The Lazzo of the Leaking Radiator

The Landlord's last name is Doom, did I ever mention that?
(She is, in fact, non-threatening. Unless you happen to be a cigarette, in which case, look out. Seriously, run for your life. Not even the paper will be left!)
(And by that I mean her hair smells like smoke.)
Sometimes she stops by check in; verify that our windows still don't have screens--story for another day: how to get a pigeon into and out of your kitchen--and whatnot. Last night she came to turn on the heat.
In anticipation of cold weather, I've been preparing the radiators in my apartment with preptalks and friendly pats. I even bled them a little. Newb.
Later I mistook the sound of spritzing pipes for clicking pipes. "The heat is on!" I declared. Nicki and I went on with America's Next Top Model while a small lake formed in the divot of our dining room. Meanwhile, about five minutes after that began, a peeing fountain started from the radiator in the bathroom.
I step out of the room during a commercial...."Oh! Wow! Woooh! Shit! Shit! What the hell is that shit!?!"
"Aaack! Give me the key! The key!"
"Righty tighty? Am I turning right or left? I need to stand on the other side of this! Ahh! It's purple! What the hell!?!"
Nicki's dad and Google confirmed that's normal if you bleed your radiators before there's any steam built up. Noted.
Three towels and two pairs of socks later we returned to the couch. A knock at the door: Madame Doom, in the building to bleed the radiators.