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!
Monday, June 27, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
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.
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!
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!
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
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.
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!
*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!
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!
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