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!