THE LIFE, WORK AND CHRONICLES OF JEFF KOYEN: REFORMED ITINERANT, OCCASIONAL WRITER AND FRIEND TO ALMOST ALL DOGS

Best Proof that a Strong Economy Can Blow:
Your Scumbag Broker Is Now Your Scumbag Landlord
We were good sports about the whole process. We filled out the questionnaires. Submitted ourselves to the proctological credit and reference checks. Paid the ridiculous fee -- think of those three thousand dollars as the trip to Europe you can never afford to take -- and moved into the unpainted space with broken fixtures, cold radiators and a leaking ceiling. A month later, the landlord informed us that the building had been sold.
So. Don't bother painting: just hang everything willy nilly. Don't sweat the leak: just don't put the electronics under that spot. Don't settle in too much, because with the explosive growth of this certain downtown neighborhood, as soon as our one-year lease is up for renewal, we can expect a nice rent hike that'll drive us right back down to U-Haul to reserve another van. Of course, it's then also time to visit our broker again. That swell guy who hooked up us with this incredible deal in the first place. Funny thing is, this time around he's not just a cocksucking, leech of a broker, he's also our new landlord.
As if this guy isn't already among the lowest forms of creatures in this city, in the same category as meter maids, divorce attorneys and new media "experts." Now he's a slumlord in the making. When he calls our three neighbors to inform them of their rent increases (they've been lease-free for 30 years between them), he claims to be the messenger: The "landlord" told him to make the calls. So don't blame him. Oh, no, blame the landlord. Which we know is you, fucker.
This city already has enough vicious, greedy, heartless cocksuckers. Must they begin wrapping unto themselves? When they get to hell, as we know they will, may the devil greet them personally and flay their feet with a rusty razorblade. May they stand in burning glass for all eternity. May their hearts burn with the pain of one thousand worries. In other words, may our prayers be answered. May we be granted the chance to buy back the building at twenty cents on the dollar from our landlord's widow. May the real estate market crash the day after a pack of wild, mongrel dogs savages him in front of his uptown office after a long day of fucking over well-intentioned, honest people looking for an affordable, civilized place to live.