Oops

During my shift I like to watch Court TV on the television in the lobby. They're always showing awesome programs like COPS and World's Wildest Police Videos. However, I was doing a crossword in the back room this afternoon when I heard a man say something like "For goodness sake!" and he sounded pretty upset, so I came out to see what was going on. Apparently Forensic Files was showcasing DNA profiling because the screen was filled with nothing but live, magnified sperm. Oops. Not exactly something you want to see in a hotel lobby. Especially not if you're traveling with young children. ("Daddy, what is that stuff?")
Believe it or not, this isn't the first time the TV has disrespected me by broadcasting naughty images. For example, once upon a few weeks ago I was channel-surfing. Our television is an older model so it takes a few seconds for the image to appear once you've selected a channel. Well, right as I selected HBO, the following two things happened:

1. A group of elderly women walked into the lobby and gathered around the television.
2. Two women appeared on the screen and started making out, hard.

I don't think I've ever heard "Well!" and "I never!" uttered that many times before in my life. I tried to change the channel but the ladies were standing directly in front of the TV so I couldn't. All I could do was wait for the deluge of "Your clerks are perverts" complaint letters to begin pouring in, but for some reason they never did. Hmm. Perhaps those ladies secretly enjoy lesbian porn.
On a unrelated note, there's a woman doing push-ups on the lobby floor as I write this. This is the same woman that was just telling another guest about how our complimentary cookies are full of "bad things" like "the flu" and "Mad Cow disease" and how they're totally disgusting anyway so it would be best if he didn't eat them. After he left (presumably to get away from her) without taking any, she turned to me and explained that she said those things because she wanted all the cookies for herself. Nice try bitch, but the cookies are mine.
Oh, and also, the elevator stopped working and so did all the phones. Such good times.

Rudity

A guy just came down here wearing literally nothing save for eyeglasses and a pair of very small gym shorts. I immediately had the following questions for him...

1. How is it you remembered to put the glasses on but you forgot your shirt and shoes?
2. Do you think you're back at your house, where you can act like an unclothed moron without abandon, or what?
3. Who raised you? Donkeys? Or bears?
4. What room are you in, so I can set about bricking it off from the world, Cask of Amontillado-style, after you've retired for the night?
5. Are you the guy that lost his six-pack of Bud Light? Because a) I found it and b) you're drunk, right? You want it back?
6. Do you do this everywhere you go? How many times have you been slapped?
7. Why are you down here? You don't want anything, do you? Oh, please, say you don't want anything.

I also thought, okay, you're an idiot, and your "rudity" is offensive, but if you leave right now I won't feed you to my boss. Sadly, he felt me sending out "get lost, I hate you" rays with my mind so he came over to me, looked me right in the eye (he clearly had no shame) and asked where we kept our plastic utensils. Well, I don't know...but I can tell you that they're not being kept anywhere near me or else I would be using them to crudely blind myself like Oedipus, you naked bastard. Now get back to your room!

Detardation

My night thus far...

Peter: Could you please explain to me why all women are so insane?
Me: Excuse me?
Peter: I mean, what's up with your gender?
Me: What?
Peter: Especially blondes. They're crazy bitches.
(I shoot him a withering look because I am blonde)
Peter: You don't count. You're a ginger.
Me: I AM NOT A GINGER.
Peter: Well, okay, you're not a ginger...you're a strawberry.
Me: And either way, you said all women.

And I thought I was the only one cranking out the verbal platinum hits. Damn!
In case you were looking to pick up a few life lessons from Pimpmaster P, let's review what we have gleaned thus far...

1. If you ever need to save your friendship with someone, just sleep with them. That will do the trick
2. Never date anyone that reads Cosmo
3. If you'd like a snack, jerky is the way to go
4. You don't need to wear shoes at work. Who cares about the peeling wallpaper? It was probably doing that anyway
5. All women are crazy, especially blondes (except me)
6. Men need to carry around something sharp at all times
7. Go ahead and drop the C word whenever you want, it's cool
8. William Shatner is the manliest man on the face of the earth
9. It's okay to deal drugs if you need to pay rent
10. Being pregnant doesn't mean you're off limits to Peter--he likes a challenge

Reading the list makes me wonder: wouldn't it be nice if there were such a thing as detardation? I can see it now--an moron detox program where people from Mensa help you become smarter using "Intelligence Enhancers" like flash cards, training toilets, and electric baths (kind of like A Clockwork Orange, but with cattle prods). Then I wouldn't have anyone to blog about, though, so never mind. Let the retardation commence!

Portrait

Jackie was here until well after five o'clock and it was anything but awesome. It got to the point where I was seriously thinking about finding wherever it is that she's hidden her portrait so I could destroy it and end all the madness, Dorian Gray-style. But then she left, so I didn't have to.
Also, I didn't think it was possible for Peter to get any stranger, so of course he did. Would you like to hear about it? Well, I don't feel like just telling you--I'd rather impart what I experienced via multiple choice. Let's get started. Did he...

A) Show me the knife he keeps in his pocket (Why? "Because every man should have something sharp.")
B) Serenade me with Linkin Park songs (which, in case you've never heard any, are terrible)
C) Take off his shoes and keep them off for the five hours he was here, thus releasing a very unpleasant funk into the air around the entire hotel
D) Snack on smelly beef jerky (which gave him rancid, spicy breath)
E) Not irritate me one bit, which made me realize I am too quick to judge people, and that is a character flaw I am going to work on with the aid of a therapist
F) Everything but E

Suffice it to say, I'm pretty tired after all the "fun" I had with Peter tonight. Thank you, Lord, for giving me the next three days off. I am going to need each one of them.

Package

A woman came in a little while ago with a lengthy tale of personal tragedy and an odd request. She said that (deep breath) her "cash card" was stolen while she was in Florida (where she lives) but she's going to be here in town for a while so she needs to give the bank a place to send a reissued card and it's not like she's even staying at our hotel or anything but she was just wondering if she could use our address. (Exhale.) If so, she would graciously come and pick it up when it arrived. Time to state the obvious: She appeared to be insane. So of course, I had the following internal responses:

1. Is this whole thing drug-related? It is, isn't it?
2. You want to know if I'll give you permission to use our address so you can send your drugs here?
3. If she's from out of town she's got to be staying somewhere. She can't just be living out of her car. Wait...
4. Is she living out of her car? If not, where is she staying?
5. Why can't the package be sent to that address? (This caused me to revisit query no. 2.)
6. You know what? I don't think I feel like dealing with this crap. Leave me alone.

I told her we couldn't accept mail for anyone other than our guests. When she heard that, she tried to book a room, but she was so strange I suggested she try someplace else. And then she finally left, thanks be to Jesus, my Lord and Savior. Hopefully she won't come back. (At least not until I've left for the day.)

FCQD
Customer: Do you accept Radical* Rewards points?
Me: No, sorry. We can take Crappy* Rewards points, but not Radical Rewards.
Customer: (clearly struggling to function on an adult level but failing) Well, the last time I stayed at your hotel, you took them.
Me: (inwardly) Perhaps you should take a time machine back to that magical day, sir, so that you can pester whoever was working then instead of making me want to slap you to death with my RHOJ now.
Customer: Would you still honor Radical Rewards?
Me: No. We only take Crappy Rewards.
Customer: Okay. (Thoughtful pause) But can you honor Radical Rewards?
Me: JUST CRAPPY REWARDS.
Customer: The last time I was at your hotel I was told you were getting new owners.
Me: We do not have new owners and we are not getting new owners.
Customer: Well…would the new owners accept Radical Rewards?

Million

It was me, Peter, and the new guy (Jesse*) this evening. As it turned out, Peter and Jesse already knew each other, so I figured it wouldn't be long before they started talking about things they shouldn't have (but hey, they know about this blog, so anything they say in front of me is definitely being surrendered with acceptance). And predictably enough, Peter soon revealed that for one million dollars he would sleep with William Shatner (because he's "the manliest man in the world...well, him and Sean Connery"). What that has to do with him being Shatner's butt buddy for money, I haven't the foggiest. (Please note I assumed immediately that Shatner would be the top.) I also learned that Peter used to deal drugs to pay the rent and that his father is worth close to a million dollars (he owns "over thirty properties") and this is why Pimpmaster P "can't wait for him to die" so he can finally get his hands on that big ol’ money check. Classy. He sounded like a very low-rent Carl Sagan. Then Jesse chimed in with: "If you only knew how bad Peter really is...the stories I could tell you!" Oh honey, that's okay--I think I've heard enough. And rest assured, if I ever see Shatner, I'll be telling him that Peter's waiting with manly bells on.


FCQD
Customer: How far are you from downtown?
Me: Three miles.
Customer: Okay, great. How far are you from downtown?

RHOJ

Tomorrow I'll be working with Peter and some new guy. All I can say about that is they'd better not give me any lip or else they'll get brutally checked with the ring hand of justice (RHOJ). Also, tomorrow's blog will probably be hilarious beyond words since we can all be fairly certain Peter will try to impress me with further accounts of his raunchy misdeeds. Stay tuned.

FCQD
Customer: Do you have wireless internet here?
Me: Yes, we do.
Customer: Do I need a cable for that?

Cranky

Listen to this--I am so cranky that I just told a woman who asked me for extra towels to go get them herself out of the pool area. I should be banned from customer service forever, but I haven't been because there's no test employers can force you to take which determines your personal level of internal rage. Perhaps I should invent one, but something tells me there's no need--after all, people and their fat mouths do all the determining for you.

FCQD
Customer on phone: I'm going to book two rooms online, but I just need to know if your hotel has adjoining rooms first.
Me: Well, we do have a few adjoining rooms here, but we can't guarantee that you'll get them, since we don't assign rooms until the day you arrive.
Customer: Oh, okay. So if I book these rooms through you, I can definitely get adjoining rooms then?

Quote

FCQD
Guy who talks like I care or am listening: I stayed here a few weeks ago, and my room was a lot nicer then. You gave me a downsized room, and I don't appreciate it.
(His wife gently reminds him that the nicer room was actually at a different hotel. I then proceed to tell him about the renovations we're currently doing on our rooms.)
F-tard: Well...you need it.

Cheeks

And now, for your reading pleasure, I am proud to present to you...a one-act play entitled My Evening With Peter. (Based on true events. Okay, it flat out happened.)

CAST OF CHARACTERS
Peter: Chubby-cheeked, shaggy-haired freak. Could definitely stand to be more awesome.
Taryn: Extremely attractive and intelligent. Could not become more awesome if she tried.

SCENE ONE
(Lights come up to reveal Taryn and Peter standing around behind front desk)
Taryn: So your tendency is to date girls you work with?
Peter: (grinning like a monkey) If the mood strikes.
Taryn: Sounds like you're a player slash pig. A player pig.
Peter: Pretty much.
Taryn: (playing Sudoku) Why do you have a girlfriend, then?
Peter: I don't want a serious relationship, but I like the security of having a girlfriend. I told her that right from the start. I'm not looking to get married. Eventually she's going to have to dump me and get together with someone else, because I am not going to be her last relationship, and she's not going to be mine.
Taryn: (still playing Sudoku) Well, you can't play the field around here, because none of us would date you. Especially not Ashley.
Peter: The pregnant girl?
Taryn: Yep.
Peter: (smiling strangely) What makes you think that would stop me?
Taryn: I don't know...perhaps the fact that she's pregnant?
Peter: (clearly impressed with himself) I like a challenge.
Taryn: (wouldn't be impressed if aliens suddenly appeared and performed Hamlet in its entirety while shooting hotel guests out of a three-story cannon) I never would have guessed you had such dark, dark evil inside your soul. You're so innocent looking.
Peter: Yeah, I get that a lot. Don't let the cheeks fool you--I'm bad!
(Lights out. End)

And...scene! Wasn't that beautiful? (I thought about including the part where Peter called Jackie a c**t, but I just figured no one would believe me on that one. Also, he smokes weed.) After all that, I didn't think tonight could get any better, but then Jackie got into an argument with one of the construction workers in the back room. It was pretty heated. I didn't know she ever even raised her voice (she's never yelled at me) but she and this guy were going at it, and not in a good way. It was totally sweet. I wish I could have taped it. But alas, I don't have a tape recorder. So you get nothing, and like it.

Quotes

My boss's cell phone died today. I wanted to say to her, "Isn't that funny? You're like twins now. No, wait--your phone isn't a horrible, rotting, flesh-devouring night walker. And, as far as I know, cell phones don't keep working after they've died." But then I thought better of it (being skeletonized by a piranha-mouthed soul reaver is definitely not the way I envision my final moments) and said nothing. However, as everyone knows, zombies can read minds, and unfortunately once she "heard" my internal mouth shootin' out sass she decided to take all the chocolate chip cookies home before I had a chance to grab one. And she doesn't even eat them--she just uses them as bait. Damn! The undead are truly the worst bosses ever.
In other news, I realized that I get a lot of crazy customers around here (wait, there's more). They're so crazy, in fact, that I'm going to start posting their questions, comments, and general verbal baby green diarrhea whenever I feel like it. Enjoy!

Funny Customer Quotes of the Day (a.k.a. FCQD)
1. "I see your 'no pets' sign, but I was just wondering...is that one hundred percent?"

2. "Is someone going to help me with my bags, or do I actually have to get them myself?"

3. "I was just outside and I saw a lot of lights out in your building. That means you have a bunch of empty rooms. And you're still charging seventy-nine dollars? Is that the best you can do?"

4. "I know the hotel across the street said they were sold out, but do you have any pull with them? I mean, can you get us a room over there even if they don't have any?"

5. "All you do is think about yourself! I GOTTA SMOKE!! (I know that was from the other day, but it's so funny it's worth reprinting.)

Scratching

Today Steve and Lindsay (the new girl, who is not the felon from earlier) told me that Jackie scratched her "private area" in front of them. So I said, "Did she just skim the surface or was she actually digging for treasure?" They said both! Steve even said it happened one time when I was standing there, but I definitely don't remember seeing anything like that. You know what? I probably blocked it out, because if I ever saw my boss plundering her personal crypt like she was the Tomb Raider I'd have to put my own eyes out afterward, Oedipus-style. Well, It's nice to know my brain does care after all.

Felons

Today a girl came in and handed me a completed job application. She seemed normal enough until I snuck a peek at her resume and realized that she'd listed a few felony convictions...and you know what that means. It means it's time for a little multiple choice! Did she serve time for:

A) Sale and delivery of cocaine
B) Possession of pornographic tapes involving animals on the endangered species list
C) Battery on law enforcement
D) Both A and C
E) All of the above

The answer is D. I know, I know--you're disappointed because you were hoping it was E. Well, me too, but life is full of disappointment, case in point, my job. This is just speculation on my part, but I don't think my boss is going to hire this girl. She's just too good for this place. Moving on now...how about another fun-filled multiple choice? My customers are like a**holes because:

A) Actually there's no "like" about it, they're just a**holes, flat out
B) They're typically quite rude--so much so, in fact, that they make me want to stomp their esophagus full of holes with my trusty golf cleats until their nickname becomes "Philharmonic" because their every breath sounds like a f**king orchestra tuning up
C) Damn, they suck. I wish my boss would eat everyone that stays here
D) Both A and C
E) All of the above

Okay, obviously my rage got the better of me as I wrote that last one. I gotta work on that, but it's hard to because I spend the best parts of my day languishing in this jerk-filled dump. Signing off now.

Crabs

Would you like a specific example of my boss being rude? Well, you're in luck...

Worker: We should be done with those bathroom tiles around six o'clock.
Jackie: Okay, great. (Her brain then shuts down completely.) Hey, you're big! You know who you remind me of? Costello, from Abbott and Costello!
Worker: (attempting and failing to shield his considerable midsection with his hands) Jeez! I'm not that big!
Jackie: You are. You are that big.

I guess she was sizing him up for later. After all, everyone likes a midnight snack, soul or no soul. Also funny tonight...

Customer with heavy southern accent: You got any rooms?
Me: Yep.
Customer: All right then. You got crabs?
(Significant pause)
Me: Pardon?
Customer: Crabs. You got crabs, or what?
(Steve's face contorts with suppressed laughter)
Customer: You know...for babies?
Me: Oh, cribs. No, we don't.

Potential replies practically write themselves, in my opinion...

1. "Doesn't everybody?" (Bonus points if said while doing any of the following: scratching furiously, clutching a fly swatter, or inching towards bottle of special shampoo.)
2. "Actually, everyone here has crabs. Would you like to shake hands?"
3. "I'm sorry, sir, I wasn't aware that it was Extremely Personal Information Exchange Day. Perhaps now would be the perfect time to discuss your irritable bowel syndrome? Or we could talk about your doubtlessly chronic erectile dysfunction. Your choice."
4. "Haven't you heard? Crabs aren't just for babies anymore."
5. "See the trap door over there? I need you to go step directly on that."

It was clearly a wonderful evening, to say the least. Especially since Jackie hung around until almost seven f**king thirty and we thought we were going to have to kill ourselves (as that is the only way to effectively escape her nonsense).
Unfortunately, before she left, she put a lid on the SF. First she asked Steve and myself why we weren't wearing our name tags. Then she turned on Steve, Judas-style, and told him he couldn't wear jeans or sneakers anymore. And ever since then I've been silently mourning the death of SF...NO! These aren't tears! My eyes are just watering! It's cold in here! Dammit! (Sniff) Leave me alone.

Smoking

A couple and their two young children just came in here looking to get a room for the night. When I told them we were out of smoking rooms, the dad got pretty red in the face. He shrieked, "No, then! There's no way I'm staying in a non-smoking room! I gotta smoke!" But then the kids started in about how they wanted to stay, and the following ensued...

Kids: We want to go swimming!
Dad: They don't have any smoking rooms, and I gotta smoke. We have to go somewhere else.
Kids: Can't you just go outside and smoke?
Dad: It's snowing outside! Oh, you'd like it if I had to go out in the cold and snow just so you could go swimming, wouldn't you?
Me: (spoken) I can call the Howard Johnson's for you and see if they have any smoking rooms available.
Me: (unspoken) GET OUT
Kids: But they have a pool here! We want to go in the pool!
Dad: That's all you do, isn't it? All you do is think about yourself! I GOTTA SMOKE!

Don't you wish that I was making this up? I'm not though, so get out the tissues if you need 'em...damn crybaby hippie weirdos. Now if I had been one of those kids, I would have quietly set out for the open road long ago in search of a more suitable parent or guardian (Tucker Max? Sea World? The Donner Party?). But these kids did not possess my innate desire for self-preservation, so they just stood their ground. Finally, after much wheedling and complaining, Father of the Year 2005-present agreed to book a non-smoking room because "if I don't, I'll never hear the end of it. You'll just bitch and bitch if we don't get the damn pool, won't you." However, this momentary "truce" was shattered once Dad heard about the whole paying-with-cash-requires-a-deposit thing (definitely something too complicated for his tiny, smoke-strangled mind to process). He marched everyone back out to the car to "discuss things further." And after some time passed they did come back and book a room, much to my disappointment, as I was hoping they'd either found lodging elsewhere or ran into my boss in the parking lot at feedin' time. (Hey, either way, they would have been out of my life for good.)
I personally have always maintained that the best place to have any type of family disagreement is in public (and in front of strangers, if you can swing it). My customers are constantly striving to prove this point for me. Thank you, you nutty a**holes. You unknowingly feed the ever-hungry monster that is this blog, and I appreciate it. Now f**k off, seriously.

SF

We switched over to new uniforms this week--blue long-sleeved shirts (provided by Jackie) and black pants (self-provided). So today Rob was wearing black jeans and his trademark thong sandals, and Jackie told him he had to stop wearing the sandals and get new pants (slacks, not jeans). But when I showed up wearing the correct shirt, shoes, and slacks, she just looked at me plaintively and said, "Where's your name tag?" (My reply: "Where's your soul? Same place, probably. IN HELL") Steve was standing right next to me the whole time wearing black jeans and no name tag and she didn't say one word to him. That seems like selective favoritism, or SF, to me.
The only time I enjoy SF is when it works in my favor. Like the other night when I didn't do the bucket check and Peter made a mistake (he was probably so busy thinking about ugly girls shaking their booties that he didn't notice) that the check would have revealed. The whole thing led to Steve and Ashley getting yelled at by Jackie the next morning. When I found out I called her and asked her what was going on, but she just started talking about how Target was having a sale on women's black pants in case I was interested, and that was the end of it. In summation, Goldie-centric SF good, anti-Goldie SF, bad.
I suppose I should be more understanding about my boss and her SF. I mean, she probably just needs a friend. The afterlife can be lonely sometimes, what with everyone you meet making the sign of the cross and spraying you with holy water whilst running away. Or she could simply be bored; she doesn't have any hobbies or goals (other than anything murder-related) and she hasn't really accomplished anything in life other than the time she invented those weird purple pills that make people swell up like that one girl in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. That way there's more meat on them bones. Yum yum.

Goldmine

All right, as promised, I went to the wonderful world of Peter (get your mind out of the gutter or else) and came back with stories. (It's a long trip, but it's cheap, and he sells souvenirs just like Disneyland. For instance, you can buy Barbie & Ken dolls made to look like Peter and his numerous unattractive girlfriends, each sold separately.) This is just a smattering of the things that go down in P town:
*He's looking for a "sugar mama" and it doesn't matter if she's attractive so long as she has money
*He used to be a manager at the movie theater down by the mall and he dated two of the other managers. ("You never want to date below your level--I always date girls on my level or above it.") When word got out about him being a playa pimp it caused so much controversy in the workplace that he was asked to leave
*He said he was half player and half nice guy, meaning half of him is just looking for sex while the other half wants a serious relationship
*He hummed and whistled pretty much non-stop
*At one point I realized he was humming the tune "Shake Your Booty"
*Whenever he sat down, his leg jittered seemingly uncontrollably
*He rapped his knuckles on the counter a lot and it always sounded like someone knocking on the door
*He blew his nose so often and so loudly I feared for his middle ear and my own waning grasp on sanity
*He's crazy
As you can see, Peter has proven himself to be a veritable laugh riot goldmine. Even if I wasn't turning his foolishness into history by faithfully recording it here, I would still be hanging on his every dumb word with a smile on my face because I love crazy people, flat out. Yeah!
I hate to repeat myself but I am really, really hoping this guy ends up on the morning shift. I don't know how much more I can take of the knocking, whistling, humming, jitter-leg, yarn-weaving, and stone cold master pimpin'. It won't be too long now before I break out the bear mace. Or the hot sauce, which would come in handy when it's time to feed Peter to our boss (soon). She likes it spicy. Look, Jackie! Brunch!

Friendship

Tonight I worked with the new guy, Peter*, for the first time. (I think the P in Peter stands for "pass-around" and you're about to find out why.) I was expecting him to be fragile, which meant I wasn't going to pick on him, swear in front of him, make him watch Code Monkeys, or scare him by describing the makeshift graveyard upstairs where Jackie likes to store her half-eaten conquests, a.k.a. room 504. (For back story on Peter, read "Nice." Go on, scroll down and do it. I'll wait. Okay, no I won't.)
So imagine my surprise when, instead of living up to his rep by arriving in feetie pajamas and clutching something stuffed, Peter comes in and immediately starts sharing chapters from his forthcoming autobiography The Life & Times of Pimpmaster Peter. It got to the point where he actually started to remind me of Warren. Here's a quick rundown of the things Peter let us in on:
*He likes buying champagne at convenience stores ("You can get some good ones for only six dollars.")
*He was rooming with/dating a girl for two years when another girl started hitting on him. He initially turned her down, but she was offended by the rejection, and he quickly realized the only way to "save the friendship" was to sleep with her, so he did. He added that he was looking to dump his girlfriend anyway and that neither girl was what you would call attractive.
*A year and a half after he and his girlfriend broke up (for “other reasons”) the two girls ran into each other at a bar. Suddenly the friend screamed, "I screwed your boyfriend, bitch!" This little outburst apparently led to a violent brawl. If you knew what Peter looked like, you'd say, "A year and a half later? Over him?” Yeah, well, Steve didn't believe it either. And we couldn't understand why he was bragging to us about being a two-timing, ugly girl-chasing, cheap liquor-drinking venereal disease. (Believe me when I say he was bragging--he looked extremely pleased with himself the entire time.)
*His moral of that last story: "Never get involved with a girl who reads Cosmo." (Apparently that's where his "friend" learned the fiery arts of seduction that she unleashed upon him.)
So I'm assuming by now you can hear it. You can, right? The strains of don't you wish your boyfriend was hot like P? Damn, he's crazy. I think most of us can agree that if you're nervous about meeting your new co-workers and you're looking to impress them, you probably shouldn't start off by telling them about how you're a Natural Ice-swilling ho-bag. I mean, at least take a little poetic license and make the girls in your stories hot! Soon I'll be warning our fellow co-workers not to hit on Peter unless they definitely want some, because he'll go for it even if he's not into you. I was tempted to say to him, hey, if you're that up for anything, why don't you just go hit on Jackie? Take one for the team--so to speak--since you're such a player and all. Jackie needs some flattery in her life, seeing as how she rivals only the Cryptkeeper in terms of attractiveness. Plus you need to make sure your friendship with her stays intact, and you know that's the only way to do it. Come on! It'll be easy, like you.
I'm pretty sure this guy was hired to do the morning shift, which means that I won't be spending a lot of time with him. However, since he's still in training, I will be working with him again tomorrow night. Be sure to tune in then for more of Peter's wacky antics and yappy yarns. Without a doubt, there will be plenty of both.

Switch

Room 106 just called, sounding distraught and looking to requisition the plunger once more. I was hoping this situation would have a happy ending the same way it did the other night--Steve located the plunger, delivered it to 106, he sorted out his own feculence, and I didn't get involved. Sadly, I was not as lucky this time, mainly because I was alone. So I had to go and find the plunger, but then I told 106 he had to come get it. (What do I look like, 1-800-PLUNGER? F**k you, do not answer that.) And he did, but not before treating me to various conversational jewels like "Somethin' is really wrong with thet terlit" and "This is the second time in two days I had to plunge it. It shouldn't be actin' up like thet" and "Ever' time my mama goes in to use thet thang, it doesn't work after she's done."
Okay, let me see if I have this straight--you filled the toilet past capacity with your own stillborn sphincter spawn, foolishly attempted to flush the lot, and then when the toilet understandably refused to cooperate, you blamed the whole thing on your mother. Tsk. Shame on you, 106. You're lucky I'm not her or else you'd be outside crying and picking a switch right now. No, not that one--put that one back. It needs to be bigger. Pick a better one or else I will!

Plunger

One of the worst things that can happen to a hotel clerk is when someone calls and asks for a plunger. And they don't mean: "I'll come down to the front desk, get a plunger, go back to my room, and corral my own cowplop." They mean: "I done choked up my terlit givin' birth to a hindquarter hell-baby so you need to come up here and exorcise my dung demons with a plunger before I get to squeezin' out more gelatinous ground round." In other words, they're dreaming. I would sooner douse my body in ranch dip and serve myself to my boss.
Tonight room 106 called me several times. First they wanted a razor. Then they wanted shaving cream. Then they wanted to know if incoming calls were free. And the final call was--you guessed it--a plunger plea. Maybe if this were a nicer place (oh, how many times have I yearnfully hypothesized about that?) we would employ evening maintenance people so no one would have to oversee the removal of their own fetid butt barf. However, the tragic reality is that it's just little old me after nine o'clock, and I ain't uncloggin' nothin'. Especially not other people's assplosions.
The way I see it, it's YOUR POOP. If you were at home, you would have to deal with it yourself; you wouldn't expect your landlord to come and unclog your commode, right? (If you would, I don't want to know, and don't even think of coming anywhere near me.) I could understand calling and asking to borrow a plunger, but that's not what my customers ever want. You show up with a plunger and they open their door wide...to let you in so that you can get to work already, you worthless peon. But I always stand there and look at them like, "Hi, I understand we've never met before so you don't know me yet. Allow me to introduce myself by saying that unless you take this plunger out of my hands and use it to handle your own butt business RIGHT NOW I am the type of girl that will leap at you, ninja-style, rip the numbers off your door, and shove them up your ass. We'll see how you like going number two then, when it is exceptionally sharp and unforgiving plundering its way through your outbox. Yeah, it's nice to meet you, too."
I know it's strange, but somehow eight dollars an hour doesn't compel me to help people wrangle their own Godzilla-sized ass children. Actually, I don't know that any amount of money would. Let's just say if you see me behind the desk when you check in, you can safely assume you'll be coping with your crap, and I'll be coping with mine (the sight of you, for starters). Thanks.

Fantasies

We're sold out tonight, which is sweet and sucky at the same time. Sweet because we don't have to process any walk-in customers, sucky because it doesn't stop them from walking through the door and pestering us about vacancies we don't effing have. Typically what happens is a customer with no reservation comes in, asks if we have any rooms, we say we don't, and then they leave. (SIDE NOTE TO MY CHEAP ASS BOSS: It would be nice if we had a no vacancy sign!) But occasionally, if I am lucky like I was five minutes ago, I get to have the following type of exchange with pushy would-be lodgers:

Woman: Do you have any rooms?
Me: No, I'm sorry, we're sold out.
Woman: You're sold out. Do you know of any other hotels in the area that might have rooms?
Me: I honestly can't say.
Woman: Do you have public computers or internet access here so I could find out?
Me: No, we sure don't. Sorry.
(Woman leaves, experiences moment of genius, then comes back.)
Woman: Are you sure you don't have any rooms? I mean, like, do you have rooms that you're just holding for people that might become available later on?
Me: NO.
Exeunt.

Now I know we already discussed how people tend to repeat what I've said when they hear something they don't like. However, we may not have touched on the fact that they also expect me to have Mapquest, the Weather Channel, the phone book and a crystal ball installed somewhere on my person. Customers are constantly being let down by their own sadly misguided optimism. Here's one real life example of a customer feeling that special kind of disappointment that only unmet expectations can create:

REALITY
Customer: Do you know how to get to the nearest ski resort from here?
Me: No, I don't, I'm sorry.
Customer: (amazed) You're supposed to know everything! You work at a hotel!

If their expectations had been met, this is how that would have gone down:

CUSTOMER FANTASY
Me: You're right, sir. I'm so sorry. Allow me to point the way to your desired destination at once. And please accept this suitcase full of hundred dollar bills by way of further apology.
Customer: That's more like it!

And my own hotel dreams come true? Not so much unrealistic as they are flat out disrespectful...

MY FANTASY
Me: I put in an order for a brand new third eye this morning. Hopefully it'll get here soon so I can stop embarrassing myself. SYKE! I was just saying that because you are clearly retarded past the point of all assistance and I thought you might actually believe it.
Customer: You are the worst hotel clerk ever!
Me: Well, sir, here's a quarter. Perhaps you should use it to call your mother, whom I suspect is the only person alive or dead interested in listening to your ear-splitting drivel. Now please, step away from the desk before I use this mallet to strike my boss's dinner gong. Thank you!

You know, I think I like this whole fantasy dialogue thing. I'm going to keep doing it for the rest of this entry...

REALITY
Customer: Do you have any rooms tonight?
Me: No, we're sold out.
Customer: You're sold out? Do you have just one, with a king-sized bed?
Me: No. We're completely booked.
Customer: Or a queen? I would take a queen.
Me: NO.
CUSTOMER FANTASY
Customer: Are you sure?
Me: Wait...it says here we do have one room left, but I don’t know if you’re going to want it. It comes with a king-sized bed, a jacuzzi tub, a lifetime subscription to the Playboy Channel, and the Swedish Olympic bikini sponge bath team. Would that suit you?
Customer: Why, yes. Yes it would. (sniffs air) Is that...money I smell?
Me: It's free open safe night here at the hotel. You're the first person that noticed, which means you get all the cash! Fifty million dollars!
Customer: Whoopee! This is the best night of my life!
MY FANTASY
Customer: Is that...chicken I smell?
Me: It's probably whatever is left of the last person who came in here and asked for a room. I used my boss's copy of the Necronomicon to summon an army of zombies, and they totally cooked and ate that guy. I loved the whole thing so much I am hoping to see it again quite soon.
(The customer wisely backs away.)

REALITY
Customer: Do you have any rooms?
Me: No.
Customer: What? I'll have you know I was just over at the hotel across the street, and they told us you had rooms.
Me: Really? Well, we don't.
CUSTOMER FANTASY
Me: Hotels are like secret clubhouses maintained by nine-year-olds--you can't get in without knowing the password. But you just said it! Congratulations, you're in!
Customer: And it's free, right?
Me: Oh, you know it, bro! You can stay here as long as you want! And lap dances from Adrianna, our resident skank, are on the house as well!
Customer: Score!!
MY FANTASY
Me: Don't make me pull out my retard whistle, sir.
Customer: WHAT?
Me: You know how they have whistles that only dogs can hear? Well, I have a retard whistle, and it has personally broken the eardrums of better morons than yourself. So give me a reason and you'll be watching television with the closed-captioning on in no time.

Boy howdy, that was fun. I could go on and talk about some of the other nutty things that happened tonight, like the fat people that were shaking their butts and pantomiming sexual acts next to the elevator, or Steve going into a room to fix some guy's remote control and seeing his wife topless in the bathroom, but I think instead I'll just install barf bag stations near all of the security cameras. Because all of this nonsense is enough to make you sick sometimes, really.

Nice

When I came in to work today, Ashley told me that Jackie hired two new people (a guy and a girl) and she warned me to "be nice" to the guy because...
*He wears a tie
*He used to be a Boy Scout
*He mentions the fact that he used to be a Boy Scout with unsettling frequency
*He is fragile-looking (a.k.a. potential lachrymal laboratory)
*He's twenty-three, but looks like he's twelve
*I'm mean
Apparently the moment Ashley and Steve saw this young man they assumed I was going to "eat him alive." So I had to remind them that our boss is the one who eats people and that I only use my cruelty against those who truly deserve it. Besides, if he's a crier I'm definitely not interested in being responsible for unleashing that nonsense. (Actually I don't want to see anybody's cry-barfing side so shut it off already.) And, might I add, it's not like I'm the only mean person working here--Steve likes to read me ads in the paper about women selling off their old Lane Bryant merchandise in case I'm interested, for example. Case closed.
I think there are two types of people in the world: criers and non-criers. There are also people who barf when they're sick and people who don't barf. The two things seem to go together; I think you'd be hard-pressed to find a crier who didn't barf or vice-versa. I myself have not done either since December 1993. Top that, cry-barfers!

Questions

It seems like there are way too many questions and not enough answers in this life. Here are just a few of the things I mulled over today:
1. How come I'm able to complete the Gold level Sudoku puzzles but have trouble finishing the Silver?
2. Why did a level three sex offender win the lottery that one time? Does the Lord actually find such things amusing, or what? Also, where might that sumbitch live?
3. How come so many of my co-workers have been disappearing lately? Potentially related query: Who does my boss think she is, coming to work with dried blood crusted in the corners of her mouth (the same way drug addicts have white powder adorning their nostrils) and expecting me to answer the phone because she hasn't yet finished masticating the last person who came to the front desk and complained? I'm telling you, I've had it with her demands. If she doesn't knock it off I am going to march her over to the front door and push her out into direct sunlight. We'll see how she likes that mess.
4. There are so many hotels in the area. Why do people have to keep patronizing mine?
5. Why did I take a job in customer service when I hate working, customers, service, and everyone who has ever lived or died?
Anyone who thinks they can help me solve these mystifying riddles of the world should let me know ASAP. Thank you!

Repeats

One thing that consistently sends me on the hunt for something sharp is when customers repeat what I just said when they've heard they don't like. Here are some recent examples (NOTE: They are going to sound like I made them up for the sake of hyperbole but I didn't):

Customer 1: Do you have any rooms on the sixteenth?
Me: I'm sorry, we're completely sold out on the sixteenth.
Customer 1: You're completely sold out on the sixteenth.

Customer 2: Do you have any jacuzzi rooms this evening?
Me: We're sold out of those tonight.
Customer 2: You're sold out of those tonight. So you don't have any?

Customer 3: Do you happen to have any rooms with king-sized beds?
Me: We're sold out of king rooms.
Customer 3: You're sold out of king rooms? Completely? So you don't have even, like, one?

At first, these exchanges merely annoyed me. But then I thought, perhaps I'm looking at this the wrong way and my customers are simply like the woman from earlier with the wine bottle. Maybe they believe that, with enough dogged determination, I will hear the phrase I just said being repeated back to me, look at the computer a second time, and realize I've made a terrible mistake. Then, in this crazy backwards land which they've created within their clearly overtaxed minds, I would say something like, "Of COURSE we have king rooms, sir! I was just messing with you, you ol' sumbitch." Or, "That was a test, and you passed. Congratulations, sir! You win this hotel, and all its spoils."
I think it is now clear to anyone within the sound of this blog that my customers belong inside the highest echelons Mensa has to offer. Eventually society will be made up primarily of these geniuses running around handling all their own business like the big boys that they are until people like me working in customer service are no longer needed. And, seeing as how we ain't busy at the moment, us mentally slower folks are gonna go continue to look for something sharp now.

Corkscrew

The woman in 501 called and asked if I could bring a corkscrew up to her room because she was having trouble opening a bottle of wine. She said she tried using her room key, but it broke. Then she tried her Mercedes car key and that broke too. So now she was thinking maybe she was ready to use something like an actual bottle opener. I asked her to come get it herself because I can't leave the desk unattended when I'm working alone. She showed up about five minutes later, and it was not pleasant: her hair was mussed, she smelled like unwashed feet, and she appeared to be intoxicated to the point where the thought of opening yet another bottle of the bubbly was perhaps one to be reconsidered. To top it all off, since my antics at the hotel greatly amuse the good Lord Himself, the one corkscrew I had did not work. This was something I hadn't previously realized, since I don't pass the time here with mimosas. The bottom part of the device, which is supposed to drill into the top of the cork, had snapped off. Unfortunately, it took my drunken customer some time to understand this, even though I kept providing helpful hints such as:
*It's not working
*It's broken
*Seriously, it's broken
*Look, now you're holding it wrong
*Well, I guess it doesn't matter that you're holding it wrong, seeing as how it's BROKEN
*You know what? Just give it to me
*Is your very first memory one of being born inside a test tube, or what?
The best part, however, was when she proceeded to sloppily inundate me with her pain. The pain of spending fifty dollars on a bottle of wine and then not being able to open it. The pain of losing a nice Mercedes key in the pursuit of said elusive wine. The pain of hotels not providing functioning corkscrews to customers that are paying good money for a night's lodging. Yes, she was the epitome of that most deadly of combinations: besotted woe and a mouth filter that committed suicide when she was three. The woman simply would not leave me alone. It got to the point where I was considering showing her Jackie's vast collection of human clavicles (picked clean, of course) while pointing menacingly towards the door when she finally managed to prise the bottle open with a pair of scissors and stumbled away.
I really wish our guests wouldn't drink so much. This was not the first time I had to deal with someone who knocked back way more than they should have and then became excessively needy. They might as well just come out and say, "Take care of me! Change my didey!" Sadly, that childish behavior is not limited to drunks around here, and therefore I will be on "didey duty" until eleven o'clock. Sigh.

Apocalypse

I thought you might like to know that 211's mother just called and cussed me out improper (I say improper because no one does it proper except for myself). It was basically a long, ugly stream of "How dare you ruin my daughter's trip!" and "I don't give a s**t where the manager is, she's on call for the hotel as far as I'm concerned so you'd better get a hold of her RIGHT NOW" and "How would you like it if you were on vacation and you had to keep changing rooms? You wouldn't like it at all" and of course "I stay at hotels all the time and nothing like this has ever happened because at other hotels they actually care about their customers and making things right for them" and on and on and ON. But the best part was when I kept my head and explained the situation as calmly as possible, which caused the mother to abruptly change her tune and apologize for her nasty outburst. (NOTE TO READER: I'm not joking. Don't ask me how this happened because I don't understand it either.) She even went so far as to say she was going to call Jackie in the morning and tell her what a wonderful employee I am.
Naturally, this odd turn of events gives me pause, and now I'm pretty sure some kind of Rapture is imminent. I mean, come on--GB helping some undeserving a**hole to the point where they can't stop singing her praises is the first sign of the Apocalypse, is it not?
At any rate, you need to start loadin' up them nuclear shelters now--strap yourselves in and hold on tight because when the Day of the Locust comes and the Rain of Fire starts falling, you are not going to be able to say I didn't warn you.

Okay

Apparently the couple in room 211 didn't read that last part about me going b**ch bowling because they don't seem to have the good sense to fear me. During the past two hours they have clogged their toilet, called me to complain about it, demanded a new room, got one, then swore at me when I called them (I was just trying to make a report for Jackie's records about the room switch). So allow me to remind you, 211: I can and will go b**ch bowling with your femurs, and then afterwards have an unrepentant, celebratory serving of Lucky Charms out of what's left of your skulls. Okay? Okay.

Snobs

About fifteen minutes ago a woman came in and asked me if she could see a room before committing to rent it. I hate when people ask that because they're usually pretty snotty and it always seems like they're saying "Sleeping here is probably worse than going to a landfill, smearing myself with the fecal matter of various stray animals that are unwell, and pulling a sharp, jagged piece of plywood over myself for warmth while wishing the Angel of Death would come and take me away from all the suffering in the world, but I need to know for sure" without actually saying it. But I, hotel peon that I am, must sasslessly hand over a key and let her go do whatever she feels like, within reason.
After a time she returned and said: "I don't mean to sound like a snob, but I was expecting something a lot nicer. Can you recommend something nicer nearby?" I kind of want her to get adopted by everybody's favorite pregnant lady. I'm telling you, one day of fishbowling and freebasing and Snob Woman would be begging us for any room we had available, even if it was a storage closet in the swampy-smelling pool area. But alas, the pregnant lady doesn't want more children (I of course am basing this on the fact that she doesn't want the one she's got on the way now).
So I told Snob Woman about some other hotels in the area per her request, but she soon became irritated when she realized I didn't have maps leading her directly from here to there. Eventually she huffed out of the lobby, but not before leaving a fine mist of disgust and disapproval in her wake. Snobs! Can't live with 'em, can't make pins out of their femurs and go b**ch bowling (because they can afford way better attorneys than you). Well, you can't, anyway. But I totally will.

TMI

The pregnant lady is still here. At the moment she is outside in a car with her husband and they're both smoking. I can tell because of the copious amount of smoke pouring out of the open windows on either side (I suppose the fetus should be grateful they aren't fishbowling). When I arrived at work Ashley wasted no time in telling me she saw them drinking beer in the lobby. So at this point I'm not really sure if I can or even should spin this into some sort of hyperbole (as is my wont) or if I should just go beat the s**t out of them. (But if I did that I could accidentally hurt the fetus, which is never my wont.) Jury's still out on this one, so...moving on for now.
READER WARNING: Do NOT read past this point unless you enjoy vomiting so hard that it shoots out both your nostrils, Play-Doh playset-style.
Today Ashley said our boss told her that when she gets her period her breasts increase by one entire cup size. I took this to mean that she's officially lost her f**king mind and therefore needs some guidance in her life. So listen up, Jackie: TMI! We're not your friends--we are employees! Please at least pretend that you want and deserve our respect! Stop publicly thumbing through your sizable catalogue of sickening foibles! An owl pellet would be a better boss! At least it's less disgusting! Damn, you know what? Everyone is disappointing me today! I'm out of here!

Filter

Although I was grateful to have a new person around because I figured they would end up with the morning shift I so despise, I did not have a good feeling about Warren* because he was full of tall tales and ADD-fueled energy. During a period of down time, Steve and I were sitting around doing crossword puzzles and the like but Warren seemed to be bored to tears. Honestly I think his pent-up energy may be what caused his mouth filter to malfunction (okay, okay--he probably never had one to begin with). A mouth filter is this essential little thing that connects your brain to your lips and tells you what is acceptable to say out loud and what isn't. Unfortunately Warren's filter had gone on hiatus, probably to a sanitarium. And so he yammered on ceaselessly about various things he really should have kept to himself. These are just a few of the gems I collected from him over a two-day period:
*He's twenty-three and his girlfriend slash baby mama was an eighteen-year-old "good girl" when he met her but he's since corrupted her so now she drinks and smokes and they have a five-month-old son
*His mother-in-law (I'm not sure why he calls her that because he and his girlfriend aren't married. When he asked me if I was married I asked him back and he recoiled in horror and said he would never do something so stupid) hates him but that apparently doesn't stop her from constantly calling his cell phone and leaving messages reminding him to go to church
*He used to work over at this pizza place down the street but he got fired for dealing drugs out of their back room
*He was going to join the Coast Guard but decided against it (good idea, since the last place this guy wants to be is anywhere he could "accidentally" be lost at sea)
I'm guessing that now you understand why I thought Warren was so obnoxious. I didn't think he would last long around here because we do get lulls where there isn't anything to do and if you don't like that then this is definitely the wrong job for you. Plus people with mouth filter malfunctions never last long anywhere other than prison or the concrete foundation under my boss's house so yeah. That is why I wasn't surprised when I arrived for my shift today and discovered that Warren had been fired because Jackie found out about him dealing those drugs. (SUGGESTION TO ALL HOTELS: Perhaps this is why you should start performing background checks? No? Just a thought!) I wasn't the one who told on him, but I am glad he's gone because now I won't have to listen to any more of his bottomless crap. Hopefully Jackie will hire someone else soon, because mark my words
people--I am not getting stuck with that morning shift!
Also newsworthy tonight: I saw a scary, braless, heavily pregnant lady outside smoking. When she came back in I gave her the evil eye, but I don't think she noticed. (After all, it is the only kind of eye I have.)
Brainless skanks really piss me off. I mean, we get it--you're a useless bitch and you hate yourself. But why should your children have to pay for that? The kid hasn't even been born yet and you're already unable to stop yourself from abusing it. Better to just give the baby to my boss. Yes, she'd swallow it whole, boa constrictor-style, but at least it wouldn't suffer through an existence plagued with pain, torment, stints of prostitution, and various unnatural addictions the way it doubtlessly will starting the moment it goes home from the hospital with its mother, Grendel. All I can say is please call the authorities on this woman if you see her.
Oh, and I just heard someone disrespecting our cookies. (And they're chocolate chip tonight, too.) Some anal masticator was talking to his friend in the lobby and he told him our cookies "look amazing, but have a funky aftertaste." I'll show you aftertaste, a**hole--in the form of a tooth-chipping, golf cleat tap dance extravaganza on your face. Now take it back!

Cash

If one of our customers wants to pay their bill in cash at check-in, they have to provide a thirty dollar deposit. When I tell them this, they almost always reward me with one of the following zero-IQ-required responses:
1. Do I get the thirty dollars back in the morning? (No, I pocket it in order to finance my illegal backyard wrestling federation. I did say it was a deposit and not a fee, didn't I? Did you actually finish the fourth grade or was your teacher just Mary Kay Letourneau?)
2. Why? (Legally? Because we can charge your credit card if you make a long distance phone call or mess up your room and we can't really do that when you pay cash. Off the record? Because my boss can and does feed on suffering alone. Believe it. You know how sharks can smell blood in the water? Well, Jackie springs forth like a cheetah crossed with a Dementor every time someone frowns, pouts, bitches, or huffs. So watch your back!)
3. You're going to lose a lot of customers with a rule like that. (Hopefully starting with you, right, sir?)
4. You can keep your room then. Bye! (This happened today and at first I was like, no way. I just couldn't accept that I had been served--and on my own turf, no less. So I cried for what was probably a good two hours and did a lot of soul-searching before I finally told everyone reading this about how none of that ever happened and all I actually thought was: Sweet, one less scrotal boil in need of lancing.)
5. I heard the deposit gets waived if the person checking in is particularly good-looking. (I heard that too, but that obviously doesn't apply in your case, now does it, sir? I mean, what would you call those things on the side of your neck--rabid tumors or vehement goiters? Now ante up before I bulldoze over the rest of your feelings, feeb.)
Yes, I clearly did myself proud when I selected "dealing with the disturbingly vapid populace" over something perhaps less suitable such as "millionaire" "best selling author" "toilet bowl cleanser enthusiast" or "anything else" out of the ol' job hat. Don't let me forget to congratulate myself later with a hearty stab in the colon. (Your colon--unlike my boss, I don't enjoy pain.)
Okay, okay, if you insist--before I sign off, here's one more tale concerning motel madness: two men from a nearby restaurant came in to see Jackie today about placing an ad in our business directory. When Steve went into the back room to get her, she said, "Are they here to rape me?" and then proceeded to laugh hysterically, undead hyena-style. Yes, in her wizened sea hag mind, rape is on par with watching a classic episode of Beavis and Butthead. Although I suppose it's also possible she was just hoping that's what they wanted. Either way, she probably shouldn't concern herself with getting raped, since rapists (or anybody, really) tend to keep their distance from people who have been known to skeletonize a man in less than two minutes, piranha-style. I for one have not seen her husband in quite some time. Also I'm pretty sure most men aren't into crocodile-skinned, snaggle-toothed, harpy-voiced mummies from the fifth dimension. Good night everybody!

Hiring

We're finally starting to get some new people, which is great because a) that means I won't have to do the morning shift and b) I will not have to do the morning shift. I was starting to wonder if Jackie actually planned on bringing in anyone new or if she was just going to continue perpetuating this whole "now hiring" ruse in order to get some fresh meat through the front door (literally). I was also wondering if anyone ever made it past the interview process. I mean, come on...surely someone noticed that one of the job requirements here is "must taste like chicken" or that Jackie often salivates like one of Pavlov's lab animals whenever someone looks particularly palatable. But today a new person started and another person was being interviewed in the back room, so all seems promising as far as getting some distance between me and that damnable morning shift. Now if only it were as easy to do the same with my boss...but alas, that is a gargantuan task which requires silver bullets, garlic, Raid, eye of newt, a child's laughter and the like. And even then there are no guarantees. You know?

Tickets

If my life here at the hotel was a musical it would probably be called Those Damn Tickets. (Or possibly The Phantom of the Opera—No Wait, That's My Boss.) Jackie called about five minutes ago and said I sold them incorrectly again. Apparently yesterday when I was selling those accursed attraction tickets at the Friday price (because it was Friday) I should have been selling them at the Saturday price because it was after five o'clock. This is how she explained it:

Jackie: No one can use them after five o'clock, you know?
(Sounds of her feeding on half-deceased former guests in background. It's exactly as squishy and terrifying as your imagination thinks it is)
Me: (Silence)
Jackie: I'm also calling because I was wondering why you let the people in 417 change rooms three times. We can't be letting people go from room to room like that, you know?
(Pause; sound of kidneys being devoured by horrible undead creature of the night)
Me: (Disgusted silence)
Jackie: What if it was summer time? (Sound of drinking tears) We wouldn't have any rooms for them to switch to, you know? (Chewing vigorously on part of someone I once worked with and had simply assumed was fired...UNTIL NOW) Okay, I'll talk to you later.

Any day now that holy water I ordered is going to come in the mail and I'll be able to save us all. Any day now.

PPS

A woman just came over and complained that people were--prepare to be horrified--being too loud by the pool. She said I really needed to go and do something about it because everyone was having way too much fun in there. She added that she felt she couldn't stay in the pool area any longer because it was just too crazy. Then she skulked back up to her room. So what do you suppose happened next?
You already know. Seeing as how I am head of Pool Protection Services here at the hotel, I immediately swung into action. Yep, I got me another cookie. And I forgot all about everything else. Mmm…chocolate chip.
After scarfing a few cookies I felt tempted to call the people over at Guinness because I am pretty sure I've broken all the records concerning the number of times a person can say/hear the following in one evening:
1. "Wal-Mart is about seven minutes down on your left."
2. "We don't accept pets."
Typical customer reply: "Oh, no. Now my wife/son/girlfriend/dog will have to stay in the car." Here they pause for what they feel is inevitable raucous laughter on my part and when none comes they lunge for the nearest box of Kleenex because here come the waterworks, you f**king crybabies. I mean, damn. Let's try strappin' on them big boy pants the next time we travel, all right?
3. "Where are the strippers at?" Actually, I was only asked this once, but it's sure worth mentioning, isn't it? It came from an inebriated woman and her ten-year-old son (her son is the one who asked). When they noticed the mirth failing to creep across my face the woman slurred, "It's a joke. You're supposed to laugh." Oh, rest assured that I will laugh--at your questionable child-rearing abilities after you leave. Because the fact that your ten-year-old is already looking to pay for sex is a snort riot of the highest order, isn't it, you bucket of skank?
4. "The elevator is right over there. No, that way. That way. Look where my finger is pointing, not at my finger."
5. "No, over THERE. Next to the sign that says 'elevator.' Okay, have a good night, and here's hoping you make it all the way to your room because we have five whole floors and I'm sure that must seem like a big ol' labyrinth to a Minotaur-sized tard patty such as yourself."
Really, really good times. And do not let me neglect to add that we have a junior varsity volleyball team staying with us tonight, which means girls in the hallway right next to my desk giggling and loudly sharing their favorite ringtones (no fewer than three hundred per girl). Now, I know what you're thinking because I always do: you're afraid I'm going to lose it and hurt one of them, or maybe all of them, possibly with my trusty golf cleats. Well, that is a valid concern, and thanks for caring, hippie, but I can maintain. I mean, think of it this way. When those locals come back with their firearms looking for a Final Showdown with yours truly I am going to have so many different who-do-I-use-as-a-human-shield-first options that I can't really be angry with these girls. They're going to save my life, and I appreciate it enough to put the golf cleats away. For now.

Locals

My hotel doesn't accept guests that live within a fifty mile radius of us. My boss is a cranky individual and accordingly does not want anyone touching her collection of roughly severed handicapped infant heads, telling the authorities about her nightly feeding frenzies down at the morgue, or having wild parties if she hasn't been invited (and locals are the people most likely to have them). So anytime a local wants to make a reservation I have to explain our policy to them, which usually elicits the following, completely rational response: "Don't give me that. You will rent a room to me. You will. You will. What? You won't? Are you serious? You can't be serious. That's f**king ridiculous. You inbred dung-ingesting kidney stone. If I ever find out where you live, I am gonna cut out your esophagus, put it in a blender, set it on 'mince', and then force feed it to you. You pudding-filled colonic obstruction. Damn I hate you" etc. My typical response to such an undeserved tirade (usually delivered to the dial tone because they've already hung up) is: thank you. Thank you for hanging up because your voice is like Britney Spears trapped inside an abattoir and I was honestly two seconds away from coming through the telephone and stomping on your throat with my golf cleats until you begin to sound like the finest of woodwind instruments on account of your newly hole-filled breathing passages. After all, everyone who knows me understands that I cannot be CCDR: Controlled, Contained, Denied, or Restrained. So accept it, because I have.
One prime example of the anger slash denial that seems to thrive in the heart of every local would be this evening when I took a phone call from a woman who lives about five miles away. I told her, not impolitely, that we couldn't accommodate her and I explained why. After trying for some time to get me to change my mind, she hung up on me. I didn't think anything of it (other than "If you ever show your doubtlessly ugly face in this hotel then I'll see you in the ICU") until a reservation popped up on my screen not ten minutes later. Apparently she went to our website and booked a room there since I wouldn't do it. I tried to call her several times using the phone number she provided but it just rang and rang. So Steve and I cancelled the reservation and resolved to tell her in person when she showed up for check-in. And about ten minutes ago her husband came in here and tried to do just that, much to our INSERT HERE WHATEVER WORD MEANS SOMEWHAT SICKENING MIXTURE OF CHAGRIN AND DISGUST, YET ADDITIONALLY SLIGHT AMUSEMENT AND PITY. After we both explained again why they couldn't be our guests, and I helpfully added that I already spoke to his wife regarding the no-locals-no-how-now-f**k-off policy, he came at us with (I swear) "So, do you have any rooms?" I'll tell you one thing--whatever our town's genius quota is, when this guy moved in, he obviously upped it. And by upped it I mean attacked it, felled it, and poured corrosive acid over it until it was reduced to nothingness, which is exactly what resides between his (and his wife's) ears.
Steve and I watched as he went back outside to tell his wife the bad news, and they sat in their car for quite some time before finally driving off (we speculated that they may have been hopefully combing the backseat in search of firearms). All I can say now is: if those two ever come back they are going to regret it because I'm wearing my golf cleats tonight and I'm looking to dance on someone's vital organs. So...yeah. Stay somewhere else this evening.

Flyers

Remember how I got that free pizza the other night? I knew you would, since an evening like that goes down in the annals of legend (i.e., this blog). Well, Steve found their flyers in the garbage today and we couldn't figure out how they'd gotten there, so he put them back on the counter. Then this guy comes over with the flyers in his hand and says he threw them out. Apparently he did it because ABC hasn't paid for an ad in our hotel restaurant directory so they're not allowed to leave anything in our lobby. Naturally, my reaction to this was along the lines of this is news to me, I didn't even know we had a directory, why doesn't anyone ever tell us anything important, they gave me a free pizza so now I don't give a f**k if they land an airplane made out of sandpaper loaded with incontinent senior citizens across your giant forehead, you are a corporate sphincter, etc., etc. This is the same guy who's been creeping me out for a week because he is constantly smoking outside (that's not the creepy part, damn! Can't you be more patient and at least get through the sentence first before you start questioning me? Actually, scratch that. Don't EVER question me) and he always stands behind this huge pillar so you can't see him at first if you're walking towards the front door and then at the last minute you notice him and it's just weird so I don't like him. The funniest thing, however, was that the whole flyer situation really, really bothered Steve, and he basically flipped out and started ranting. He even went and got the flyers out of the trash again and said he was going to put them back on the counter once the a**hole checks out. It was refreshing because typically I am the one bitching and freaking out (I'm sure you noticed) and for once it wasn't me. Yay!

Business

I just found out that the guy who left me the angry note last night came back this morning and checked in...but not before he complained about how rude I was. He said he stayed somewhere else yesterday because I was on the phone and refused to come out and wait on him. Well, in addition to reiterating the widely-known fact that I didn't care yesterday and I still don't care now, I have news for that guy: he's a tard. After all, the note said I lost his business and we didn't, since he is going to be staying here (and for a total of four nights, no less--that's plenty of business). Also, when I looked up his room information it said he wasn't even the one picking up the tab, which technically means we would have lost that person's business had we lost any at all (which, as mentioned previously, we didn't). So now everyone knows he's a moron and a liar. Little did he know I would be giving him the business...logically and in this blog. SNAP.
I'll admit things like this are a little disheartening sometimes. It's kind of sad to know that all I have to look forward to around here is tending to the seemingly endless stream of refugees from Idiot Island. Although I did have one awesome customer today--he tipped me three dollars after I sent a fax for him. Yeah! Three dollars baby! That’s like getting two weeks’ pay in advance! Dreams become reality at this hotel! Whoo!

Awesome

Two totally sweet things happened tonight:
1. ABC came and brought me a free pizza! They wanted to leave some menus in the lobby and in exchange they offered me the pizza, which was delicious. Yeah! Stop wishing you were me!!
2. My boss called (I know, but this story does have a happy ending) and was yapping my ears into early retirement as usual when a man came up to the front desk. I kept trying to get her off the phone but that's as futile as trying to stuff a Portuguese man-of-war into an electrical outlet, so I was stuck. Needless to say, by the time I finally hung up, the man was gone. However, he was thoughtful enough to leave me a little note, which read: You just lost my business--we'll be staying elsewhere. Well, I'll admit I was completely floored...with delight. Who knew it was that easy to get rid of pesky customers?
Why, you might ask, do I not regret losing a potential sale? So many reasons, really. Patrons of this hotel typically suck worse than having to wear a colostomy bag, for one thing. These are people who are full of rage, but it isn't a healthy, dynamic red rage like I myself proudly possess. It is a nefarious rage. It is a rage without purpose or direction. They can't carry something that ugly and terrible around inside themselves for too long. And that is why they tend to carelessly release it--sometimes on their spouses (Lord help them), sometimes on that hooker they frequent, and sometimes on low-wage peons such as myself. During one of their tantrums, they might say something like: "Whoever cleaned my room this mornin' stole my expensive down pillow what I got at the Pottery Barn and I am personally gonna see to it that they pass a law in this state so that becomes a killin' offense." But what they mean is: "I am angry because I am only forty-five years old yet prompted by necessity to wear Depends undergarments. Since there's nothing I can do about that seeing as how God created me purely for his own amusement, I am going to unleash this dark weight in my soul upon you, hapless hotel clerk. Here, take it. Take my anger. That's right. Oh, I like it when you suffer. More. MORE!!"
At any rate, I'm sure the man who left me that note thought I was idly chatting away with a friend or something and got mad because he had to wait, but he is still a rude bastard and it was super sweet that he left so I didn't have to deal with any of his crap. Plus, may I add, like I care? This isn't my hotel, you malfunctioning catheter. I get paid whether you check in or not. I ain't workin' on commission. SNAP!
Oh, I know what you're thinking: Now the rest of my shift is going to be boring because I used up my awesomeness quota for the evening. We'll see, but hopefully you're wrong like you always are. Yeah! Free pizza baby!!

BFDK

The funniest thing I've seen since I started working here (other than the calendar over by the time clock which would be offensive seeing as how it has half-naked ladies on it but is actually humorous since it's been defaced and now all the women have mustaches, oversized eyeglasses, and bushy leg hair) has to be the Bodily Fluid Disposal Kit. I almost typed Bodily Function Disposal Kit, which would be even funnier. Clean that pesky diarrhea explosion in half the time! However, I'm pretty sure that since it says Bodily Fluid Disposal Kit they're looking to clean something even more diabolical than butt stroganoff. I would like to inspect the box a little further (perhaps there's more information on the back about its various uses) only I don't dare touch the thing. If I ever work with Rob again there will be more on this subject because I'll make him do it.
Also, I can't help but notice that right next to the BFDK there is a box of menstrual cramp tablets. Oh the wacky hi-jinks that would doubtlessly ensue if I were able to proffer a package of these staunchers of the dreaded red tide as if they were merely breath mints to every guest, male or female, who dared to raise my blood pressure. I think I might try that tonight. I can already see their furious little faces in my mind's eye, huffing like teenagers with paint thinner, offended perhaps to the point of delivering physical blows. Pictures will be forthcoming should that actually happen.

Rudeness

One thing that never fails to cultivate a healthy red rage deep within the chambers of my heart is when customers come up to the desk when I'm clearly helping another person and start talking to me as if no one else is there. I hate when this happens with a passion heretofore unmatched by all other passions to the best of my knowledge, and I've read Manon Lescaut. Not two minutes ago I was speaking with a customer when a self-important skank walked up and started asking me about room rates. My response is always polite externally but internally it runs along the lines of: "I understand that you are a skank but I must ask that any further charming displays of your personality be postponed until a later time, preferably after I go home. NOW F**K OFF BEFORE I SHIV YOU WITH THIS HERE PLASTIC SPORK."
My very favorite part is when they act like "How rude are you?" when I say, "I'll be with you in a moment." Yes, I'm clearly the barbarian in this exchange. How dare I assist customers all willy-nilly on a first-come, first-serve basis? How could I act as though anyone else mattered? I sincerely apologize. Allow me to prostrate myself before you by presenting you with the remains of my skull once the orangutans have been loosed and are finished with me. No? You don't want it?
Oh well. At least it's easy to tell which customers are going to come over and interrupt you because they always exhibit behavior consistent with IHAIT: I'm Here And I'm Trash. It's pronounced "I hate" as in: "I hate skanks but they keep renting hotel rooms." Some examples of IHAIT are:
1. Cranky fewhales (ladies that are not necessarily straight out of Melville as they first appear but are heavy on the breathing and on the demands they make to front desk staff)
2. Over-exposed breasts (attractive-looking or no, always NO) with a blue vein running down the middle like an unholy road map to Easyville
3. Undyed roots or poorly attached hair extensions
4. An annoyingly shrill voice that could pierce medieval armor
5. Eyes that are glazed like pottery due to that evening's considerable whiskey intake
You can use IHAIT in virtually any situation to help you identify potentially troublesome guests. Oh goody, here comes one now. She looks like a cross between the films Ringmaster and Desperately Seeking Susan. Oh IHAIT, you never let me down!

Alcohol

My co-worker and I are thrilled today because my boss's husband had a doctor's appointment so she left right after my shift started. Too bad there’s no bar, or I'd be serving up mojitos right now. In the past, customers have asked me why we don't have a bar, and I think that’s a valid question. I'm pretty sure alcohol would turn my boss into a nicer person, as well as making her easier to be around (especially if everyone else was drinking as well). However, it's always possible she'd be one of those violent drunks--the kind where they come up and start talking to you but they're slurring everything they say and then out of nowhere they start punching you on the face and arms for no apparent reason, like they're your stepdad or something. But of course, if she ever did that to me she’d get laid out like quality flooring.
And it would be doubtlessly beautiful, like something out of a Splenda commercial. You know, where the screen is sprayed in the corners with what looks like liquid gold, and there's soft, pretty music playing in the background, and children are dancing and birds are chirping and then suddenly there I would be, opening up a non-dented can of Miracle Whup on Jackie. And then when it was over a butterfly would land in my hand and gently open and close its wings, as if to say, "Splenda is made from sugar so it tastes like sugar. Please continue to defeat the undead bosses of the world using your superior karate skills." Okay, I just re-read that and it seriously sounds like I've been drinking. Time for a cookie break.

Hippies

I for one think a prime example of the type of person my boss is resides on the back of her office door. It's a short message about how the front desk staff needs to remember to drop their keys off and keep the laundry door locked, and it's signed by the previous manager of the hotel. So this means when my boss started working here, rather than take the sign down and print out a new one (because let's face it, that would have been somewhat professional), she simply drew a thin line through the other manager's name and scrawled her own beneath it. I can't elucidate with words what specifically about this annoys me and elicits my hatred but I do know I'm not the only one here who feels this way.
Okay, I know what you're thinking: Sure, she may be lazy, unprincipled, smelly, possible cemetery refuse and so on, but she saved a tree by recycling paper, right? She can't be that bad if she's saving trees. Well, if that's what you think then this might be a good time to remind all the hippies they're reading the wrong column. Thank you.

Complaints

Our guests really enjoy complaining--especially about the front desk staff. I mean those sumbitches just thrive on reporting our various offenses to management and corporate headquarters alike. For your reading pleasure, I have thoughtfully compiled a top five list of common grievances:
1. We sit in chairs. No, really. Sitting...in...chairs. I know, I know. The iron maiden is too good for zoo-residing sloths such as ourselves. Allegedly, sitting during any part of your eight-hour or more, no-break-except-for-maybe-your-back shift means you look idle and not at the ready. But guess what--last time I checked, I didn't need to be standing to be within reach of the special button under the counter that launches the f**king laser light show, confetti parade, and petting zoo whenever you walk through the door, you ignorant little twerps. The people who bitch about this probably never had to work a day in their lives.
2. We watch TV when there is nothing else to do. GASP. Can you imagine the acid reflux a customer must endure when they've majestically swept through our door--fully expecting the cherubs from on high to come down to the lobby, robe them, lotion their feet, and chariot them up to their room--but instead the first thing they see is the GB half-heartedly channel-surfing because they are one of three total guests checking in that evening? I am surprised the complaint papers filed on the subject aren't splattered with the telltale stains that only vomit can leave behind.
3. We are rude. Okay, I’ll give you this one. We are without question human (unlike our previously oft-mentioned boss) and sometimes customers annoy us. I honestly do not enjoy things such as:
A) Customers roughly stuffing cookies into their mouths and talking to me at the same time (thus exposing me to that dreaded trilogy of visually stunning half-chewed food, bile-smelling spittle, and the snorting that all too often accompanies such feral feasting)
B) Customers who are so helplessly retarded they've gone and locked themselves out of their room without any clothes on
C) Customers asking me for detailed out-of-state directions and when I can't help them they act like I should just take this uniform off right now because I am the worst representative of this or any hotel they can think of ("How is it she doesn't know how to get from our house in Michigan to the IKEA in Des Moines, Iowa without taking I-85? Unbelievable.")
D) Customers who call and ask for the hospital rate and I tell them in order to get it you have to have some sort of paperwork because let's face it, anyone can call and say they're visiting the hospital but they might not be, so you have to prove it, and they flip out and rant for a considerable period of time about how you're a liar before finally just hanging up on you and then calling back ten minutes later sweet as pie to see if you've changed your mind about needing that paperwork yet
E) Customers who want to pay their bill in cash but when they learn that requires a thirty dollar deposit they respond reasonably and like adults by completely losing their s**t and running down the list of reasons why your hotel stinks and so do you
F) Customers who interrupt my blogging because their room key doesn't work, or some such nonsense
I'm sorry, but that stuff just sets me off.
4. We don't listen attentively enough when they try to tell us stories about how they can't go to the bathroom unless there is a significantly wide area around the toilet because a gentleman who should really be keeping this gem of a tale to himself wants us to know he has to squat in a certain way in order to use the facilities or he can't use them at all and so on. This actually happened. The "gentleman" (who was elderly and probably senile, I'll admit) reported to management that we did not appear to be listening closely enough to True Tales of Tragedy on the Toilet, Volume 1 and furthermore he was not impressed with our all-too-obvious lack of compassion. Well, I have to concede we probably did not listen as diligently as we could have, although to be fair I don't know anyone who would actually want to be treated to the diarrhea diaries of old Joe--except for maybe other old Joes. I'm still young, so let's hope I have a few more years left on me before I too am forced to hunch like Quasimodo over the commode in order to relieve myself. And let us pray when that time comes I won't be heartlessly shunned by strangers who couldn’t care less about my poop. Moving on now.
5. We won't give them what they want, when they want and how they want it. This could be anything from extra towels to plunging a toilet (which you clogged, might I point out, all by yourself on your last visit to brown town) to a new desk chair to a new room to a comped room. Comped rooms are quite the popular request around here. I especially enjoy when people come down to the lobby wearing the gravest of expressions (as if to say, “How could you even give us these keys? Are you not aware that room 306 is an unkempt mausoleum consisting entirely of homeless people’s remains?"), look me right in the eye with absolutely no shame whatsoever because they weren’t raised right, and say: "The blanket on the bed has a hole in it the size of a particle of dust. This is unacceptable. We want a free room."
My response to the aforementioned bitchery? I think people simply expect too much. They want rock-bottom prices and Ritz Carlton-style accommodations and service. When reality sets in and they realize they're not getting what they didn't pay for, disappointment turns them into colicky, mommyless diaper babies. Which, actually, would explain all the talk about poop.