Save Teh Kitteh!

So, I get a call towards the end of my lunch break: "Do you have any thick gloves?"

"Sure. Why?"

"There's a kitten stuck under one of the washing machines."

"O...........k."

So, cut to me in the laundry room, listening to the plaintive wails of a little kitty stuck inside/under the washing machine that no-one has bothered to shut off. I shut it off and try to figure out how to reach under the machine to pull the kitten out. Turns out the kitten was hiding inside the engine compartment of a guest's car and had already been lured out and boxed by the staff, but the jumpy little bugger had gotten loose and hidden under the running commercial washer.

Well, after pulling the fascia of the machine off and getting hissed/clawed at pulling the cut little bastard out from under the dust-bunniest machine space I have ever seen, I find myself holding an adorable smoke grey kitten with piercing blue eyes.

He did not like it when we handed him over to the animal control lady, lemme tell you. Silly little sod will no doubt be driving some adopter nuts hiding under their crap before the week is out.

Gym Mat Funky Time

So, they finally replaced (most) of the exercise equipment at my hotel. Which is good. Moving heavy-arse lumps of rickety metal encrusted with a decades worth of sweat-spooge-sebum goodness left by lackluster cleaning (thanks Facilities!) and filthy, sweating hordes.... Not so good.

Blasting the mats outside with a hose, the effluent was almost oily and polychromatic, despite not a drop of soap being used. Nothing stains quite like leaky, dripping meat-sacks keeping themselves "in shape". I cannot even comprehend the amount of arse-funk contained in the cracks in the vinyl bike seat and for that I am truly thankful.

And someone out there would probably pay good money to lick the lot clean, probably while getting their nuts stepped on. Craigslist here I come!

So.........

.... it's been a year or so since I bothered to spew forth invective on the Intarwebs, so I figured it was probably due.

Hurricane Irene. Wonderful. A hotel full of bloody retards with ADHD, no indoor voices and every fucking one of them has a barking dog. Our 40lb maximum dog weight went out the window, because these aren't the usual cumdrizzle fucktards who stay at our hotel, these are sacred personages known as "evacuees". Apparently this sainted status allows you to bring your drooling shitmonster where it normally can't go and generate a metric shit-ton of stress for the people who actually do the shitwork around here.

So no shock there.

We got off pretty light, with nothing worse than some flashlights that will vanish before we next need them and some leaves in the pool, so I guess it could be worse. My planned day of unfucking all that got fucked by Irene turned into some light maintenance crap and giving the front desk guy breaks from answering dumbass questions. Hell, I even got to have an awesome lunch of empenadas and hot-dogs in a screaming mass of Hispanics and their untended kids tearing about the place.

Overall, today was relatively light in screaming, loathing and wanting to commit acts of vileness upon person or persons unknown.

The bits always turn to vapour.

Why is it when something is broken, the shattered bits and pieces are NEVER sitting there with the thing?

For instance, one of our esteemed and lovely scu.... guests managed to tear the part of the door bolt off that is attached to the door. No doubt one of the many unescorted, unfed and unattended children running screaming through our facility thought they would re-enact Uncle Le-Von's last arrest by charging the door while it was "on the chain".

The bits of wood from the door? Gone. The 2oz metal casting that looks sort of like a dick? Gone. Even the torn out screws..... Gone. This isn't stuff the housekeepers can just Hoover up, it would shatter the spinny thing or clog the pipe and I'd know about that, because guess who they will bring the busted vacuum to? I know the guests don't want it, because they leave so very much else behind, all of which is VITALLY IMPORTANT when they call back screaming for it, six weeks later.

Guess it goes to the same place all those left socks go to.

Bottled up no more!

"It seemed like a good idea at the time." That's probably what I'll say in court some time later on, when asked about this blog.

I'm the maintenance drone for a smallish property in a major hotel chain. I'm an Army of One with no backup, less competence and I really do not give a shit about my customers any more. Which makes it hard to clean up their messes day after day, but a paycheque is a paycheque.

I'm a Brit, living in the US and loving it. I came here for your women (well, just one of them), your jobs and because I just wasn't getting fat enough living back in Blighty. I'm sort of an arsehole, thanks to a spell at Wal mart and working the hotel front desk, because I ran out of patience. I used up a lifetime supply in a couple of years working with The Public. I'm fat, foul and approaching fourty and would dearly love to kick the shit out of my 17yr old drop-out self.

This blog is probably going to be irregular, oddly spelled (for you Yanks at least) and rambling. Just like me. I'll digress into foaming tirades at the drop of a hat, say things that aren't PC and link-whore to anything that tickles my fancy. I'll waffle on about stuff that happened in the Way Back until you'd swear I'm wearing an onion on my belt. I'll demonstrate ignorance, arrogance and flatulence all at once, but hopefully I'll make you laugh at the same time.

So, pull up a stolen office chair, sit back and enjoy the paint fumes. I know I do.