Movers are bullies. They are big, fat, ugly, sweaty bullies. If I was in another room and had the chance to press a button releasing electric shocks into their big fat pectoral boobs, I would. Two days after they had picked up all my things from my Mother's house, being one and a half days late, which had caused her to unnecessarily miss work, the fat bastards tell me that I've gone over the allotted cubic footage.
Originally, when speaking to the contractor Lance, I was told I would be charged per pound and even if I went over some it would be 60 cents per pound. And of course we're not talking $50 or $100 over cubic footage; they want to charge me $600 more. He also insisted I had not paid for packing supplies, which I had ($150.) I emailed him the documentation, and he apologized, but soon after telling him I would not pay the additional $600, he proceeded to YELL at me and tell me he would just leave my stuff in Houston and I would not get my deposit back. This all happened while he stuttered in a thick Nigerian accent and I was at the Yankees stadium in the middle of a game on a Sunday afternoon.
And today, Labor Day, I sit at home with an iced coffee and microwaved vegetarian bean burrito in my stomach, worrying about their arrival and the drama it will entail. They called me this morning to tell me to make sure there are 7 consecutive parking spaces within 75 feet of the apartment available for the 18-wheeler because if they get a ticket for double parking while unloading, it will be my responsibility. I hope they get a ticket so I can pee on it and shove it down their throat.
