Some things, even minor things, still stick in the memory like a dagger.
Once upon a time I found myself working a part-time minimum wage job as a groundskeeper and general handyman at a government subsidized low-income housing complex. It consisted of some 50 apartments divided among seven buildings. Some of the resident population was obviously and severely handicapped.
The new live-in property manager (they apparently burned through them quickly) felt he wasn’t being properly compensated so he decided to absorb my paltry and penurious position into his. But before he did that I had a chance to meet his corpulent wife. She was sitting behind a desk in a tiny office marked MANAGER pretending to be useful. I don’t know how far south of the Mason-Dixon Line she hailed from but she did have a most peculiar and memorable accent.
She was unhappy with her position and her fate. Grousing to me about this and that and everything under the sun and thoroughly worked up by her own diatribe she finally passed summary judgement on the denizens of the complex:
“They’s trai-ush. They’s all trai-ush“.
I kept my peace. I let it pass. I remained silent and let her keep her delusion.