E.G. Marshall plays Upton Pratt, the aforementioned mean old white racist, who is also a germaphobe; he lives in a hermetically sealed apartment high above New York City, where all he does is kill bugs, yell at ppl on the phone and do lengthy monologues about how how you have to keep your eye on the ball, and the early bird gets the worm, how to get your whites their whitest, etc. And he wears a bathrobe and rubber gloves and has a special machine for sucking away his old Kleenexes. Shockingly, he lives alone, because I guess no one is good enough to even deal with his weird old man hotness. Typical.
As the widow of the employee who killed himself calls up to admonish Pratt, he starts to notice roaches- first one or two, and then like a fuckton. And they're everywhere. In his food processor, in the can, in his fax machines. I mean, I'm not trying to impress anyone when I say that I've never lived in a place with an infestation of cockroaches, but I'm also not a rich ass white dude in a bathrobe. I mean....oh shit, is this a fucking metaphor? For old white dinosaurs treating ppl (especially POC) like cockroaches and then having them rise up and destroy him with their numbers? Fuck.