Is there a downside to having three days off during March Break?
You bet your sweet bippy there is.
Just when I had mellowed out from the onset of Match Break, it was time to be dropped back into the war zone. And so I called upon my energy reserves and rolled out of bed this morning, not exactly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but ready for battle.
However, it has been a very strange day, one I could never have prepared myself for.
Mr. Wonderful, Kevin O’Leary, has decided to leave Dragon’s Den. Not only has this puzzled me (the spotlight is O’Leary’s crack and even with two additional shows on the air, I can’t understand how he could ever shake this vital aspect of his addiction), but the mystery deepened with the news that fellow Dragon Bruce Croxon will follow Kevin out of the lair when the season ends. Dragons’ Den is can’t-miss-TV in my house and the living room just won’t be the same without my father-in-law screaming, “Look what that bald-headed son of a bitch just did!”, on Wednesday nights.
For the record, I’m certain O’Leary has a back-up plan. He’s too valuable an asset for CBC to let go of easily. We’ll see, won’t we?
Oh well, there’s always Shark Tank.
As for the dragons and sharks I’ve been dealing with this week, they haven’t lost their touch in the least. A sweet, blue-haired (literally) old lady I just served couldn’t stop calling me “Howard”… even after she read my name tag.
My first call of the day, an Ivy League frat boy with a Patrick Batemanesque smile, asked me to assist in a final sweep of the room “Just to be sure, you know? I’ve been known to leave things behind in all kinds of places!”, and so I happily acquiesced to his request.
I’ll say it before you can, folks: I should have known better.
I headed right for the closet, slid the door to one side… and came face-to-puzzled-face with Ivy League Bateman’s girlfriend.
Who was shackled, yes, shackled, by the arms and legs and muzzled with a ball gag.
You know, in all my years in the hospitality trenches – as strange as they have been – I’ve never seen an actual ball gag? Isn’t that funny?
But I digress. I tend to do that.
At any rate, turns out Bateman’s girlfriend was actually his girlfriend and not his victim. Although, on the downside, her judgement left much to be desired. I was tempted to bolt the second I saw the whites of her bloodshot eyes, but I had to be certain of the reality I had walked into. Once I got the lay of the land: They were both morons who thought it would be funny to get one over on the bellman (it wasn’t), I did my job as best I could while shaking my head uncontrollably and cursing fate “Seventeen years doing this job and you start throwing every freak in your universe at me?”
In the end, I took my tip – which, in all honesty, should have included hazard pay – and watched them drive away… after giving them directions which included four left turns, of course.
After that, the day was fairly uneventful… until I met an older lady with young parts, that is.
“I got these in my divorce! You like ’em, honey?” Her name was Marilyn and she just divorced a Toronto stockbroker who was willing to foot the bill, so to speak, for new breasts. With one condition. “He gets to try them out whenever he likes!”
I’ll never understand people. Ever.
Anyhoo, Marilyn was traveling with a few friends who thought it would be fun to make the bellman blush.
“Give ’em a feel, sweetie! They’re awesome! You can see what $10,000 feels like! Consider it your tip!”
I replied with a detailed account of what my wife would do to me if she became aware of my decision to see just what one can purchase with $10,000 of a stockbroker’s money. Undaunted, one of the ladies offered to team-up with me – and immediately proceeded to grab a hold of Marilyn’s right breast and began squeezing like an old lady in the produce section. However, I refused to have any part of a soft core “Cougars Gone Wild” scenario.
That didn’t deter the cougs, I’m afraid.
“Come on, Robert! We’ll even pay you! Then you can take the money home to your wife! Women love money!”
This time, Marilyn wasn’t having any part of the plan.
“I’m not paying Robert to feel my new divorce $10,000 boobs!”
I’d be foolish to try to top that line. See you in the lobby, kids…