Kitchen Drip Caper

I like to think that I've been generally tolerant of my current living quarters. The folks who live above me have recently invented a sport of some sort that sounds like it involves 1)bowling balls 2) cinder blocks 3)wild cackling. Meanwhile, the next door neighbors are only a few slips down the twelve step ladder from becoming the Shut Up, Little Man guys. I could also mention the daily progress of freaks, crackheads, Jehova's Witnesses, and other such n'er do wells who frequent my doorstep but I'd rather not, thank you.
As I mentioned above, Consuela and I have been pretty understating regarding these issues on account of the following facts: 1)The rent is relatively low for the size and location of the building. 2) No one seems to mind when said rent is late. Oh, and also the umm.. charm. And so everything was fine until last night when God decided it was time to the destroy the kitchen by water.
It began with a drip. Many good things do begin with a drip such as a pot of coffee or an afternoon thunderstorm after a hot August morning. This was not one of them. This was a drip which had journeyed from someplace deep within the sinuses of the building to an exit point in the center of an increasingly convex ceiling tile above my kitchen counter. Curious, I decided to begin an inquiry into the nature of this drip. I opened my investigation by positioning myself atop a barstool, mostly to increase the odds of breaking my neck. From there I began to, scientifically, poke at the tile cyst until, finally, it burst open in a magnificent shower of water and mold and pieces of something... oh and I think a few dead bugs.
Less than amused, I telephoned my slum lord with whom I carried on the following conversation:

"Um, my kitchen just, like, blew up and there's water all over the place and it's still dripping and this is not normal right?"
"Is it dripping or flooding?
"Well, I think the one generally leads to the other."
"Is it dripping or flooding?"
"It's dripping...... menacingly."
"Put a bucket under it and I'll send someone out tomorrow."

And there I was in a soiled and sinking kitchen looking for an adequate bucket. It was about this time that the following sequence of events transpired on my television set.
First and Goal: Deuce McAllister clearly breaks the plain of the goal line. One official signals touchdown only to be overruled by another official whose view of the play was blocked. Jim Haslett decides not to challenge the call.
Second and Goal: Aaron Brooks fumbles the snap, Eagles recover in the endzone. The Saints are doomed yet again.
I did the only thing a rational man could do at this point. I hauled ass to A&P and bought a giant bottle of Merlot.
The dripping continued unabated throughout the afternoon and began to crescend around 9 PM. The increased dripping and new tile buldges prompted yet another stool top investigation (I don't learn very quickly.) This time Consuela and Nurse Mama walked in the door at exactly the right time to witness as I received a second dousing. This time the water was just gushing in. I placed another frantic call to the slum lord who then condescended to dispatch his poor lackey to investigate. When the lackey arrived, the dripping stopped by itself. He didn't know where it came from or if it was coming back. He did know that he couldn't do anything about it until the morning. He went on his way and I spent the next four hours cleaning up. Supposedly he is back in my apartment today, while I'm here complaining. Hopefully, I'll have use of kitchen before it's too late to make oyster dressing.

So that's my day. How are you?