It is well established that the world is filled with idiots and assholes. They are everywhere. An idiot at work, an asshole at the store...well, you get the drift. Between these two types of people, there exists a smaller(though by no means rare) subset of the two:
The Hybrid Idiot/Asshole. These people are extremely difficult to deal with, as logic is usaully way down near the bottom on their list of values. While it is impossible to avoid this breed entirely (barring complete isolation), I have been developing my ability to quickly identify and cut off interaction with this type over the past several years. This is the story of one grand failure to do so on my part.
A Bit Of Background:
Now, I consider myself a generally good-natured, considerate chap most of the time. As a full time student, part time employee, and part time drunkard, there is simply no time for me to go around causing a ruckus these days. I pretty much just keep to myself and try to do as little damage to those around me as possible.
Flashback Three Months:
I'm splitting rent with a buddy near the local university when it comes about that me roomie is to be transferred by his employer to another state. This is cool with me, as I was interested in finding cheaper digs anyhow. After a bit of searching, I find a wonderfully inexpensive shithole in my birth-city, about twenty miles away from my previous flat. This place is creepy enough to be interesting, and cheap enough to keep me in the brew. Furnished with smoke/filth stained chairs and lamps, and decorated with paintings of anguished clowns and black men embracing, this place was looking good...a true manifestation of myself. Shit, it even came with a walk-in drainpipe closet where I could go to sob when things weren't going my way. Electricity and heat were included all for the low low lonely price of $350 per month. The only downside of the deal was that the bathroom was across the hall, but hell, I wasn't afraid to make use of a pissbottle, so no big deal.
Meet Joe Stumpo:
After thinking to myself, "Hot damn! My dream slum!", I march into the landlord's office on the first floor of the building and tell him that I would like to rent. Mr. Stumpo sat behind a desk piled with stacks of yellowed papers and an old typewriter. He appeared to be in his early 70's and had bug eyes, perma-stubble, and smegma crust surrounding his mouth.
"What's your name young man?", the old coot queried.
"Jeremy. I am interested in apartment number two."
"Ok, Jerome... whaddya like to be called?"
"Well, my name is Jeremy, but I guess you can call me J-Duece Love."
"Ok, Jerry, the rent will be $350 per month with a $350 security deposit. Oh yeah, I need it in cash".
"Cash? That will be a pain in the ass. Why cash, Mistah Stumpo?"
"Well, I don't really want the government to know what I am doing here."
At this point, the idiot alarm in my head was buzzing as it does with way too many people. Ah what the fuck, I thought. He hadn't shown much sign of being an asshole yet, so I agreed to rent from him, signed his fourteenth generation photocopy of the building rules, paid him my $350 deposit, and got the keys. I would move in on the weekend when I had time to transfer my bullshit exucuses for possessions from there to here. He pulled his crooked, angiomatic hand out of his ass in order to shake my hand and and clutch my shoulder in a way that any mildly senile, aging shiester faggot would do.
A few weeks go by without much incident, except for a couple times where Old Stumps had entered my apartment while I was sleeping for no legitimate reason. I also had gotten a bunch of these types of notes on my door:
click
click
click
This shit was hilarious to me. Typed out onto a cut up envelope complete with mistakes, corrections, greetings, and hanwritten signatures were these little messages keeping me up to date on my living situation.
So anyhow, several more weeks go by, and things are the way they should be. I be getting my Old Milwaukee on, my study on, and as surprising as it may seem, not getting my fuck on. Right on. And my homeboys do too.
Getting home a few days later after a long day of doing a bunch of things and wondering why the fuck I was doing them, I run up the dingy, corrosive hallway to my apartment door to find this note taped up for my attention:
click
Hmmm...this must be urgent! Or maybe not. Maybe it's only urgent if I get home after five. Either way, the man was using red ink, and we all know what that means. I decided to call right after five to find out where the fire the was.
Summary:
Me: What?
Him: You use too much electricity. Me must raise rent on you!
Me: No way, I go somewhere else. Me just need security deposit back.
Him: No way fuck you I take it. You STEALING ELECTRICITY!
Me: You crazy! Electric included in rent!
Him: No, I see you 20 computers! Man across street with prostate problem watch you all nite. He piss all the time, and he see you up with lights and computers running! You run lights all night for YOUR BUSINESS!!
Me: Me get home very late. Me use one computer to do homework. You kookoo!
Him: I sue you for stealing!
Now admittedly, I do have three computers. However, I only use one of them ever since my extra 29 fingers were lost in the Howie Mandell Incident of 2002. Apparently, he counted each keyboard, mouse, laser pointer, and vcr as a computer when he tallied my inventory.
Next day (December 9), I get home and find this on my door:
click
Oh schnap! This was a LEGAL EVICTION notice (notice the back-date)! I knew it was legal because it was typed on half-sheet of COLORED PAPER. And some of the words were CAPITALIZED!
Since then, I have gotten a couple more notes on my door, all of them in official blue half-sheet form:
click
click
note: Stumps must have taken a look at his paperwork and realised that my name was not, in fact, one of the several different names that he had assigned me. I can only imagine that since Jeremy did not exist in his realm of possible names, he just shortened it up to J.
Now, I'm thinking that I have a few options here:
1. Stay where I am, forcing him to try to legally evict me, then call the IRS.
Pros:
He doesn't have legal grounds to evict me.
This will probably cost him more money than it's worth.
More hilarious notes on my door.
He gets busted for tax fraud.
Cons:
I don't really want to stay anymore.
This still won't get me my deposit back.
2. Move out at the end of the month, take him to small claims court for my security deposit, then call the IRS.
Pros:
I won't have to smell Old Man Stumpo anymore.
He gets busted for tax fraud.
Cons:
No more haha on my door.
Need to find a place to live...quickly.
3. Curb stomp the old fuck, call IRS.
Pros:
Sweet, sweet satisfaction.
He gets busted for tax fraud.
Cons:
Possible life sentence.
Doesn't get me my deposit back.
Edit:
Now the old bastard is trying to freeze me out. The temperature in my apartment has been around 47 degrees Fahrenheit for the past few days, and the heat in the bathroom has been shut off entirely. Even the rats have run for warmer shelter. Very clever, Mr. Stumpy...I wonder how heating the place with space heaters will affect the electric bill.
Edit:
So, I was in the spirit of the season tonight and decided to leave old man Stumpo a heartwarming holiday card.
click
Here is the inside:
click
I also enclosed this picture that somebody found on the internet:
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Spread the love.
Edit:
Score one for Stumpo:
This morning, I crawl out of bed, thirsty as all hell and slightly hungover, wondering what this fine day will bring. I had to leave for work (here) in about 30 minutes. All of a sudden there is a pounding on my door.
"Jerry?", I hear.
"Yeah."
"Niagara Falls Police Department. Can we talk?"
"Sure."
I throw on some clothes and open up for the lawman. Old man Stumpo and a young cop are standing there. The cop is holding my Christmas card in his hand.
Holy fuck. The guy called the police because of my loving Christmas gesture.
"What's this all about?", the cop asked me as he opened up my artwork.
"It's a joke, officer."
"I don't think it's very funny, and neither does Mr. Stumpo here."
That cop knew goddamn well that shit was funny. Anyhow, I say:
"I'm sorry if it is not your type of humor, but I figured I should lighten the mood, with Christmas here and all."
"Well, do something like this again, and you will be charged with harassment."
Yeah, ok.
"Alright, officer. I apologize. Bye now."
"Do you mind if I take a look around the apartment?"
"I'd rather you didn't. It's a mess in there."
I wasn't sure if I had anything lying around that might incriminate me, so there was no way I was letting them in.
After a few minutes back and forth of the cop and Stumpo tying to convince me to let them in, I says to them, I says, "Look, I gotta get to work. I'm sorry, but I can't let you in."
This did the trick and they left after some talk between the Johnny Law and the oldman of a search warrant.
Cool. Time to shower and get to work. Now remember, my bathroom is across the hall from my apartment, so I have to keep a key inside the bathroom to let myself back in to the apartment after I do my business.
After showering, I dry off, throw my boxers and tshirt on, and reach on top of the mirror for my key.
Gone!
Stumpo, that Magnicifent Son-of-a-Bitch, that Master of the Occult had taken my goddamn key!
Fuck. It's about 4 degrees above zero outside, I am soaking wet with only a t-shirt and boxers on, I have to leave for work in about 5 minutes, and I'm locked out of my grungy apartment.
At this point, I have no choice. I have to go walk outside in the snow to Stumpo's office and try to get him to let me back in. Failing that, I would have to walk to a payphone a few blocks away. In my boxers. Barefoot.
Here's a picture (Thanks, Stryfe6996):
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I get outside my door, and Booya! The cop is still there talking with stumpo in the lobby to the office. They see me, come outside and Stumpo yells:
"See, He's drunk! He came outside and forgot his shoes."
I explained to the cop the situation, and the Stumpo is ordered to let me back in my apartment. The three of us are standing in the hallway between my apartment and my bathroom when Stumpo pipes up:
"Where was your key, Jerry?"
"It was on the mirror, right where took it from."
Stumpo goes into the bathroom for a few seconds and comes out with my key in his hand.
"It was there all along. I told you he was drunk.", Stumpo comes up with.
At this point, I'm pretty sure the cop realizes what a clown this guy is, and starts writing a bunch of stuff on his report.
Flustered, I tried to explain to the cop that Stumpo was a nutcase.
"Forget about it. Just get yourself to work, Jerry.", the cop says.
Stumpo let me in and then I left for work.
You win this round, Stumpmaster.
Edit:
Well, there have been no new personal encounters with the old man-hag, but I was lucky enough to wake up yesterday to another one of his clever typewritten notes:
click
To me, this one seemed like some kind of self-affirmation which somehow accidently landed on my door.
"I want him out by the last day of the month, and no longer. I will sue for money if he doesn't do as I wish. I want him out by the last day of the month, and no longer."
Clarence Darrow-Stumpo then goes on to use a straight edge to underline in red ink the important words. Even I, Stumpo's mortal enemy cannot argue with the fact that just about all of the words are the important ones.
Hopefully, I will have some pictures of the man himself by Friday. The guy's face is goofy enough as it is, buy I can only imagine what it will look like in contorted surprise at my pulling a camera out to immortalize his crusty mug.
Which day am I supposed to be out by, again?
Edit:
So I moved the last of my shit out last night after finding temporary shelter with a family friend. Stumpo has been on the downlow for the past several days, not answering phones or returning messages in an attempt to dodge paying back my security deposit. This morning, I decided to pay the old man a visit at his office to find out what the problem with his phone is (I'm pretty good with new technology like the telephone).
I pull up to the building to find Stumpo's purple luxury sports car parked in the back. I pull up next to his whip, grab my disposable Kodak and head to his door. Loud knock on the door. Nothing. Louder knock on the blinded office window. Still nothing. He has to come out sometime, so I decide to wait it out. About ten minutes later, he comes out into his lobby, but does not open the glass door to let us share a few memories and laughs. He yells to me through the glass:
"COME BACK IN 20 MINUTES!"
"WHAAAAT?" I pretend not to hear.
"COME BACK IN 20 MINUTES!"
"WHAAAAT?" I lean my ear close to the glass
"COME BACK IN 20 MINUTES!"
"WWWHHHHHYYYYY?"
"NEVERMIND WHY"
I pull out my ninja-cam at this point, and furiously click away. Fuck! The damn camera has one of those wheels that you need to roll to pull the film to a decent position. I quickly spin the wheel and aim for another shot. Scared and confused, Stumpo hides his face behind a decorative circle on the door. I lean to the side to get a better vantage point, and he adjusts. We dance like this for a few seconds before it dawns on the handsome devil that he could simply walk back into his office and shut the door. On his way, I snapped my second piece of art.
(thanks kepic)
click
click
OK, I thought. The small time crook is probably busy conducting official business on his typewriter. I oblige and give the man his time.
Loud knock on the door.
"WAIT A FEW MORE MINUTES. THE COPS ARE ON THEIR WAY"
Fair enough. I nod and tap my forehead with my index finger to let him know that we have just connected. I park across the street, crack open a bag of pistachio nuts and a pack of smokes and wait. About 1/2 hour later, I see the good fella open up his door and wave me over to him. I jump out my ride and head over, leaving my camera behind in case da po-po show up and try to take my thunder. As I head over, I see another of his official blue half-sheets in his hand. This can't not be good, I say out loud to myself.
When I arrive at his door, he unlocks his door and tells me that the coppers will be a while *refused to respond to his bullshit*. He presents me with some sort of release form. I didn't get to keep it, but it looked something like this:
click
I tell him that this is unacceptable and that i need my entire deposit back. At this, he becomes visibly pissed off and tries to shut the door. I hand accidently grabbed the door and made sure that it stayed open. We cannot simply close dialogue like this.
"I need my whole deposit back, Mr. Stumpo"
"If you refuse to sign this, you will get nothing. Let go of the door!"
"I need my whole deposit back, Mr. Stumpo"
"If you don't let go of the door, I'm gonna kick you in the fucking head!"
He puts both hands on the door and tries to force it shut with all the pathetic might that any overdue mouth-breather would. I give a little slack on the door before pulling it back open, just to let him know that there would be no head-kicking going on here today. Stump reels back in surprise and cups his hands to his mouth:
"HEEEELLLLP!"
"HEEEELLLLP!"
I lean back and point to him with a 'What's up with this dude?' look on my face and hold onto the door for a few more seconds more.
"Go stick your head... IN A TOILET!"
Oh no, sista, you did NOT!
At this, I let go of the door with a chuckle in my heart.
A little while later, I find out that Stumpo had called my mother (I must have put her down as a reference somewhere), and told her that her son is drunk and driving around on public roads. She tells him that she will make sure I stay on private roads while drinking and hangs up the phone
Edit:
Wow. I just called the IRS on Mr Stumpo. That felt surprisingly dirty. Those good folks are pretty goddamn intense. Sure hope I get a kickback from our lovely government. Down with Stumpo!!!
Epilogue:
Stumpo sent me a check for 209.21...he listed:
Damage to window screen: $38.something
Unpaid rent:$90 something (A few days before I moved in, I moved my shit in because of time restraints)
Keys not returned: $10 - not sure where this dude gets his keys made
I never drive drunk on public streets anymore because of this experience. Consider it a lesson learned.