Here are some of the disjointed things I think about on a daily basis.
Welcome to my waking nightmare.
Will I go to hell for tweets like this?
And if I do, will there at least be an opportunity for me to torture other damned souls? Like, will I get a reprieve every one-hundred-and-fifty years or so during which I can stick it (literally) to people who have committed similar offenses, like people who have mocked PETA executives or people who have torn the “Do Not Remove” tags from mattresses. Because that would totally make an eternity of suffering pass by easier.
Pot is legal now in Canada, so how long before everything becomes legal? For instance, how long before Trudeau tries to solve the immigration crisis he’s created by letting everyone go full Purge? Personally, my money’s on the new Canadians. They’re wirey devils.
Why can’t I shoot cheap people in the nuts with a bean bag gun? It’s the Christmas party season once more at the hotel and cheap guests are everywhere. They stay on their company’s dime so the room isn’t costing them anything, and yet, they refuse to pay for the services of trained professionals like myself. Why would they do that? I’m adorable!
These anteaters constantly approach my desk and refer to a luggage cart as:
- A wheelie thingy.
- One of those push buggies.
- A cartmobile.
- “Something for my shit! Like a cart thingy!”
- There are guests who can’t even find a word in their brain to describe a cart so they just stand in front of the Bell Desk and make a pushing motion with their arms.
And when I inform them the hotel is a full-service establishment they look at me as though I was speaking ancient Sumerian or some other language people refuse to use anymore. Like proper English.
And when I do help party guests I’m basically playing Russian roulette; sometimes I win and I walk away with a (small) gratuity for which I am eternally grateful, and sometimes, most of the time, I slink away defeated, regretting my decision to not marry that Jewish chick I met in college whose father was a bagel billionaire. Seriously, I could’ve been The Hook: Bagel Prince of Toronto.
Oh well, marrying for love worked out for my wife, so…
What kind of a jackass puts box cutters in a Christmas party gift basket? Seriously, I recently loaded up a luggage cart with X-mas party gift baskets that contained box cutters. Yes, someone actually thought it would be wise to give a hall full of drunk, frustrated, horny idiots box cutters.
That person should have their fingertips fed to the wolverines – and those fingertips should be removed with box cutters.
Yes, I have a violent side (online at least) and black humor is second nature to me, thanks ever so much for noticing.
Whatever happened to Puff Daddy or P. Diddy, or Puffy, or whatever the hell his name is now? Actually, scratch that, I’m not part of his target demographic – to say the least – so who cares?
And on that racist note, it’s time to go. As Dennis Miller used to say, I am outta here.
See you in the lobby, kids…