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.