Wild Roomies

It’s my third day in this 54-hole golf resort hotel. I’m already having second thoughts already. This morning one of the rooms in the ground floor called because there was a snake in their bathroom. Don’t ask me how big or what kind it was because I didn’t go. My boss BB (stands for little brown boy) did though.
From what I heard, BB walked in and then there was a few seconds of screaming and panic followed by a loud bang and then dead silence. After one minute the maids checked if BB was still alive, they found he had locked himself inside the shower stall sobbing in fear while the snake had coiled itself in a tight corner under the sink. In case your imagination is as wild as mine, reading that last sentence will cause you trouble sleeping tonight -- but I guess I should’ve said that at the beginning of this paragraph eh, hehe, misery loves company.
Room 136 on the other hand had roach problems. Guest calls Gust Services and complains that roaches bit his ear during his sleep causing it to bleed badly. Well this I did see, the pillowcase was disgusting – I didn’t even know the lobe had that much blood, and as for the roaches, well there were 7 of them dead throughout the room. While the maid was washing the shower stall though a big one dropped on her head from the vents and she bravely grabbed it and broke it in two pieces -- yes, with her bare hands. I was just glad that she wasn’t making my bed afterwards.
I made sure to let the maids know from then on that the next time they see snakes, roaches or rats to NEVER call me to the scene. -- unless they wanna see what I’m like without medication though, then I could probably do a single performance – but only if they provide an ambulance waiting outside. It’s better if they call security instead. They’re the one with guns, they can kill the pesties.

The Wonderful World Of Housekeeping

So I’ve started my new job in the Housekeeping Department in an overseas hotel. Honestly I don’t have much experience in this area. What little experience I do have would comprise of cleaning a few student dorm rooms for a couple of weeks (mostly my own) and watching Maid In Manhattan more times than any sane and insane person combined. Bnot that there were a lot of people who watched that film in the first place so do keep that in mind before admitting me against my will.
The hotel has 330 rooms and mostly caters to golfers in the surrounding area. This means that we’re usually full only on weekends and public holidays, and during events like Asian PGA qualifying rounds when we get more weirdos than usual. There’s the lady in 342 who wants us to clean her bathroom everytime she takes a shower – which would normally not be a problem if your grooming pattern matches those of normal people or better yet, the French, but no, this lady showered five times today and the maid that was in charge of her block tried to slit her wrists all five times too.

Then there were those freaks in room 315 who tore the full-length mirror by their room entrance and placed it by the bedside facing their king-sized bed. I don’t even want to know why they did that. Perhaps they thought this was Motel 6. Room 287 kept calling the Guest Services complaining that there were ‘no towels’ which of course was not possible when I just sent a maid up an hour ago with two towels. Then we check the log book to find out that they already have eleven towels. Now I would usually file these kinds of things under small stuffs I swore not to unsweat, but when you’re only running on three pathetic pars, these things tend to annoy you more than usual too.
Before I go I apologize for the lack posts. I still have yet to get a stable internet connection here. I thank all my loyal visitors though who continualy visit and support my page :)

I Slipped Up

I did something curious today. I was helping a friend move to her new flat this afternoon and I’m not sure if it was because of the heating or the exercise or the forty pounds I gained over the weekend, but shortly after we began I started to sweat. So halfway up the stairway I decided to remove my sweater - without stopping of course, and I guess you can now see where this is going…
I got it off up to my nose which means I now cannot not only see but neither breathe. My arms flailed helplessly inside the outturned body of the fabric and since the lower part of my body faced no hindrance, my legs continued to navigate its way up the stairs. And so yeah, as expected I missed a step – more than one actually, most of them on my way down. The next thing I know I’ve reached the bottom, facedown with my sweater still wound around my head.
It’s situations like these that convince my mom how I’m the least successful adult in the family – not that she’ll ever know about this incident of course and actually, that’s the reason why I keep my fonts here in pastel colors... she has poor eyesight, so stop asking me to use darker fonts!
Anyhow, to make myself feel better I immediately logged onto BE and searched Sir Peter Maxwell’s blog. No, I’m not posting a direct link here. I refuse to be responsible for any waves of suicide in the near future. Read at your own risk. I always read his blog when I feel down or when I’ve done something stupid or when someone has called me a loser… He simply has a way with words that is sure to patch you all up and get you laughing hysterically – not in a psycho kind of way, but from feelings of joy and gratitude knowing that you are not the only loser in the planet nor the boggest one. Mr. Maxwell is truly one of a kind. Never have I encountered someone so delightfully evil and offensive at the same time that I come off looking like the Good Samaritan. Thank god for small miracles.

Consecration Camps

Most camp stories you hear are pleasant and fun, bringing us back to the good old days we all miss. This is not one of those stories. A word of warning, it would be best to skip this post if you are the type of person that’s easily offended – or actually, have ever been offended by anything in your entire life because I'm pretty sure that this will do it for you – not that I derive secret joys in bashing anyone religious or blood-related to me, it’s just that… well… sigh… I have no defense for that argument.
Anyways. So I spent the last weekend in a crappy counseling camp of sorts three hours away from civilization. My mother regularly makes lame attempts to fix our non-existent relationship, this time I was led to believe that there would be spa-like facilities and highly-trained professionals to attend to our needs in this place. Sigh… Where do I even begin?
The first thing I noticed was that there were no licensed psychologist within a fifty-mile radius. To make things worse our assigned ‘counselor’ boasted of having a strong religious background - in fact she has been serving as a Christian Family Counselor for seven years now. Wtf? No offense, but I’m not even Christian. Neither was my mother. It thus boggled me, what was she thinking when she made that appointment? She probably wasn’t thinking at all.
I go to these things to stop her nagging. I've figured it all out. One therapy session usually lasts 10 to 11 months of peace and quiet on my part. After that the nagging cycle starts over – not that the therapies had ever helped by the way. It’s really similar to Feng Shui, the ancient art taking strange things and placing them in even stranger positions. You aren’t really sure if putting that damn brown basketball in your trunk and hearing it go whomp! whenever you start, brake, turn, or run over humps and holes make one darn difference at all, but you keep it there anyways less you risk displeasing some god in the heavens and get punished by getting stuck behind an old lady in the fast lane on your way to work tomorrow – again, for the fourth time this week alone.
They say trees and greenery possess calming effects to the soul. After listening to the counselor talk for ten minutes I was having clear images that included heaving an enormous hot tub into the forest – not that I actually did -- there were no hot tubs there, but had a great desire to do so anyway. So no, the trees didn’t help much.
By the end of the second day I couldn’t quite decide who I’d rather bloody murder more, the witch preacher, my mother, or myself. No, actually that’s not exactly true. I didn’t really want to kill my one and only dear mother. But I did hope someone else would do the job for me.

Loco Motives

So I was telling my friend Edric how impressed I was of his friend Ryan for actually getting out of his car and walking me to the door last night when he dropped me off:

me: I wonder if he does that to everyone…
Edric: Heck no!
me: *feeling all fuzzy and special*
Edric: He probably does it as much as I do.
me: You?!? You just sit and wait in the car.
Edric: Naww, I’ve done the walk. It just depends -
me: On what?
Edric: On my odds of being invited inside.
me: *blinks dumbly as realization sets in*
Edric: (adds encouragingly) In fact, that’s a privilege usually only bestowed on women. Guys, as soon as the door shuts they’re on their own. I ain’t taking a knife in the gut for no cause.
me: But guys can get attacked too you know -
Edric: But only fruitcakes get beaten up and raped.

That's Entertainment!

My cousin has a son. The son's birthday is in five days.
Today son asks for a party. Thirty-two hobbits must be invited.
I was 'asked' to help. Peer pressure was involved.
Testypea is frazzled. Testypea is pissed.
I am responsible for the entertainment. Therefore entertainment is this.

...or should I stick with Ronald instead?

I'm Too Sexy For Myself

"The smell of his armpits was on her shoulders -- a flower depositing pollen on a hummingbird's forehead..."

"Slither slither slither slither went the tongue..."

Meet the 2004 winner of The British Bad Sex Award, Tom Wolfe.

He's Come Undone

I'm not the type of person who's fond of collecting loads and loads of friends. In fact I like to choose my chums with caution and care, screening out the overly hairy ones and weeding out those who are smarter and/or can run faster than me -- the latter for precautionary measures mostly. This easily eliminates most humans and animals - but not entirely of course, thus leaving me with a small group of short overweight balding men and women - plus one goldfish, whom I fondly refer to as friends.
One of my friends is Adam. He is Irish, funny and married. He’s been having a bit of a tiff with his spouse of late regarding his after-hours drinking routine, so one day in true Adam fashion, he got himself really bladdered, went home, got online and sent a small prank to all his pals. This is what I received in my inbox:
Dear Friend,
This chain letter started in Reno in the hope of bringing relief and happiness to tired businessmen. Unlike most chain letters, this does not cost any money. Simply send a copy of this letter to five of your businessmen friends who are equally tired. Then bundle up your wife and send her to the man whose name appears at the top of the list, and add your name to the bottom of it.
When your name comes to the top of the list, you will receive 16,487 women, and some of them will be "dandies".
Have Faith "DON'T BREAK THE CHAIN!!!!". One man broke the chain and got his wife back.
Sincerely,
A Tired Businessman
P. S. At this date of writing, a friend has received 356 women. They buried him yesterday, and everyone said he had a smile on his face for the first time in Years.
I found it funny. His other friends found it funny. His wife though -- who was included in his contact list, didn’t.