Motherfucking bastard apartment superintendant

You may recall my earlier rant about the difficulty of finding an apartment in this god-forsaken City of New York. When I moved in, I met the super. “Kaz” (if that’s his real name). The bastard is obviously not taking care of his responsibilities. For example, the day I moved in, the air conditioning was not working (the place had just been rennovated, and the wiring was all fucked up.)

He fixed it the very next day.

Then, last night, I saw Kaz in the laundry room while tranferring my tighty-whities to the dryer. I mentioned that my toilet was clogged.

He insisted on coming to my apartment and fixing my narsty, backed up toilet, right then and there, at half past midnight.

What the fuck is the matter with you, “Kaz?” I thought you were supposed to procrastinate and be and incompotent crackhead who doesn’t know how to use a screwdriver?

You god damn, motherfuckin, piece o shit, really nice guy!!

Oh, friedo- In my haste to get home I forgot to “I’m sorry” for that. You know that Taco bell goes right through me. :frowning:

Zette