Dear Handyman, aka laborer/wannabe-plumber/footing-digger/"carpenter"/counter-top guy:
Question one: What the hell is wrong with you??? Were you raised by wolves? How is it that you feed yourself without having ever learned a single thing about marketing, customer service, or business?
Why do you email me from your ex-girlfriend's account?
Why do you: call me at 7:30AM; mumble; tell me you know where my house is and then get totally lost; call me 17 times in 2 hours, and then arrive with only half the tools and supplies necessary for the job?
Why are you always AT LEAST an hour late, even when you've BEEN to my house before and know where it is?
Why don't you shower?
Why do you drop your heavy metal tools onto my newly sanded floors like some kind of clutzy neanderthal?
Why do you insult my house and the neighborhood within which it's located, and then go on to tell me how you're: still renting (at age 50-something) and hoping to find a house once you "clean your credit," or; facing forclosure on your five-bedroom Lakeville home, (where you live alone since your wife divorced you) or; living with your parents while you "jump-start" your business?
And why do you, my nameless, faceless, every-man-handy-man, feel the need to poke around my place, wide-eyed and tsk-tsking, in order to tell me that I "have a lot of work to do here?"
No shit, Sherlock, but it would get done faster if you'd do what you're supposed to rather than dicking around!
And stop whining. I'm paying you. Nobody's paying ME, and you don't here me complaining...
Well, not to you anyway, idiot(s).