Hotel Substitutions

I used to travel extensively in my work and often would get in to the hotel late, after the restaurants and room service had closed.

So I would frequently make dinner from whatever was in the room's frij--those special kind full of beer, wine, candy, etc. that automatically are charged to the room when you remove items. So what if a bottle of mixed nuts cost $19? My company was paying for it, and they're the ones who put me on a 10:00 PM flight.

Well, one night, I was famished, threw open the frij, and grabbed a bottle of nuts and a can of Heinekin. Hmmmm. The beer was open, though the top had been replaced so carefully it was not noticeable until I'd taken it out. I tasted it--water.

I pulled another beer from its charge-my-room-now mooring--same thing. And the last beer--same thing. I opened the bottle of nuts, and it was filled with brown sand--making it heavy and appear to be full of nuts--and smelled like it came from the cigarette receptacles.

I needed to eat, so I madly began ripping the rest of the food out, starting with the candy bars. Each of them had been opened and resealed with exquisite care, filled with hotel soap squished together and molded into a perfect Milky Way, Butterfinger, or Mounds shape.

I extracted every item, and there was not one morsel of food or drop of actual drink in the entire frij! Even the package of mints on the dresser had been replaced with clothing buttons from the complimentary hotel sewing kit!!!

I stomped down to the front desk with all the evidence, but all the brain-dead, cross-eyed trogladyte calling himself the night manager could do was say he'd leave a note for the general manager to decide whether or not to reverse the over $200 now charged to my credit card for water, sand, and soap.

I got some chips, cookies, and a Coke from a vending machine and called that dinner. I went back to the room and took a shower. No soap--the perfectly folded wrappers had cardboard inside--and, of course, the real soap that was inside the candy bar wrappers were down at the front desk where I'd left them.

Shampoo, conditioner, and lotion bottles? Filled with water. Fortunately, I had all of these necessities in my dob-kit, so it was not a big problem.

At this point, I actually became amused and was delighted when actual water streamed out of the showerhead and real toilet paper was wound on the roll. Someone had gone to great lengths to substitute ersatz products in the original packaging for scores of hotel-supplied products. Some ingenious, if warped, person.

I fully expected fake television to come on when I switched on the TV, but then I realized that most TV programming is inherently fake and laughed out loud.

This set me to investigating what other pseudo-stuff was in the room. Hmmm. Synthetic fiber blanket, chair cushions, and carpet. Reproductions of the Mondrian and Seurat paintings on the wall. Imitation potted plants. Wallpaper printed to appear like Ionic columns. Plastic everywhere.

In fact, virtually everything in there was not real. Then I had one of those "aha" reactions: Very little anywhere is truly real, and what is "real" anyway?

Semen. Semen is real. Each of the tiny sperm contains 23 sex chromosomes, half the seed of all human life. So I took my real hands, gave myself a real hand job, had a real orgasm, and really ejaculated, scooping the semen into the empty miniature plastic bottle of lotion and tightening the top.

When I met with the hotel general manager the next day, he refused to credit my card for all the non-food and non-beverages the in-room frij had charged, implying that I was the one who had instigated the substitution hoax.

I had anticipated he might take such a position, and I did not want him to be completely wrong, so I pulled the little bottle from my pocket and demanded to know what sort of lotion was inside. He opened the top, peered at the milky white substance inside, and declared in garbled French the name on the side of the bottle.

"No it isn't," I insisted, "It is cheap, domestic Humana Ejaculata, pronouncicng it in my best French accent."

"Never heard of it," Mr. Big Shot growled.

"Of course you have. Go ahead, pour some out in your hand. You'll recognize it right away," I urged.

Irritated, he slapped it hard against his open palm, rubbed it vigorously against the palm of his other hand, and brought it up to his nose.

If I live to be 125, I will never forget the look on that man's face--well worth the $240 of incorrect credit card charges. It was an expression at once furious and embarrassed that conceded I had carried the day.

The African-American front desk agent walked by, saying, "Woooo-eeee, Mr. Bristol, you needs to get housekeepin' down here right away. Somethin' sho smell like sperm!"

I and the other nearby customers and employees burst into uncontrollable laughter. Face red as a beet and hands held high in the air, he ran into the nearest lavatory, which happened to be the women's rest room.

That very well may have been the only real thing he touched that day. Satisfied I had made my point, I checked out, never to return to that hotel.