On Snotty E-mails

For the past few months, Steve has been toiling away at an apartment complex on Mercer Island. The job has gone from bad to worse, for many reasons — and apparently, there are lots of tenants who are as impossible as the owners. Case in point: he thrust a piece of paper in my hand when he got home today. “Read this!”

I am not including the guy’s name — but only because Steve won’t let me. Personally, I think it would be great if some chick he asks out on a date or prospective employer googled him and saw this e-mail. Heh. Anyway, here it is, in all its unexpurgated glory:

I just spent 3 and a half hours cleaning my car only to not be able to park in my RESERVED spot. Some ass monkey in a Dodge Neon apparently decided it was a nice spot – the garage wasn’t at all full. So there are really 3 things here I’m pissed off about.

  1. It took me that long to clean my car. Don’t get me started on where all the dirt is coming from.
  2. I pay for a reserved spot, but anyone can park there. Why do I bother?
  3. A fucking Dodge Neon?? Come on!! I crap out things that are better than that.

If this is a matter of [the developer] not providing you with reserved signs, just let me know, and I guarantee you’ll get them very soon. A Dodge Neon?? What is that?? People who drive those shouldn’t even be renting here.