Tuesday, January 22, 2013

C-I-L-L. My Land....Lord

Maybe the smarmy little fuck saw us paying for our sumptuous Greek meal at Asteria with a 50.  We were sitting by the window and I swear I saw him slithering by.  Can’t let your landlord see you spending money.  Because then they will think they can milk you for MORE.  It’s in their nature, just as the parasite in your intestine is only trying to survive in a shitty tunnel.  Poor, smarmy little shitsucker.  He is only doing his caca duty in the Capitalist World:  property owner, parasite, pain in my ass.

The greasy little bastard is everywhere:  in line in REWE at 11pm with his fancy black wool overcoat thrown slapdash over stained blue satin jogging suit—the kind only Eastern Europeans wear.  The man is a Pollock by birth, Berliner by accident, money grubbing parasite by choice.  Who gives these people property, really?  Didn’t earn it; no fucking way.  He slithers through the park, letting his greasy hair grow long while his baby mama grows fat.  He is a breeder, so he gets the dole as well (the government pays for his girlfriend’s flat, they share another flat, and he rents us her flat for double what they pay him, cash under the table).  He throws his head back, smirks and gives me a condescending little ‘hi!’  I nod and silently shoot needles out of my eyes into his empty fucking skull. 

‘Ach!  Mein kopf!’ he would say whenever I asked him to do his legal duty as a landlord and fix the fucking dump.  That or ‘Morgen! Ein hunnert procent! (Tomorrow! 100%!)’ Ask this empty-headed white trash slumlord for anything and you get bullscheisse.  I ended up repairing everything in the flat myself at my own expense—only because listening to his bullscheisse one more time would result in me caving in the aforementioned skull with the nearest blunt object.

These warm feelings of death and destruction weren’t assuaged by his demand for more money.  Yup, one day I brought them the rent--just as I had done for 3 years--and they demanded 600 EUR per month instead of our usual 500.  For a small, one room flat. Tried to raise our rent 20% he did.  He even threw his arm in the air and said ‘600 pro monat oder RAUS (600 per month or GET OUT)!’  Strange how the Polish can imitate the Heil Hitler pose on demand.  Monkey see, monkey do I reckon.  Naturally, as an American, I don’t give in to terrorist demands. Nor do I take kindly to the cattle prod of gentrification.

One day The Weasel was in my flat.  He weaseled past Gabushka at the door—real sneaky like—and I found him fumbling around in my bathroom.  I was eating in the kitchen and really pissed off (because I had to drop my food).  I believe in a previous (Texan) life I shot bastards like him.  For LESS.  My German is scheisse and I don’t give two flying fucks.  So as I’m asking him between chews WTF he is doing in my bathroom, he spouted off some Germo-Polish crap about checking the meter.  I escorted him out of the flat.  Said to him (with a small degree of satisfaction I might add) ‘Morgen.  Ein hunnert procent.’

Then The Cow sent me an eviction email.  Gawd dammit, I miss the old days when printed eviction notices were nailed to the door, Martin Luther-like.  Cow and Weasel are lovers, breeders and my landlords.  I sublet under these stupid farm animals because that’s what We Foreigners have to put up with in Deutschland Uber Alles.  They don’t want us here, it is clear by the shitstorm of paperwork required to do ANYTHING here.  So The Weasel was pissed off when I asked him to leave.  He yells at The Cow (who speaks a few words of English) and she swings her udders over to the pc and bangs her hooves on the keyboard.

Now we are moving out.  It got so bad that they were trying to come into the flat every other day.  I refused every time.  I’m already out; they’re not getting in.  I changed the lock. Then they tried to move up our eviction date from 40 to 30 to 20 days.  Then, for the first time in this here donut muncher’s life:

I lawyered. The fuck.  Up.

You’re looking at a dude who never thought he would say the words ‘my lawyer’ from outside of a jail cell.  Lawyers are for people with money.  Or people in accidents.  The Polish farm animals made it easy.  They started a shouting match via email because they were too cheap to call me.  Stupid fuckers.  Now MY LAWYER (heh) has the transcripts.  24 hours later, MY LAWYER called me to say that I would no longer have any problem with these grubby little white trash fuckers (or German equivalent; maybe weißmüll scheißkopf ?).  He even got us another month in the flat while we look for new digs. Now there are no knocks on my door, no new email threats.  The Cow even wrote ‘please’ when she emailed to ask me to let the heater maintenance man in next Friday.

And I haven’t seen hide nor hair of The Weasel since.

Next episode:  A Rolling Donut Gathers No Moss


  1. Let me get this straight: You're living in an expensive and, more importantly, illegal sublet? Why? I realize you don't like bureaucracy, but there's got to be a legal apartment out there for you with the standard tenant protections -- if you can produce the necessary documentation. I know it's a hassle, but according to my ex-pat friends, decidedly worth it.

    I hope you find a new place soon!

  2. A) it's not expensive for P'berg (not until the smarmy little weasel fuck tried to gouge us) B) my lawyer says the sublet is not illegal (he saw the short, typed contract). The scam they are running with Hartz IV and their registered address is illegal and throwing us out for refusing to be extorted is dubious at best. It's not that I simply 'don't like bureaucracy.' There's bureaucracy and then there's Deutschbag Bullshcheisse Bureaucracy--which we are now going through to get our new, long form, 1 year lease on a flat. I'm crossing my donut-glazed fingers that we can sign the contract today. Thanks for your comment.

    -db battling DBB

  3. Wow, heilige Scheiße, that's some yarn!
    Crazy shit, but then again, I wouldn't expect anything less from you.
    Pints are most definitely called for.

  4. You were definitely correct sir: I can't write a damn thing unless I'm up to my neck in bullscheisse (excepting the occasional yummy food review). I mean, what else am I gonna write about? Berlin techno clubs? Mauerpark flower children?


  5. The horrific events of life do make great blog posts...and possibly short stories or novels!

    Never thought I'd hear you say "lawyered up," but sometimes it is necessary! Good for you!!

  6. That's what lawyers are for: to avoid finding on the doormat the head of the dog I hope you don't own...

  7. Huh? Can you be more cryptic? The lawyer actually saved ME from ripping my landlord's head off and putting it on a pike at my door--Vlad the Impaler style. I WISH my weasel landlord would have put our dog's head on our doormat. I HATE THE FUCKING DOG!!!


    1. Oh, I see. Then please move to my neighborhood...there's a few annoying dogs that need to be taken care of :D

  8. You have done everything correctly