Four years ago I had the pleasure of apartment-hunting. I got up and walked to the grocery store in my pajamas, just to get the Sunday paper before anyone else. I circled the new listings--about five of them, usually. I called. You didn't bother turning on your machines. I made appointments, and you didn't show up. When I would manage to see a place, you looked down your yuppie, bitch-ass noses at me like I was fresh from the trailer park. As if you were the bouncer at an exclusive club and I was that fat chick with BBQ sauce on her face, wearing blue eyeshadow, ripped jean shorts, and a beer T-shirt, waiting to pay the cover with food stamps. These days there are more "For Rent" signs in town than there are used condoms on a Sunday morning. Thanks to current vacancy rates, you want to help me pack and make me breakfast in bed for six weeks if I'll sign a one-year lease. Yesteryear's "tight market" is so far up your asses, you won't sit down until 2010! Maybe by then you'll have learned how to act professionally, you pad-peddling shitheads!