Our situation was somewhat the opposite...two dykes downstairs, deciding that beneath our son's bedroom was their "rumpus room" and under our bedroom was the "S/M" den...our living room/their living room and the kitchens (our apartment "mirrored" their layout, only we were above) were the civil areas...
One night, the wifey calls and I can hear, over the phone, muffled "screams" - the kid's in the bedroom w/mom and they want me to call the cops 'cause one of the girls is screaming for the other to "stop" - I call the cops, explain the situation (I'm in another state and I don't have 1st hand knowledge) and ask if they can go over and settle things down. Apparently, it was "handled" - then all hell broke loose.
The "butch" starts demanding that she wants the south side of the garage, then starts using our washer and dryer, parks her car far enough back that we have to go out the front door, open our side of the garage to get back into the garage to get to the laundry area...
Called the landlords (old husband (milk-toast spine) and *****y wife) and we are told if we didn't quit complaining, we'd be evicted.
Solved the problem...gave the landlords one month's notice, found the lezbos' motorcycles' batteries sitting on the window sill in the laundry room, dumped out the battery-juice, rinsed out the cells, then filled each cell w/a pinch of baking-soda and distilled water...no foaming, but no juice...
Left the place, didn't pay the last month's rent ('cause we knew they weren't going to give the deposit back without a big hassle, but paid the difference in current rent minus deposit = all even...), and got into a nicer place...garages
between the apartments. All in the month of February...
Then, one shiney, warm spring afternoon, I see super-dyke, pushing her motorcycle up a ramp into the back of a pickup truck, I then re-positioned myself down the block to finish watching her pushing her "partner's" bike into the same truck.
I wondered why?
I hope they paid for ALOT for diagnosis before someone figured the batteries where toast, or more appropriately, paperweights...
Pi55 around with my family, you're going to hurt, whether you know about now, or not...
(Footnote: Met the husband (milk-toast man) about 3 years later and found out that he ended up having two heart-attacks, both were due to stress from his wife...but he hasn't left her...how dumb can you be? Could the sex (if any) be that good?)
