The Bad, The Worse, and The Clinically Insane:

Welcome to another edition of

Mini Stories for Suicidal Motivation!

If you still haven't made the decision to end your tragic and pathetic life, then I obviously failed miserably at my mission. Lucky for me that, if in fact you are alive and reading this, I get to take another whack at your barely-there-faith-in-humanity.

The Bad: The Man on the 8th floor

On one occasion, we had a high school soccer team staying at the hotel. A particularly uneventful evening was in motion. The phone rings from a room on the 8th floor, and the voice states that there were two grown men yelling at each other from either ends of the hall. No physical altercation apparently, just yelling. We send Peter, the 6'2" houseman to investigate but as expected comes up empty handed and no one's jaw to bust. And so the night continued. Until . . . A man with greying hair approaches the desk and asks very simply: "Is there anything that you could do to a guest who has been very rude to another. Like, punish them?". Aaaah! Music to my ears!

The guest who asked had apparently been bullied by another guest in front of his children, and so like a good father and in the spirit of setting the example to his kids, he wanted the hotel to take on his side and do something, of the revenge-sort, to the other guest. Now don't get me wrong, I'm all up for casting deliciously, sweet and agonizing revenge on someone who deserves it. But, gees, at least ask me AFTER I'm done with my shift. Trust me, I know all about rude guests who deserve to swerve off the road and down a rocky cliff to meet their demise.

The Worse: Smith

These hicks walk into our hotel, two little brats, approximate ages between 5 and 7, walking behind them. Now I wasn't here for the actual check-in process, but I am told that they paid in cash. This was in the time of our shift-change. Imagine my surprise when I walk in to the hotel lobby and see an entire family parading themselves in bathing suits. FYI, WE HAVE NO POOL! *sigh* I knew these people were trouble. The family claimed they had seen our homepage and that they had seen pictures of a pool. After our manager popped out and explained that we had no pool, the idiot who thought himself a rational, logical, thinking human being says this little gem: "I called that number on the screen and it connected me to YOU people and YOU people told me you had a pool". Mind you he was pointing to the homepage of our sister property Pentagon South. And guess what? They do have a pool! So it's obvious that this monumental jackass had called the wrong property when they clearly had reservations at ours. The story, sadly, does not end there. They were reimbursed full price; reservations were made for them to the other property and those came complete with a nice OUTLINED map, turn-for-turn, of where they were heading. Twenty minutes after their 'huff-n-puff' departure, they called our hotel demanding directions after they made a wrong turn. And if you guessed that it was me who answered this bitch's call, then you get the point of this blog! Ranting on and on about "this" being "fuckin' ridiculous" and "a joke", she barely paid attention to my questions as I was trying to locate her sorry-white-trash-ass-family in their sorry-white-trash-vehicle. I asked them to stop the car and give me a the name of a shop, I asked them to give me a street name, I asked them about a specific, larger-than-life hill that they would definitely remember going up on. She didn't give me any worthy information. Am I dragging on too long? Am I getting my point across? Well I'm glad you noticed, because Mrs. Smith didn't get it. After she announced she was seeing a "green car wash at Kingstowne, please tell me I'm headed in the right direction." She wasn't. And I let her know. Her response? "Ugh! Whatever! You're fucking stupid." SHOCK!
I will stop my story there because what happened after she insulted me is neither here nor there. But lady, if you are reading this, and I hope you are, I just wanted to remind you that your children were in the back seat of that car. And that all your vile insults and your astronomical idiocy and unnecessary cursing can only do so much good for those brats. They will be as foul and dirty and as condescending as you are. No smarter, more important or wanted in the world than you.

The Clinically Insane: Griffin

On a lighter note! This person was a repeat guest. Not quite enough to make him a Platinum, which is why he ended up in this section. Well, this man talked about himself in the third person, which I think kind of rocks the awesome a little bit. Here's what is not-so-fly about him. He claims to have trained me. To do what? "Hey Debbie, what do you do if Mr. Griffin reaches for a cookie?", I'm quick to lean over and fake-smack his hand with a pen and yell "POW!" as he squeals in delight. I guess I am trained, if you count reacting to verbal stimulation. One day, however, he snatched a cookie right before my eyes, immediately bit it half-way and started waving his head sideways yelling "Aaaargggh!" batting his arms beside his head like crack addict all the while clenching his teeth around the oatmeal raisin sphere. Truly a sight to behold.