I'm the credit-worthy, polite and decent Englishman you phoned regarding a beautifully appointed 1920s apartment in Long Beach. It wasn't ready at the time, but since you assured me that you were not going to rent to anyone else, and seemed like such a nice and respectable lady, I moved out of my old place and in with friends and slept on their floor. Then you advised me that another prospective tenant had offered to pay a higher rent than the one you had advertised. I volunteered that I was unwilling to follow suit, and with the sincerity of a rattlesnake you informed me you would let me know if you were going to keep your promise by 5 p.m. the next day. You didn't call. I called you. You again promised to call the next evening. We did this three more times, while I continued to sleep on the floor. I never did get an answer from you, leaving me with no choice but to find a new apartment, since my old one had already been occupied. Where I come from, people keep their word. And so, dear Yank, I passionately hope that the pad you refused to rent to me will soon become known colloquially as Tweaker Haven, the rent will always be late, and the Long Beach police will have a dedicated parking spot outside. Good day, madam!
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