Working On A Saturday

I saw a number of interesting things during my eight-hour shift this Saturday. We had a guest with the same full name as a famous writer. Oh, and also, he pooped his pants. He left at around 9:30 in the morning, and not one hour later, he was back. The other valets walked out to his car, thinking that he'd returned for at least a few hours. Not quite. He told them he'd just forgotten something and needed to go back up to his room to get it. As he walked through the door, I couldn't help but notice a giant, poop-colored stain on his otherwise white shorts. Half an hour later, he came back down, and he was wearing a different pair of pants. Away he drove, obviously thinking that he'd gotten away with something. I dare you to tell me a single thing that is more consistently funny than an old man pooping himself. You can't do it.

Later that day, I made a huge mistake. I neglected to recognize a man who had not only already checked in, but to whom I had personally given a room tour. Not cool. He looked almost hurt, as if he was normally a very memorable guy. Sorry, Mr Plainface. Too bad you're not more interesting.

I gave a room tour to a couple who was obviously on the first day of their honeymoon. AAA requires us to inform guests of the use and location of certain items in the rooms. It became clear to me when the husband handed me my tip before I'd even finished unloading their luggage that my prolonged presence in that room was not going to make any of us comfortable. But screw them. I had a job to do, and I'll be damned if some horny 30-something is going to keep me from doing that job. I purposefully lingered, making absolutely sure that EVERYTHING on my stupid little AAA checklist was covered. I've never before felt such a strong sense of impatience radiating from a person. He didn't like me very much. It was hilarious.

There was one guy who wouldn't stop creepily widening his eyes every few seconds. At first, I thought he was adding it as a visual punctuation to some sort of joke, so I chuckled. That only perplexed him, as he was clearly not joking, and apparently, his natural defense mechanism against painfully confusing situations is to widen his eyes even more. It was like watching a squid continuously inking itself. Quite entertaining. Or maybe he was secretly getting punched in the balls every few seconds. I can see that causing a similar reaction.

At lunch, we had a guest who was, evidently, a king in his own country. He wanted everything done RIGHT NOW, laws of physics be damned! I was busy helping another guest, and this guy came up to me with his valet ticket in hand, ready to go. Unfortunately for him, I didn't give a crap that he was pressed for time, and was already helping someone else. It's not my fault the guy didn't try taking it to one of the other two valets, who happened to be standing *gasp* AT THE VALET STAND! What a concept. Though it was thoroughly lost on this man. He wanted his precious Ford Freestar brought to him instantly. Too bad for him there was a traffic jam just in front of our drive, so it took me almost twenty minutes to get his car to him. I guess he was just destined to arrive late to that important Shiatsu massage appointment he had, or whatever. He was probably just racing home to catch the season finale of some crappy and exploitive reality show, like Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. What a tool. I hope he stabbed himself in the scrotum with his keys.

I tried to help an elderly woman find the room in which her granddaughter was staying, only to have her tell me just before we reached the other end of the hotel that she was looking for room 109. I then tried to explain to her that she was, in fact, a senile old cow, because there exists no such room in the hotel. It took her several minutes to catch up with me and to make that realization on her own. Apparently, being a senile old cow impairs your ability to perceive yourself as such. "But she told me 109," she said, to which I replied, "Please, please just walk away from me now. I don't want to accidentally inhale any of the stupid."

Now at this point in the post, you're probably thinking, "While Andrew is quite charming, and probably my favorite writer ever, and most definitely the handsomest bastard upon whom these weary eyes have ever been allowed to gaze, I sincerely doubt that he's actually as brash in real life as he appears on paper." That, my friend, is where you'd be wrong, though I feel I must applaud your use of extremely long sentences in your thoughts. (Oh, and incidentally, if you're a hot girl and you actually happen to believe all those other things, please don't hesitate to stalk me.) I really am that cold and uncaring, but only as long as it's funny. You just have to get to know me first. And stand close. You'd be amazed at what I say under my breath.

A Rose By Any Other Name

You know what the classical composer's problem was? It wasn't that they wrote boring music. Far from it. They just came up with the boringest-ass titles in the world. (I know that's not a word. Relax.) Who wants to listen to a song that's titled "Toccata in D Minor"? That's not an attention-grabbing title at all. Mr Bach should have called it "Kicking Some Ass on a Wing and a Prayer." That's how you sell records. But no. Classical composers just titled their songs as basically a description of them. That just doesn't work. Can you imagine buying a Ford "Rack and pinion with optional rear cupholders"? I don't think so. Or how 'bout a Suzuki "Manual transmission with electronic all-wheel-drive"? Hells no. No one wants a straight-up description of what they're getting. They want cool, animal-related names like La Tigra and Cobra Kai and Scorpio and Air Bladder... People actually like classical music. They know more about it than they realize; they just don't admit it to themselves. What really throws most people is the crappy titles. If the Black Eyed Peas released a song titled "Black Eyed Peas' Fifth Song," there would be riots in the streets, the sky would rain fire, and our water would turn to blood. No one would by an album with a song like that on it. Beethoven may have been a genius, but he didn't know jack about marketing.

Too Good For That

I don't like the maintenance guy at work. The man has the intellectual capacity of a naked mole rat. He stalks around the building, looking for ice machines to defrost, or something like that. I think he has too much time on his hands. Another part of his job is to arrive ON TIME so he can drive one of the early morning shuttles. He never does. One of the bellmen always has to drive his shuttle for him because he's the high and mighty MAINTENANCE MAN! He can't be bothered with such trivialities as DOING HIS JOB! He has Powerball tickets to buy and toothless children to raise and a redneck wife to go home to and the latest episode of "Deal or No Deal" to watch. Things like his job responsibilities are far too prosaic for this man. "What's that? You want me to climb into that lowly van and drive these wealthy CEO's from one place to another? Pishtah! I'll have none of that. I'm Maintenance Man-man-man-man-man-man (I do all my own echoes)!" Personally, I'd like to punch him in the ear. A couple days ago, I was holding the door open for a guest, which is, big surprise, PART OF MY JOB. That's when Maintenance Man decides he's in charge of the way we do things up here in the land of the Eloi. He'd just come up from his Morlock dungeon to tell us about how awesome he is at turning wrenches... or something like that... anyway, he slammed the front door shut right in front of an old woman. I don't think that's what we're supposed to do. He came about *this* close to getting kicked in the neck. I wasn't happy that day. Stupid maintenance man...

Hey Look! I Can Type With My Nose!

I can't express how bad I feel about nearly abandoning this blog in the last few weeks. I haven't really written anything that I've dubbed worthy of this blog in several days. Maybe I'm just going through another creative dry spell. Or maybe I need to just stop being so picky. If this blog were a child, it would have been taken from me in the middle of the night and given to a more loving and nurturing foster author. I can't have that. Everyone knows those foster authors are just in it for the government subsidized check. Here are a few thoughts to curb your appetite until I come back at you with another full post.

I saw a guy in a wheelchair at church today with a bluetooth wireless headset stuck in his ear. Yeah right. Like anyone would ever want to talk to someone in a wheelchair. Give me a break.

Yesterday, I saw about the funniest thing in the world. A woman face planting from a bicycle at nearly fifteen miles an hour. I had to hold my breath to keep from laughing. I should get a medal for that.

I got yelled at by a small Asian woman at King Soopers a few days ago. OK, so maybe I deserved it, but did she really have to call me "whitey bastard"? I hope she gets face cancer.

Why are so many people in my high school graduating class getting married so early? When I get married, I'm going to have prospects, a nest egg, and a firm grasp on reality. How can a 22-year-old guy support himself and his wife while still going to school, and if he's not in school, when is he going to realize that you can't raise a family on an hourly job? Get a degree, jackass.

What is with my generation's obsession with the 80's? Is there really any nostalgic feeling to speak of when you're reminded of the time in your life when you walked around shirtless with a bag of your own crap strapped around your waist?

I actually think the emo movement will end up being beneficial for the world. With all the emo kids out there committing suicide, we're finally weeding out the weak of mind from our gene pool. So go ahead and listen to your horrendous emo music and be depressed about your upper-middle class life and hate your normal, loving parents and wear your mom's jeans. You're doing your part for the children of the future!

Happy Hurricane Season!

Once again, it's that time of year. The time when everyone who lives in a hurricane-susceptible part of the country gears up for another six months of blaming the government for their own stupidity. Yesterday marked the official beginning of Hurricane Season 2006. Party on! And as if my job didn't provide enough material, the city of New Orleans has happily provided me with another fact to poke fun at: they re-elected mayor Ray "Blame It On The Man" Nagin. I will only say this once, New Orleans: You deserve another disaster twice as bad as Katrina for allowing Ray Nagin to live after last October. You deserve the Righteous and Cleansing Hand of God after re-electing him your mayor for another term. Some of you may not believe I'm saying this without hyperbole, but I will feel warm and fuzzy the next time I hear about another hurricane hitting New Orleans. For every stupid person who should have left after Katrina who is "tragically" killed in another storm this year, I will punch a fetus out of pure schadenfraude. If you can't learn from your mistakes, then you automatically forfeit your right to be mourned after your avoidable death. Every day New Orleans is on a hurricane alert or tropical storm watch or whatever they call it down there, I'm going to listen to "When the Levee Breaks" by Led Zeppelin before I go to bed. If I ever meet someone who survived the devastation from Katrina and still moved back to New Orleans, I'll stab them in the forehead with a ball point pen.