My apartment manager and I are in the middle of a shit war. Without disclosing the contents of an essay about our shitistory (fear not, you'll be able to read it soon! As if, Schwartzy. Anywho), our shituation has escalated. After taking my toilet's hand in marriage without my consent, he came back to the scene of the crime to (wink-wink) check on who-the-fuck-remembers, so he could chat up a storm and shit himself into a frenzy.
Ever since I denied him that porcelain privilege, I've noticed a faint, yet noticeable stench of anal wretchedness that no ass should legally be able to produce, just outside my bathroom window a few times a week. What should be a grassy area between my building and the building next door is a gassy area thanks to shitfucker.
While sitting in my kitchen this afternoon, I caught him quietly skulking past me and towards my bathroom window. I ripped open the blinds and said, WHATRYA DOIN?! He was so stunned, he said, Oh, oh, oh, nada, nada-nada-pipes-pipes-pipes. How stupid does this yutz think I am?! I said, Listen you, I am onto you and your funky ass. If I jump through this window, will I unearth your private dumping ground? Because if I do, you have no idea what deep shit looks or feels like. I'm about to crack your ass wide open, buster. MOVE IT ALONG.
He sprinted from the scene of the crime. I don't know for certain if he was shitting back at me because I came between him and his lover. I don't want to find out. Alls I can tell ya's is if I smell that funk again, it's on, my friends. It is ON.
It's my own little version of Like Water for Chocolate ... without the sex--Thank God.