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!