A landlord has a hard life, unlike all the rabble who live at the expense of others and don't work.


Life is too short for boring stories

Fritz Nagel wiped the fat from the corners of his mouth and from his chin, which had spilled out between his bulging lips while he was munching on the succulent roast pork, which nobody else prepared as well and lavishly as his mother. “Boy, have another piece,” said the one who gave birth to him and who has ensured his culinary survival ever since. “No mom, I can’t go on. Five pieces are enough, plus the dumplings and the cabbage,” he declined with thanks, while he leaned back in his chair with a groan when, unexpectedly, there was a crash and he fell to the ground with his guts and chubby cheeks, still clutching the napkin with his proverbial sausage fingers fell. “My God, boy, has something happened to you?” asked the mother, who immediately rushed over. “What do you think, you stupid bastard. Think that’s funny?” he snapped at her. With an effort, he brought his upper body into a vertical position, which wasn’t easy at all with his stomach wobbling around haphazardly. Finally, he had succeeded. “What are you buying such a lump!” he continued to scold. “Sure, you’re right, nothing can take it anymore,” she agreed, as usual, even though she knew very well that she had bought the particularly stable version, but even that didn’t seem to be able to withstand 150 kg of live weight for long.

“But he’s so poor, poor, poor boy,” she thought while helping him to his feet, or at least trying to. But what should Josefine Nagel do, so slight and delicate as she was. “It’s always so difficult for him and then this,” she added in her thoughts. “I’m going to lie down,” he explained, “when I think about the fact that other people make a nice living at my expense, don’t work, but collect nice money, that gets me down. It’s always up to us, all the work and frustration, and then you have to let yourself be insulted as evil, exploitative capitalists. If something had hacked, then they could also be fine. It’s called unemployment income so euphemistically. There should be nothing else but labor income. I’m actually a good person, almost a saint when I think about it. I have three houses. Twenty apartments are in the houses. And I make them available for a small fee. You wouldn’t have a roof over your head, all the work-avoiders. But how do they thank you? They want to collect a rent cap. When I think about how much the roast pork costs now, I’m so reluctant to eat. You don’t treat yourself to anything. Oh yeah, by the way, I’m flying to the Maldives next week. Such a pity. Nothing but Anger and then such an everyday destination. If they knew how I have to restrict myself, but nobody feels sorry for a hard-working person who puts himself down like that.” With that he shuffled off and retreated to his room, which he had used since he was a child. “I wonder why the boy can’t find a wife,” thought Josefine Nagel, who thought like any good mother when she wanted her son a woman who was good enough for him, knowing full well that there weren’t any who could meet this requirement, none better than the mother. With a sigh, she began to tidy up the kitchen.

“What a day!” thought Lea Loft as she quickly prepared lunch. Spaghetti in tomato sauce. It had to be quick and cheap. After her husband had a serious accident at work a few months ago, Lea now had to look after him and their two-year-old daughter. There were no relatives or other close people who would have supported her. Therefore, re-entry into professional life was out of the question. Maybe, she considered, when the little one started kindergarten, but there was no chance of that. At the moment they were living on their unemployment, child benefit and the pension that Martin Ehm was awarded after the accident. It had been a tough fight. The most depressing thing, however, was that she was constantly given the feeling that she was trying to take a nice spring at the expense of the state. It was called “unemployed income”. She wondered where her time went when she was without work all day. And above all, the supervision and upbringing of the daughter, the care of her husband, whom she called that, even if they were not married, which made dealing with the authorities even more difficult, were apparently not considered work, but as her personal leisure time. If she had done the same job as a kindergarten teacher or nurse, it would suddenly have been work. But not like this. The worst, however, had been the move.

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