YO, waaasssuuup, baby? H-Dog is back, and don't nobody fuc* with this BAD ASS. You wanna fuc* me, motherfuc*er? You gonna wish you didn't. 'Cause I the Accounts Receivable supervisor of Midstate Office Supply, and I AM a cold-blooded badass motherfuc*er, and if you fuc* with me I'll go stone cold crazy on your ass.
Like that motherfuc*er Steve Englebreiter of Associated Publishing House. Asshole thought he could postdate his goddamn check on a bill that was overdue for nearly a month and a half. I caught it right before we was ready to deposit it. Don't tell me it was no mistake; cocksucker knew what he was doing all along. Know what I did? Sent the goddamn thing right back along with a note saying we be passing his account along to a collection agency in two weeks if his bitch ass didn't pay up.
Now, legally, we only supposed to notify our collection agency after 90 days, not a month and a half. But I didn't have to tell thefool that. Three days later cocksucker sends us a cashier's check via overnight mail for the full amount. Ain't nobody fuc*s with my badass self.
Or take that ol' bitch Mildred Fladner who's always callin' up, bitchin' about her credit balance.
"Those staplers only cost $36.50 for the half-dozen, not $38.50. Your cashier rung it up wrong."
Then how come you didn't notice it then, y'ol ho? She high and everybody know it, but she make such a big deal about knowing the company president and everything she got everybody runnin' scared. Except this BAD ASS.
So I go downstairs to the register she bought the staplers at, reset the date, duplicate the cashier number and purchase number, and ring the goddamn shi* up at $39.50. Then I call her back sayin' I found the original detail tape and check it out, it looks like you owe us a dollar additional, plus extra sales tax, your own receipt must have come out poor. A week later I get a payment for the full amount, with her apologies. I pocket the extra buck and change, spend it on a lotto ticket, and win five bucks. It's payback time for that bitch.
Now don't be messin' me up with the Accounts Payable Supervisor. The Accounts Payable Supervisor, he ain't no badass. Hell, he ain't even no man. His name is Myron or something, and he so old he can't even get it up no more. I gots a bitch in the cash room. Myron, everybody laugh at him. He supposed to be the one that got the money but everybody know I got it and it's not even my job.
If I ever see you within even six feet of the coffee machine I'll Bruce Lee on your sorry ass. Mister Coffee, he my man. 'Cause only I know the perfect proportion: two and three eighths scoops of Folgers to three and one quarter cups of water. Ain't no use trying to do it yourself 'cause you'll just fuc* it up; only I can do it right. 'Cause I got Kung Fu Grip. You got a problem with that? I got a problem with your existence, motherfuc*er. I was fuc*ing your mother while you were still watching Fat Albert in yo' Underoos.
I don't answer to nobody. One day I be blastin' the phat beats, and the company president come up to me and say, "Herbert, the Muzak is too loud, please turn down the receiver." I say, "I need my tunes when I be preparing account statements." Then he say, "I don't care, turn it down, it's distracting." So you know what I do? After he leaves for the day I steal a shitload of mints from his desk. He gets the message, and he don't give me no trouble no more. I be fucking his wife on the sly, anyhow.
So don't fuc* with this H-Dog Daddy Mack Mack Daddy Comin' Out Your Ass Badass, 'cause if you do I be comin' after you like pastrami on rye to whip your muthafu*in' sorry ass. I mean it. Don't. Fuc*. With. Me