straight-up, non-stop, hardcore shit, y'all, an' tol' wit' mad suspense, too, tha kind that make yo' shit evacuate, know what I'm sayin'? It like a haiku a' violence.

On Monday, Gerald Luckenbill, tha office comptrolla, aksed 2 see me in his office end a' bidness day.

Sure enuf, come punchout, Luckenbill wuz chillin' at his desk. His office wuz all dark, 'cept foe tha light from his desk lamp. I peep a check on his desktop an' recognize it as a payment that come in wit' today's mail, from a client called SPJ Communications. They one a' them Internet-service-providin' an' web-hostin' firms, an' they always buyin' they office supplies wit' us an' never gettin' they payments in 'til right befoe tha 25-day grace period expire. They think they tha King Shit, disrespectin' tha M-Dog like that.

"I just happened to notice the check in the Cash Room was about to go into the daily deposit," Luckenbill say. "I know that you hate how they get their payments in just under the wire. On a hunch, I took this check and phoned the issuing bank. Good thing I acted on that hunch, Mohamed, because that check would have been returned NSF."

Damn.

Luckenbill peeped tha murder in my eye. He know me too long 2 think I let shit like this slide. "Now, Mohamed," he say. "I let you go about your business without asking questions. I know you save us the expense of hiring a collections staff. But, in this case, I must ask you to keep a calm head. The holidays just ended, and maybe SPJ had more expenses than it counted on. Maybe it was a simple accounting error. Maple leaf wants its money, but it wants an honest, peaceful solution to the problem. We have the law on our side, Mohamed. Keep that in mind."

Luckenbill barely done speakin' when I out tha doe an' in tha Nite Rida, headin' straight 2 tha bidness park where SPJ's office at. Luckenbill wanted 2 keep tha peace, an' I respected that, but I knew shit he didn't. I knew them muhfukkahs wuz straight-up trouble an' would fuck us ova more if we played it soft. I could smell it. I didn't spend aftahourz scopin' out SPJ HQ foe nothin'. I be bidin' my time foe months. Finally, tha mission had arrived. It zero hour. Those muhfukkahs wuz goin' down.

The lights wuz still on in SPJ's office, so I chilled in some law firm's parkin' lot next doe, meditatin', swappin' my officin' gear foe ninja black, flashin' back on tha wise words a' my mentor, CPA-ONE (R.I.P.): "Honor above all, Dog. Honor ain't cost-effective, but y'all must do yo' utmost 2 preserve it, cuz in tha end, it have tha most value."

Finally, 'round seven, tha lights went off. A big-hair receptionist exited an' drove away. She didn't peep me lyin' in wait. Wit' mad stealth, I tossed up a grapplin' hook 2 a third-flo' window an' hauled my ass up. Tha window wuz unlocked an' led into a hallway. Sidlin' up tight against tha wall, I made my way 2 SPJ's front doe. I jimmied tha lock, crouched down, an' entered. Sure enuf, there be a motion-detectah alarm beside tha doe. Huh. Child's play. I busted out a penlight an' my needle-nose pliahs, reached up, got into tha gap 'tween tha keypad's plastic casin' an' tha wall, an' snipped tha wirez. Tha lights on tha alarm went dark. Without missin' a beat, I snapped off tha penlight an' crab-walked my way 2 tha boss' office, where tha wall safe at.

Now, G's, as I made my way thru tha moonlit office, I peeped box afta unopened box bearin' tha MapleLeaf logo. I aksed myself, "Why they ain't open they boxes? They got that shipment days ago. 'Sides, no office this size need that many ballpointz an' bindah clips. What be they game?" That got my blood up, but I force myself 2 chill an' attend 2 tha task at hand.

I reached tha bossman's office, removed some bullshit pheasant paintin', an' uncovered tha wall safe. I started crackin' it like a pro. In less than a minute, it opened an' revealed jus' what I expected: shitloads a' benjamins. Huh. A "simple accountin' error," my ass. Mo' like tha Big Willie muhfukkas be skimmin' from tha company profitz, like one a' them wack Fo'tune 500 CEOs. Not that I give a shit 'bout SPJ's finances, long as they don't fuck wit' MapleLeaf, but I could use it against 'em if they got wise 2 tha M-Dog bum-rushin' they HQ an' thirsted foe retaliation.

Tha retaliation would come wit' a greater quickness than I anticipated.

"Greeting, M-Dog."

I whipped around. Five huge muhfukkahs wuz standin' right behind me. I peeped what they wuz wearin' an' knew immediately who they be.

Blueshirts.

Yeah, Blueshirts. Y'all peeps 'em on tha train or tha bus or drivin' in tha rush hour. Dudes wearin' them sissy blue dress shirts, sometimes wit' black dress pants, sometimes chinos. They looks like average suckahs, readin' tha WSJ or talkin' at clients on tha phone or gettin' coffee. But tha fact they everywhere an' don't hide theyselves like ninjas do be what make 'em so menacin'. Cuz don't hardly no one know they tha deadliest office enforcement gang on tha planet. Every one be trained in four kinds a' martial arts. Minimum. An' now five a' these punks about 2 come down on me, hard.

One of 'em sent a flyin' kick 2 my chest. I reeled back onto a credenza, then grabbed tha sidez wit' my hands behind my head, put mah knees 2 my head, and kicked out, knockin' two Blueshirts cold wit' my two feets.

Then anotha one came at me with tha Lo Han Fist. It vex me wild 2 see tha purely defensive artz a' tha peace-lovin' Shaolin bruthahood used foe corrupt ends, y'all. I blocked his fist wit' an iron fo'earm, windmilled my arms, an' connected a Shadowless Kick straight upside his bitch head. Then I gave him a Super Press-Down 'til I heard his ribs snap 2 my satisfaction.

That left two. Foe some reason, durin' tha kung-fu fightin', opponents only come atchu one atta time. I dodged tha fourth punk's Wind An' Thundah Fist wit' a triple somersault ova tha CEO's desk an' smashed through his office's window into tha main room. He hurled shards a' tha busted glass at me like throwin' stars, but I deflected 'em by pitchin' a loose corkboard at 'em, an' launchin' a hard kick 2 his throat. He flew away, but y'all could tell tha muhfukkah be usin' wires. I cornered him in a cubicle, an' we traded furious blows wit' a quickness. Tha first punk I knocked cold came to an' snuck up behind me, but I dispatched him again with a punch from tha back a' my fist without turnin' around. I aim a kick under tha fourth punk's chin, an' he go somersaultin' ova tha cubicle an' through tha window 2 tha outside.

Tha last muhfukkah be tha most hardcore, but inna psycho way. He laughed like a hyena, then he assumed a stance I didn't recognize foe a second. Then he came at me. Holy fuckin' shit: Tha muhfukkah be a mastah a' tha Deadly Super Wondah Palm. That certain death. I vaulted ovah him an' kicked tha back a' his head on tha descent. We whipped aroun' 2 face one anothah. He came at me again. I grabbed a stapler, said a prayer, an' popped a whole cartridge a' staples at his face. Tha muhfukkah in agony.

"That kung-fu is not of mainstream!" he screamed, pickin' staples outta his face. "Who is teach you such perfidy?"

"My kung-fu incorporate office supplies," I hissed. "That be my Magic Staple-Gun Punch."

I riled tha crazy bitch up good. Furious, he launched anotha Wondah Palm at me. Its touch brand a burnin' palm mark fulla poison, an' suckas don't live too long aftaward. But wit' a blood-chillin' scream, he ended up through tha same window I sent tha last punk through, an' foe some reason, there wuz a big explosion. I jes' singlehandedly fucked up five Blueshirts, but I wuz too cashed 2 gloat. Wit' my last ounce a' strength, I turned ova on my back an' lay motionless.

All quiet foe a while. Then, a piece-a paypa fluttahed down an' landed on my chest. It a cashier's check foe tha full amount SPJ owe us: $91.46. Then, outta nowhere, I heard this freaky laugh. Tha first two punks already split. I thought it might be tha crazy Blueshirt bitch, but his laugh sounded a li'l different. Finally, this kinda sissy voice spoke up.

"Excellent work, Mohamed Somalien," tha voice say. "Here is your payment in full, for services rendered. As you can see, it's guaranteed. Your fighting skills are superlative. You dispatched five of the toughest Blueshirts in the entire state. Hmm. Five. Isn't that the same age at which your sister disappeared? Your sister, Mohamed? Or do the mists of time obscure her memory? It is a pity you couldn't use your Office-Fu then to save her."

My throat went dry. My pupils dwindled 2 pinpoints.

"Goddamn you," I screamed. "What do y'all know 'bout my sistah, you muhfukka? Don't nobody talk about my sistah, not evah. Dammit, who you be? An' what do y'all know'bout my sistah? Answer me!"

But tha voice didn't speak no more.

If that story didn't make y'all shit yo' Underoos, then you must be wearin' a muhfukkin' toe tag. By tha way, any a' y'all evah aks me about my sistah, I crease yo' head wit' a three-hole punch.

Yo Peace I am out.

TALES FROM DIKSAN (a.k.a DIXON)

2006-09-12T22:54:00.000-07:00

WARNING:This posting may not be suitable to weak-ass muthasuckers, Parental dyskreshan iz ztrongly advized.

MAPLE LEAF FOR LIFE!

GOTTA REPREZENT MA MUTHASUCKING CANADIAN COMPANY!

Check it out. Yo, I must be gettin' soft or somethin', 'cause last weekend, I be chillin' at tha Mable-leaf Office Supply company picnic. Sheeit. Ain't too long ago, tha Top-Dog wuz too hard for that socializin' shizit. All tha time, co-workers be askin' me, "Hey, Mohamed, would you like to sign up for the Red Cross blood drive?" "Are you going to participate in Secret Santa this year?" And all tha time, I give 'em tha same answer: "Steptha FOCK off, you blood-donatin', Secret Santa-havin' muthafucka.

Da H-Dog ain't doin' that weak-ass shit, not now, not eva." And if tha muthafuckas persist, I drags them to tha conference room and holds they domes ova tha overhead projecta until they be cryin' for mercy.

I be at Mable-leaf foe tha fly accountz reeceevin', not foe rollin' wit' a bunch of big-hair hos wit' they Rice Krispies treats an' Hi-C. I gots a rep to maintain. This time, tha sorry muthafucka pesterin' tha H-Dog be this wack-ass, rice-patty-dick scrub named Tony Weinker , who be wit' Inventory downstairs. Now, I be down wit' tha bruthas in Inventory, but this Tony Weinker guy be new, an' he don't know tha H-Dog protocol yet, which is, DON'T even fuckin' look me in tha eye if you knows what's good for you, 'specially if you some wet-behind-tha-ears punk.

Now, tha other day, I jus' happen to be down in Inventory's crib, pickin' up some hangin' file folders foe tha Accountz Reeceevable Krew, When this Tony Weinker bitch come up to me like he a playa and go, "Say, Mohamed, are you coming to the company picnic this weekend?"

Shit, man, I was a split-second from goin' Sam Peckinpah on that newjack, cocksuckin' fool, thinkin' I be Yogi Bear or sumpfin'. But before I can lay down tha hurt, he go, "Mohamed, everyone's going to be there. The guys from Shipping, the folks in Marketing, the cafeteria ladies, everybody in the third-floor administrative office, and all of your coworkers in Accounts Receivable. Oh, and Accounts Payable, too. It sounds like it's going to be a lot of fun." I don't give no rat's ass about Shipping or tha cafeteria bitches, but When Tony say Accountz Payabo gonna be in tha house, I grabs the muthafucka an' jams my Letta opener Of Death under his chin. "You better not be shittin' me, fool," I say.

"No, really, Mohamed, it'll be fun," he say.

DAMN. They Accountz Payabo bitches be bum rushin' tha picnic, which Mean I gotta be there to represent and make sure no shit goes down. See, Payabo be hurtin', 'cause one 'a they temps just left, an' as a result, they be behind on they accountz payin' an' shit. I gots this notion that tha Accountz Payabo supervisa, Myron Schabe, got his old-ass eye on mah Accountz Reeceevin' homey Abdi. Now, Abdi, he all that, an' he loyal to tha A.R. Posse. But all it take is a coupla hot dogs an' Old English 800s wit' Schabe and tha office comptrolla, Gerald Luckenbill, an' Abdi could be crossin' over to Payabo wit' a quickness. So I decide to bum rush tha picnic my own self, so when suckas start flexin', I be puttin' tha 186 on 'em, know what I'm sayin'?

So come Sattiday, I be rollin' up at tha picnic, an' it be tha wackest Scene eva, y'all. These ugly-ass pigeons from tha secretarial pool be runnin' around tha place, fishin' plastic fish outta buckets foe prizes an' shit, hollerin' like hell. Some wack M.C. be spinnin' tha worst beats I eva heard. I see a buncha folks I don't know, an' I figure they spouses of tha Mable-leaf Krew. They give me tha evil eye, an' I give it back. FOCK them playa-haters.

So here I is, casin' shit, lookin' foe my man Abdi and keepin' my distance, lest some fool distract me, an' I lose Abdi to tha Payabo muthafuckas. I stakes out a picnic table and sits down, givin' tha stone-coldest look in my arsenal of facial-expressions, so don't nobody fuck wit' me. 'Course,that don't last long.

"Hey, Mohamed, why the long face?" I looks up, an' it be that no-titty Payabo bitch Judy Metzger, who fucked up my desk once wit' her wack smiley-face cupcakes during Employee Appreciation Week, an' I had to pull tha Letta Opener Of Death on her and that Myron Schabe fucka, 'cause don't nobody put no shit on tha Top-Dog's fuckin' desk. I brace myself in case this bitch wanna step to me again.
"Yo, Judy, get tha fuck outta my face," I say. That stone-cold freak be jonesin' foe my jock, I can tell. But this ain't tha time foe mackin'. Damn.

Problem is wit' these office bitches, bein' hard around them don't work, 'cause they think you just depressed or sad or sumpfin'. Since bitches is always sad and
depressed, they think you is too, so they won't leave you be.

"I know what will cheer you up, Mohamed" Judy say. She gots her hands behind her back tha whole time, an' when she whip 'em out, I springs up outta my seat flashin' my Letta Opener. She scream, an' this big-ass plate of brownies fall outta her hands.

She start cryin' and runs away.But I ain't gots time for regrets. Tha Top-Dog come
fully strapped at all times, an' it gonna stay that way, Gs. So I gets up an' scopes tha scene some more. Sure enuf, in tha beer tent, I spots Abdi chillin' wit Luckenbill an' that scrub Myron. I whips out tha Letta Opener, ready foe action, but before I can
reach 'em, someone else get up in my face.

This time, it be mah homey Ken from Inventory.
"Mohamed, I'm sorry, but you've got to come with me right away,"
Ken say. "It's Tony Weinker. I think he's OD'd on Liquid Paper."

I shoulda known that joker would fuck shit up foe me. Not only wuz he a fool, he wuz a fuckin' Paypahead, too. An' only I knew tha antidote. Plus,I didn't want to cause bad blood between tha A.R. Posse an' tha Inventory Krew. "Show me tha way, Ken," I says. "Only we gots to do it wit' a quickness, 'cuz I gots bidness to attend to in tha beer tent."

Sho 'nuf, Tony Weinker be layin' behind tha rest rooms, twitchin' Like a headless chicken, Liquid Paypa foamin' outta he mouth. Didn't I tell y'all he was a crazy-ass fool? Anyhow, I learned tha antidote back when I wuz accountz reeceevin' on tha street: two parts Elmer's Glue to one part Coffee Mate, throw in three-quarters of a Pink Pearl eraser, mix tha shit up, pour it into a Cathy coffee mug and shove it down tha Paypahead's throat. In less than a minute, tha fool wuz on his feet, an', man, he be so grateful,I thought he wuz gonna suck my dick or sumpfin'.
"You owe me big time, muthafucka," I says. "An' if I eva see you tokin' up on tha L.P., I'll smoke yo' sorry li'l ass, true dat."

Shit, I ain't no Hillary Muthafuckin' Clinton, but when I see abuse of Office supplies like what that fool be doin', it be muthafuckin' ZERO HOUR. Man,I better get Employee Of Tha Month foe that shit.

By tha time I gets back to tha beer tent, Abdi be all alone, knockin' Down a Bud Light and some Blue labbat. Damn. I be thinkin' I be too late. It ends up, I didn't hafta worry. Luckenbill an' Myron did aks Abdi do he Wanna work foe Accountz Payabo, jus' as I predicted, but Abdi turned 'em down.Even afta they offer him crazy Benjamins. He say he happy rollin' wit' Tha Reeceevable Posse, and tha Payabo Krew can't teach him more than what he learn wit tha A.R.
Jus' like tha H-Dog, Abdi A.R. foe life.

I gotta give stoopid mad props to my man Abdi. Ain't nobody can buy
That kinda loyalty, 'specially not them no-game muthafuckas ova in Payabo. They can't even hold onto a sorry-ass temp, an' everybody knows they temp muthafuckas be desperate bitches who'll do anything foe tha scratch. Fo-get that shizit I said earlier 'bout gettin' soft 'cause I be at tha company picnic. I be doin' what I always do, defendin' my turf at Dixon, lookin' out foe my krew. One thing you learn when you tha Accountz Reeceevable supervisa, you gots To attend to yo bidness, 24/7. Yo, I'm Audi 5000, Gs.

Yo tha Top-Dog is outta hiya....

Yo! Get off the net and get a life!

2006-09-12T22:44:00.000-07:00

Yo! Wuzz Up Dawgz. I honestly think ya'll losers, any muthasucker who blogs got no life. dat is ma obiniyoon if yu wanna noo what thiz high-protocol Dawg thinkz. Peace ya'll.