The Huffington Post Canada Hates Me.

(It’s not really a title. Just a statement of fact.)

How about…

“The Most Anti-Valentine’s Day Post Ever”?

No? Well that’s all I have. Let’s get this sucker started, shall we?

It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day…

It’s the same old song and dance for yours truly.

Let’s begin with a memorable Valentine’s Day quote in the form of a piece of advice I felt compelled to bestow upon a young man who was…. well, the quote speaks for itself, but I’ll elaborate in a moment.

“As a man, self-punishment is always going to have its place in your daily regiment… just keep it away from my hallways and you’ll live a happy, long, productive life, son.”

All right, so the obvious question is, “What the hell was that all about, Hook?”

The answer to that query lies, frustratingly enough, in another quote, one uttered between ragged gasps, and at full volume.

“YES… YES…. YES! I’M THE BADDEST… SEXIEST… BITCH OF ALL TIME! YOU’RE…. NEVER…. GOING BACK… TO YOUR… WIFE… AGAIN!”

And now, some context.

I arrived on the twenty-eighth floor this morning at 9 am, fully prepared to retrieve luggage for a stereotypical family, but when I emerged from the service area the aforementioned second quote filled the hallway.

And was repeated several times.

I dropped my head in a mixture of glee and disgust when I first realized just what I was listening to, and so I was still moving when I lifted my head, glanced down the hall and saw him.

He was a mere waif of a lad, attired in rumpled, stained clothes, with greasy hair and giant running shoes that cost more than my entire uniform. Just picture any of the lily-white boys from “Leave It to Beaver” after they’ve been cross-bred with any of the lads from “Malcolm in the Middle” or Oliver Twist.

Now picture any of them engaging in self-pleasure.

(Upon further reflection, don’t do that… you may wind up incarcerated.)

The act in question took place in the middle of the hallway, specifically, outside the room in question.

There was a housekeeper’s cart four rooms down, but otherwise, the hall was vacant save for us two. Fate wouldn’t have had it any other way, right?

 Any other bellman would surely have turned tail and ran. Or called security. Or swiped a bottle from room service and drank the memory away. But not me.

Not that I didn’t think about it. But I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t approach the situation with professional courage.

“Hey… uh… sir? Could you not do that here? Please?”

I know, I’m an animal. But the horny beggar carried on… carrying on, despite my bellman bravado.

“Little fella? I really need you to put away your…. ‘little fella’ away and move on. Okay?”

More silence. With the exception of the looped “sexy” declaration and the worst copulating soundtrack ever. Just imagine trying to get down and dirty to this tune…

Yep.

But back to Dennis the Horny Menace; he was so entranced by the sexy shenanigans unfolding on the other side of the thin press-board door he simply turned away from me without missing a beat. Literally. And so I did the only thing I could.

I went into service area, grabbed a spray bottle of “green mystery cleaning fluid” (the trademark is pending on that, so back off!), and sprayed the sticky little devil down until he snapped out of it. Once he calmed down – and zipped up – I escorted him to the elevator and dispensed my sage wisdom.

He then boarded the elevator and flipped me the bird as the doors closed.

And that was my first call of Valentine’s Day 2015. After that, it was one of those “Yes, that really happened”-type of days.

1)  I brought in a couple who are, at this very moment, no doubt defiling a life-size teddy bear. Seriously, the way they were eying that teddy bear would make Charlie Sheen shudder. And Charlie’s done things they outlawed in Tijuana decades ago.

2)  An older guest was seeing red for all the wrong reasons as I loaded his bags up. He muttered something about being misdirected while parking but sometimes it’s best to not to indulge a raging guest when you’re not in a position to actually resolve the situation. So I let him vanish into the hotel while I stored his bags and five minutes later, he’s in the lobby ranting and raving to a manager about the poor service he received. (Not from me, fortunately. Though to be honest, I wouldn’t have dropped to my knees in despair if I had been informed that I had failed to meet this schmuck’s expectations.)

3)  A gentleman answered the door dressed as Little Bo Peep. He had hired two escorts to be his sheep. (I can only assume his bags were filled with shears and sheep feed.) The worst part? This wasn’t the first time I’ve seen this scenario.

Obviously, I’d be a fool to try to follow that, so I’m going to wrap things up here. I’ve had a strange day; I’ve found myself humbled, and to be honest, enraged by another writer’s success. Don’t get me wrong, this was the first day I became aware of the writer in question, but they seem to be completely deserving of their success.

But I’m tired of failing at everything I set my sights on. I’m tired of sites like the Huffington Post Canada ignoring me; rejection isn’t as bad as being ignored, truthfully. I’m tired of seeing some of the most inane drivel imaginable make it to television while executives and publishers continue to deny my existence.

I’m just tired.

So from now on, I’m going to accept that a large portion of the world thinks I blow harder than a porn star… on any given day, really. I’ll write for myself and the world can suck it.

And in that romantic note, I bid you all farewell.