What the fuck, H^LIF^X? I put my one bag of trash outside this morning in a clear bag right along with the pile of black bags of unsorted trash put out by the other tenants. All those black bags were collected while my single, half full, properly sorted clear bag was left behind. I know how to sort my damn trash, H^LIF^X. I've been doing it for twenty years now. Meanwhile, the other tenants in this shitty little four unit building sort nothing. I know this because I am the only one who ever uses the compost bin and I am the only one who ever puts out any recycling. They routinely exceed the bag limit and yet, miraculously, every second Thursday all that trash disappears. So I say again, What the fuck? If the garbage collectors had bothered to put the requisite orange sticker on the bag explaining what the hell was wrong with it, I would be marginally less pissed. Oh, and your shitty 311 system? Is about as useful as Go Time. I pressed zero to speak to a representative, as instructed, and I got three seconds of busy signal and then a click. I managed to send you an email, no thanks to your shitty contact system which is clearly designed to get people to give up, but I'm not optimistic. I guess two weeks from now I'll have to stand at the curb with my bag in my hand and demand an answer from your contractors, since I doubt I'm going to get one from you. Fuck you, H^LIF^X. Fuck you right in the ear.
—Kermit