Hot diggity dog
Better Call Saud Not Fucking Saul
Hot Digity Dog Episode: 5
By manager dave (anon) and u/somanynamestochossef and femboy futa graper (anon) atp we just hring the entirety of r/copypasta
i saw my grnadma flip me off she died because i smoked a ciggarett ein crocodile dentist and she did that one knife game an dget a heart attack
Another slow Tuesday. The red moon was doing that thing again where it looked slightly more pissed off than yesterday. I filed it under “miscellaneous lighting variance” and kept typing.
The client walked in looking like he’d already regretted every life choice that led him here. He had to deal with some street weirdos first.
A woman swaying her hips way too hard blocked his path and purred, “Oh I have one~ Just let me do something.”
The client muttered, “Hot diggity dog.”
Then a hotdog stand literally appeared out of nowhere. A greasy raspy voice barked, “Nice hotdog with big fat girth! Lets out juices if you bite it!”
The client pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, I’m looking for the accountant.”
The woman smiled. “Oh the cinema is playing it.”
“No. I’m looking for the Arabic accountant.”
The woman’s face shifted. “I’m not actually a woman. I’m a man. Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!”
The client sighed, checked his watch, and pushed past the whole circus into my office.
Dead quiet except for the printing calculator. I was at my desk in a crisp white thobe with a tie that somehow still looked cheap. Tax forms everywhere like snow.
I looked up.
“Ah, hello. You must be my 3:00 PM appointment.”
The man looked relieved. “Oh thank God. Are you the Arabic accountant?”
I stood up, extended my hand with maximum professionalism.
“Yes, I am. Hi, nice to meet you… My name is Dick Chastity. Or better call Saud. Now, let’s take a look at your write-offs—”
The client’s face changed. No more relief.
“Nah bro,” he said calmly, “we’re here to burn you at the stake.”
I blinked once.
Then the office door slammed open and four dudes in full Church of the Eternal Jork robes rushed in holding zippo lighters and a comically large can of gasoline that said “Rizz Fuel” on the side.
I did what any professional accountant would do.
I yeeted my desk chair at them and sprinted out the back like a sigma male who just saw the IRS.
I sprinted down the alley while buildings started growing legs again, trying to trip me. One of the Jork guys slipped on his own spilled gasoline and set his own robe on fire, screaming “this is not financial advice!” Another one kept throwing lit incense sticks at me like shurikens while yelling tax evasion facts that were actually correct.
I vaulted over a femboy coomer doing yoga in the street, slid under a portal that opened just in time (thanks Lamplighter’s leftover lamp tech), and somehow ended up on top of my own billboard.
For three glorious seconds I thought I was safe.
Then the billboard creaked, tilted, and started collapsing because apparently “structural integrity” wasn’t part of the installation budget.
I rode that falling 40-foot Dick Chastity face all the way down like the world’s worst surfboard.
When the dust settled I was lying in the wreckage, covered in my own billboard, breathing hard.
One of the Jork guys walked up, completely out of breath, and dropped a single piece of paper on my chest.
It was a court summons.
Not for me.
For my iPad kid brother.
Something about “associating with known lamp fraud.”
The red moon looked down at me like it was filing me under “problematic deduction.”
I just lay there whispering to the sky.
BUT SINCE I HAD AN ARABIC GUN I JUST didnt know what to do
The head Jork guy stood over me, adjusting his robe like it was business casual.
“Relax habibi,” he said with a thick Arabic indian scammer accent. “The Church of the Eternal Jork? It’s not a church, it’s a cartel. We launder Rizzdollars through lamp portals. You thought you were doing taxes? say Wallahi bro you’ve been our accountant for three weeks. Welcome to the family, akhi.”
"I said but im gon a get deported"
I stared at the paperwork in my broken briefcase. A poor old grannies name was on it. My stupid lazy shortcut on that one file last week must’ve routed the blame straight to her. Atleast... It wasn't my girlfriend or brother.
The guy clapped me on the shoulder.
“You did good work, Dick Chastity. Or should I say… Saud? From now on you handle our books. No more small clients. Only cartel. Big numbers. Big problems.”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. My brain was buffering.
He leaned in closer, smiling like a used car salesman.
“And since you had an Arabic gun in your desk drawer the whole time… we know you’re one of us now, inshallah ALLAHUAKBAR.”
I didn’t even remember owning an Arabic A(KKK) 47.
But it was there. Fully loaded. Next to my calculator.
The red moon just kept watching. Not laughing. Not angry.
Just filing the whole thing under “unexplained business expense.”
I sat up in the wreckage of my billboard, covered in my own face, and muttered the only thing that made sense:
“…habibi what the fuck did I just deduct.”