A hotel is, for the Weary Business Traveler, a Home Away From Home.
Hundreds - even thousands - of miles from the Ancestral Manse, a hotel is a sanctuary. More than just a bed, a toilet, a sink, and a television, it is a temporary cocoon, a place where one may put one’s feet up and rest after a long day of Salt Mine Toil.
Typically, upon checking into a hotel, the first thing I do after hanging up my coat and tossing my briefcase on the desk is to go and take a crap. Don’t ask me why, but there’s something about a freshly-cleaned hotel room that calleth unto my bowel like a hypersonic whistle calleth unto Rover. Perhaps it’s an unconscious urge to mark my territory, howbeit temporary. Although pissing in the corners would work just as well for that purpose.
Sometimes, though, a hotel room is just a little too “homey.” For that, we can thank the poorly-trained and inefficient housekeeping staff.
An example. This morning, as I prepared to perform my morning ablutions, I noticed that there was an empty shampoo bottle in the tub’s soap dish. Hmmm, thought I. The housekeeper must’ve missed it. I tossed it out.
But then, as I got into the shower and started the water running, I saw, hanging over the shower curtain rod against the wall, a pair of boxer shorts.
Not my boxer shorts. My boys need a home.
Evidently, the previous occupant of the room had hung them up there. (To dry? And after what unspeakable act?) And the housekeeper, who had already demonstrated to me that she was not the sharpest knife in the drawer, had not seen them. Or ignored them, thinking their owner would return.
I looked at the boxers hanging there, mouth semi-agape. Little things normally don’t bother me, but this had me completely skeeved out. Should I 86 them? That would involve touching them! Yeef! As far as I was concerned, those suckers were radioactive. I was willing to bet they’d still be there when I got back to my room this evening.
Worst thing is, probably now, the housekeeper thinks they’re mine. But the smart money says they’re here to stay. I guess they feel right at home...away from home.
Update: Motherfuckers are still hanging there. Ecch.
Hundreds - even thousands - of miles from the Ancestral Manse, a hotel is a sanctuary. More than just a bed, a toilet, a sink, and a television, it is a temporary cocoon, a place where one may put one’s feet up and rest after a long day of Salt Mine Toil.
Typically, upon checking into a hotel, the first thing I do after hanging up my coat and tossing my briefcase on the desk is to go and take a crap. Don’t ask me why, but there’s something about a freshly-cleaned hotel room that calleth unto my bowel like a hypersonic whistle calleth unto Rover. Perhaps it’s an unconscious urge to mark my territory, howbeit temporary. Although pissing in the corners would work just as well for that purpose.
Sometimes, though, a hotel room is just a little too “homey.” For that, we can thank the poorly-trained and inefficient housekeeping staff.
An example. This morning, as I prepared to perform my morning ablutions, I noticed that there was an empty shampoo bottle in the tub’s soap dish. Hmmm, thought I. The housekeeper must’ve missed it. I tossed it out.
But then, as I got into the shower and started the water running, I saw, hanging over the shower curtain rod against the wall, a pair of boxer shorts.
Not my boxer shorts. My boys need a home.
Evidently, the previous occupant of the room had hung them up there. (To dry? And after what unspeakable act?) And the housekeeper, who had already demonstrated to me that she was not the sharpest knife in the drawer, had not seen them. Or ignored them, thinking their owner would return.
I looked at the boxers hanging there, mouth semi-agape. Little things normally don’t bother me, but this had me completely skeeved out. Should I 86 them? That would involve touching them! Yeef! As far as I was concerned, those suckers were radioactive. I was willing to bet they’d still be there when I got back to my room this evening.
Worst thing is, probably now, the housekeeper thinks they’re mine. But the smart money says they’re here to stay. I guess they feel right at home...away from home.
Update: Motherfuckers are still hanging there. Ecch.
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