Friday, October 19, 2007

Un-mailed Letters, Pt. 5: Angrier Than The Last Four Combined!

A wise man once said that if something pisses you off, write a letter about it, but don't mail it. I now present to you, the fifth installment of my un-mailed letters.

To My Tenants:

Where do I begin with you pack of ungrateful assholes? After spending the whole summer fixing up this decrepit building, you turn your kids, or even you yourselves against it. Every morning when I wake up I find something else broken, trash strewn about the property, gum left on the brand new five-thousand dollar drive ways. We've spoken to you each separately, pleading with you to please mind the grass, don't let your kids rip up the posts that mark the property, please don't step in the wet paint and walk all over the place, please don't park your car across the goddamn lines we painted for parking spaces... etc etc.

So, instead of just making this a general proclamation of my discontent with you ingrates, I'll break down your specific crimes, so everyone can see exactly what you're doing.

First, to the couple who live underneath me. I won't even bring up the fact that I constantly hear random banging and crashing down there, and add the fact that your toddler is in an arm cast. I won't even mention that when I went into your apartment, I was knee deep in a sea of loose garbage and trash. Unpacked boxes cluttering the floor and counter spaces. Food left out, spoiled. You're animals. I can't believe you're even trying to raise a child down there.

You claim, sir, that you "teach break dancing" to local kids, using the end of the driveway as your studio. Not once, ever, have I seen you "teaching" break dancing to anyone. I see a bunch of punk kids disrespecting my property and loitering maybe... I also notice that they get really hush-hush when I'm around, probably because you're selling drugs to them. That would also explain the scent of burning marijuana that comes up into my apartment from below, because you're smoking it all the time.

Awesome, thanks for turning my beautiful apartment building into a crack den, asshole. I won't even mention how stupid and ugly you're live-in girlfriend is. How about next time you have a complaint against me, you come out from behind your fucking girlfriend's skirt and talk to me directly like a man would, you dickless bitch.

To the tenants who share a kitchen wall with me. Thanks for finally paying your electric bill that is still under my parents' name, that you seem to "forget" to change back to your names, you lying shitheels. Thanks too for cutting us a bad check and making my mom lose her pay check to cover the bounce. If you can't get your shit together, come to us and tell us. Don't literally cut and run - by cutting us a bad check and then getting the fuck out of town for the weekend. You're lucky that you did leave town though, because I probably would've kicked your skinny bi-sexual-looking ass off your freshly painted porch, jumped down after you, and continued to kick your ass across the freshly seeded lawn, you mother fucker. I don't care that you lost your job because you lost your license, I want my fucking money. In case you didn't hear that, I said: I WANT MY FUCKING MONEY!

You can't pay, you can't stay. Simple as that.

And also, you spineless coward, send your pregnant wife to beg us to let you back into your shitty apartment, and I'll give her the keys, walk over, and beat you in the street like the mangy dog you are.

To the asshole who lives on the first floor, front: Thanks for finally doing the bare minimum by hanging those doors we bought almost two months ago. You kept telling us and telling us that you were going to get them done "by this weekend" but every time I walked by your place, there you were on your couch drinking Coors Light. "Oh, I forgot my tools again," you'd whine, you sniveling bitch. We have a whole tool shop in our garage, maybe you missed us working our asses off every day on this building. Also, get your fucking destructive 8 year old under control. If I find one more post ripped up, I'm going to beat him with it. How do I know it's him? Because there's little toy cars left on the ground next to the ripped up post you schmuck. I'll ram one up your ass if it helps get the point across.

I know we paid you in advance to hang those doors, and that was our fault. But you took advantage of us and had that money spent before you even hung door one. We had to ride your ass for over a month to get them up, and they're not even done. I swear to go if I ever see you crossing a street, I'm going to swerve and hit you.

Your Building Manager.

To The Lady At Church With The Staring Problem:

Ma'am, I do realize that I have a mohawk, and that I'm in a house of worship. But God doesn't care, so why should you? Does it disrupt your prayer, your communication with God? No? Good, then stop glancing at me from the corner of your eye. I'm a practicing Catholic just like you, I bring my grandmother here every Saturday- and she's proud to be on my arm- and I am probably the sharpest dressed motherfucker you've ever seen grace these hallowed halls, so stop looking at the top of my head.

Bitch, it's just hair. And I look badass.

Your Worst Nightmare, Apparently.

To The Twat At Crapplebees Last Night:

Who the hell do you think you are, cheering for Cleveland? Do you not know you're in New England? I mean, I would stand the cheers for the Yankees, just because geographically it makes a little more sense than cheering for fucking Cleveland. I hope you heard me when my date asked me where I thought you and your party were from and I responded with "Bitchsburg."

I'm all for showing support for your favorite team, but at the excess that you were doing it was uncouth and irresponsible. I would send you a drink to get you to shut up, but I would be too compelled to smash the glass over your head and then kick you in the face as you took to the fetal position.

Sabathia, pfft.

Red Sox Nation Member 14,098

To My Old Boss:

Hey ******, I want to send you a little note of thanks. Thanks? I know, it seems weird. Don't bother to check this paper for anything suspicious; the topical agents I use would pass a black light and a chromatography test.

Anyway, no I'm extending to you genuine thanks. Your bitchiness, unobtainable high standards, your constant double-speak, the way you tried to befriend me and then when I told you I wouldn't sleep with you because it was unprofessional-attitude gave me the push I needed to excel into a direction that I needed to head in.

I was wasting away behind that desk, in that office. I did nothing all day and never felt I was making an impact on the world or even my local society. I was just a drone, buzzing away in the hive under a malicious and pernicious queen. I hated that job, and I hated getting up every day to drag myself to it. I loved the people I worked with, but I couldn't stand your management style. You're a piss poor leader and I imagine, friendless.

You had a hot daughter though, kudos for that.

So, thanks for pushing me out the door with the boot and having security escort me out of the building in a humiliating fashion. Thanks for making me the topic of rumor in my mother's office across the hall too, might I add. But thanks, truly, for letting me see my true potential.

I hope when that office does finally collapse around you, your death is quick. You deserve that much.

Your Former Employee.

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