The Squeaky Wheel Gets the Grease; and the Neighbors From Hell


After much to-do had been thrown at both the seller and Internet big-box store by yours truly, a refund for the infamous, missing guitar case found its way onto my credit-card statement.

No hard feelings, but I decided to visit the local Sam Ash Music store and found the above case on sale for less, in which my new guitar fits nicely, thank you very much.

Had not as much ranting and raving been raised about it, I would probably still be waiting for my money back. The Telecaster looks nice in its new home, don’t you think? Now that the fiasco is over, what shall we complain about next?

I know: how about my neighbors from Hell? My almost being carted away by the Bensalem police for disturbing the peace was the result of my neighbor above me, I presume. That’s a bit of an exaggeration, for the cops were nice about it and never threatened to arrest me.

When I told them I’d do my drumming and music-making while the people were at work, pointing to the floor downstairs, one of the officers pointed upstairs, which told me it was Miss Crabapple who made the phone call to complain. She’s retired and doesn’t have a job, except for being the neighborhood busybody.

The bad part of the deal was the apartment-complex management office was notified of the  complaint, and they called me up on the following morning. I had to eat some crow and tell them I wouldn’t do it again, feeling like a kid having been sent down to the principal’s office in school for raising hell in class. The office manager was nice about it as well. He was just doing his job.

I try to have as little to do with the woman in the apartment above me as possible. It’s just lately, though, that her toilet runs constantly at various times of the day. The stopper in the tank most likely doesn’t seal completely, which allows water to leak out into the bowl, causing the float to lower and activate the water valve to fill the reservoir again, and again, and again, until I feel like pulling my hair out.

How can she live like that? I’d have to have that repaired immediately, if not sooner. She must know about it. It happens all the time when she leaves to do whatever it is she does when I happen to be home, driving me batty until she returns to her flat and fixes it.

Being a night owl, I hear it overnight after she wakes up for a nature call and the stopper doesn’t seat itself properly. My nemesis must be a sound sleeper, for sometimes the loo will run for hours. I’ll throw on my headphones and listen to music to save my sanity.

Then there’s the guy or woman downstairs who has just lately taken to smoking cigars inside their apartment, causing the caustic smell to filter upstairs into my apartment, making me nauseous. Should I make an enemy with them as well and tell them to smoke those damned things outside?

My nasal passages are quite sensitive now. I gave up smoking over a decade ago. Cigarette smoke doesn’t bother me as much as the fumes from those stogies smoked by the jerk or jerks downstairs.

My only alternative is to complain to the management office about both dilemmas. Having just signed a lease with them recently, I’m stuck here for another year, but have seriously considered relocating to a more docile environment.  I really hate to move, however, with the convenience of my beloved Delaware River being so close by for my enjoyment and pursuit of my hobbies.

So ends another tirade, just under the wire for my weekly deadline. Thanks for allowing me to vent and for your continual support. I was able to get away with making a new cover without the cops showing up at my front door again, having put it together quickly and done in the afternoon. Allow me to share it with you:

About Mike Slickster

As an early retiree with an honorary doctorate degree from the proverbial "School of Hard Knocks," this upcoming author with a lot of free time on his hands utilizes his expansive repertoire for humorous yet tragic, wildly creative writing that contains years of imaginative fantasy, pure nonsense, classic slapstick, extreme happiness and searing heartbreak; gathered by a wealth of personal experiences throughout his thrilling—sometimes mundane or unusually horrid—free-spirited, rock-'n'-roller-coaster ride around our beloved Planet Earth. Mike Slickster's illustrious quest continues, living now in Act Three of his present incarnation, quite a bit on the cutting edge of profundity and philosophical merriment as seen through his colorful characters, most notably evident in the amusing Thirty Days Across the Big Pond series, all of which can be found at
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1 Response to The Squeaky Wheel Gets the Grease; and the Neighbors From Hell

  1. Had a brainstorm after smelling more cigar smoke, coming up from downstairs this morning. Instead of complaining to the main office, or confronting the inconsiderate neighbors face-to-face, I made this up, printed it from my computer, and pinned it to the bulletin board in my building’s lobby by the mailboxes:
    I obscured the name of our complex on this example for privacy reasons. The unaltered business name was on the original, to make it look official. Don’t know if they’ve seen it yet, but I didn’t smell any recent cigar smoke upon my returning home this evening. It was such a beautifully warm afternoon, I left the terrace door open to air out the place.

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