As the summer of 2017 winds to a screeching halt an inescapable sense of irony has enveloped Niagara Falls; the season is ending but it feels as though the madness is just getting started.
Hookers, noticeably conspicuous by their absence this summer, have returned in droves. (Which is fitting when one remembers that they get driven for a living.)
Australians and their wonderful-but-not-really custom of not tipping are running around like dingoes searching for babies. Except, of course, what they’re really doing is looking for are service personnel to not tip. If I ever become a super villain I’m going to build a colossal robot baby with laser beam eyes to vaporize Australia. I’ll begin with the dingoes, naturally. Evil irony rocks.
It should be noted that there are several decent, kind, generous, hard-laboring folk among the degenerates – but as I always say, those people are boring so who wants to read about them?
And of course, the New York Jews have made their presence – and their coolers packed with kosher delicacies – known. One family in particular briefly lifted me out of my summer funk and made me forget my troubles and for that I will be forever grateful. I hadn’t loaded their luggage up on the valet deck and so I had no idea what awaited me when my elevator arrived at the fortieth floor of the North Tower, but based on the sheer number of weathered suitcases, Jewish tomes in clear plastic cases and the aforementioned kosher foods, I knew it was going to be good.
Yes, I realize my use of the word “good” may be puzzling but remember, friends, offbeat, supposedly-negative experiences with guests are this blog’s meat and potatoes. And so after a quick knock on the thin presswood door I was greeted by the tallest Jew I’d ever seen in the blackest of black coats.
Thus began my adventure with the Hebrew family from the Bronx who never met a gentile they didn’t drive around the bend.
As the father dished out detailed instructions regarding the placement throughout the room of every… single… item… on his cart, three of his
howler monkeys children were racing around the cart. Inevitably, one of his spawn jostled the cart and a cooler – which the guest, against my urging, had insisted be placed on top of the bags rather than on the bottom – fell off and deposited it’s bounty all over the hallway.
That was my breaking point.
“Jesus Christ!”, I muttered not-so-under-my breath.
Before the Ultimate Jewish dad could respond, his sole well-behaved child, a door mouse of an eight-year-old girl with jet black hair pinned ridiculously-tight to her head and a drab, blue, long dress emerged from the back of the room. She must have been part Kryptonian because she clearly heard my declaration of frustration and responded with one of the best comebacks ever.
“This again? My father said we already apologized for that! Don’t you people ever let anything go?”
See you in the lobby, friends…