Office staff is generally as helpful as a benign tumor in the ball of your foot. When they are not busy surfing the Internet and taking personal phone calls, they are usually sitting behind a desk and waiting in heavy anticipation for your rape, oops, I mean rent check.

Manager, of course, takes the time to leave her trailer each day and survey the property in her pajamas while the 1970-style cottage cheese ceiling (that curiously smells like wet cardboard) continues to leak every time moisture is present in the air.

While the swimming pool is adequate, it seems that there is enough child urine in there to kill an ape.

Washing machines have the equivalent diameter in depth of a fishing bucket (plan on wearing the same clothes a lot). There is a total of 20 washers and 20 dryers (in two locations, 10 in each) in the community to serve 400 apartment units.

Despite the stringent "No Skateboard Policy", it seems as though these four-wheeled menaces felt free to do they wish without fear of repercussion from the dentally-challenged management.

The storage units provided by Country Hills would seem spacious and accommodating IF you were a dwarf or quad amputee.

Having been contractually bound to a "No Noise" policy while residing in the apartment complex, this seemed to do little to curb the nightly, and oh so soothing sounds, of Asian boys singing, dirtbag CSUF students belching and cursing, and my favorite, the all-to-familiar sound of Riverside spawn, broken-home, alcohol fueled family brawls.

Overall, my short stay at Country Hills Apartments would be the equivalent to spending three months in a Vietnam prison of war camp (without the daily distraction of having to play Russian roulette with a loaded pistol while some Charlie yells, "Mao" in my ear).

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