There is water in my basement. It’s coming from a crack in the foundation. Hmm. No one seems to care.

I’m a renter, which, in the social hierarchy of the world, places me just above the level of a syphilitic leper with a social disease contracted from a used car salesman from Jersey. For the past six months, I’ve been going back and forth with the management about how many maintenance requests I’ve submitted that have been lost. Each time I finally get action, they do something ludicrous like put a piece of plastic under gravel outside. That should stop it!

That’s like putting a Teletubbies Band-Aid on an arterial laceration and saying, “Just rest up. You’ll feel better.”

It’s rained a lot in the last few days. Guess what? We have friggin’ water in our carpet. Water in a basement plus carpet plus padding plus not having it taken care of equals mold and mildew. Yum!

I’ve done everything I can to take care of it, but now I’m washing my hands of it. These moronic ass-monkey bastards need to take care of it.

“We have five hundred units. We can’t possibly keep track of all of our residents.”

Yes you can! It’s your JOB. Quit writing the requests on post-it notes and use those stupid circa 1990 386 computers to make a damn spreadsheet. IT will tell you all you need to know. And guess what? You can make changes to it. Gasp!

Doesn’t matter. This isn’t the first problem we’ve had, isn’t the first problem that doesn’t get fixed and it probably won’t be the last. We have a neighbor whose floor is rotting out. The complex acknowledges this but has done nothing. Have I mentioned that I live in a rather high-end suburb? Have I mentioned that the houses surrounding this rattrap are expensive?

When I spoke with Christy, the dim-witted assistant property manager today, I unloaded. I told her how this was bad business, their record with the BBB, the fact that losing or ignoring requests is endemic across the company and has nothing to do with 500 units. I told her that the behavior of their staff was bad business. Her response.

“Yeah. Do you want me to check on the status of your request now?”

“Sure,” I said. “And I’ll check the status of my complaint with your parent company.”

Sigh. All this rage and aggression towards a bunch of morons who spend most of their time baking cookies to eat in the office and worrying about a goose that laid eggs near the pool.

And when they finally take care of my issue, they’ll send one of the toothless, in-bred, backward moron “Dirty Brothers.” These guys don’t know squat about maintenance. They couldn’t fix a sandwich, or bathe, for that matter, much less know how to install a damn doorknob that actually opens the door.

So what’s my recourse? What do I do? I don’t know. Lodge a complaint? Alert the Chamber of Commerce? Alert the BBB? Picket? These Neanderthals are so dense none of that would work.

I’ll tell you what I may do. I may eat that friggin’ goose with a nice orange glaze. Heck, we may make it a block party. I know my neighbors would love to imbibe.