Fat Pat

I’m bored. I wanted to go in to work a little while ago but I’ve got to sit around the house for a couple of hours. The landlord, a guy named Don, is supposed to call me sometime this afternoon. The ceiling in the kitchen started leaking again during the heavy rain we had over the past few days. Jennifer and I complained months ago when the ceiling first began to leak, but the property manager Don uses never got back to us. I called the property manager’s office again yesterday but apparently they were closed so I left another message on their answering machine. I nicknamed the property manager Fat Pat, because she’s insanely overweight and Pat is her first name. Fat Pat’s face is very pig-like. It hurts my eyes when I have to look at her.

I think as a property manager, Fat Pat sucks. She never remembers who I am when I talk to her over the phone and she seldom bothers to return calls. The whole idea of being a property manager is to take care of problems so the landlord doesn’t have to deal with them, and the tenants never have to see or hear from the landlord. Now I’ve got to explain the leaky ceiling situation a second time and work this all out with two nitwits, instead of one.

One weekend Fat Pat showed up on our doorstep unannounced, which I think is illegal or something because they are supposed to call 24 hours ahead and schedule an appointment. When Jennifer opened the front door that day to discover our lazy, obese property manager staring down at her from the porch, she was a little shocked. The reason of Fat Pat’s visit was to inform us that we had to work in the yard at least once a month to keep the place tidy, or some shit. I got really mad and told her that the landlord either hired Mexicans once a week to do landscaping and yard maintenance, or he came by and did it himself. She pretended to be unaware of this, which pissed me off even more. There wasn’t anything in our rental agreement with this human swine that said we had to do any kind of maintenance around the house. I informed Fat Pat we weren’t going to do a god damned thing in the yard and she attempted to argue with me about it. I was up for the brawl, because I hate stupid people like Fat Pat. When I was finished with the eat-monster she was walking as fast as she could for her car parked across the street. She hasn’t shown up at our place since then. And that’s a good thing.

~ by factorypeasant on May 2, 2005.

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