It takes a special kind of asshole to scream on the phone to a total stranger:
“Fuck the Air Force, lady- we had a contract.”
On April 11, 2011 at 10:45 AM, I became that asshole when I was told that the short-term apartment rental which I had arranged for my Passover trip to Albuquerque for me and several family members was not going to be available after all. Evidently, the Air Force officers occupying the space would not be departing according to the previously established time-frame (insert Iraq joke here.)
After a brief, stunned silence, Loretta from Albuquerque Apartments responded:
“Sir, here in Albuquerque we honor the Air Force.”
The courtesy in her voice was stretched to the breaking point by revulsion and shock, like a waitress explaining to a party of cannibals that human testicles are not on the menu and politely recommending they try the patty melt instead. I felt appropriately sheepish.