Functionally ReTodded

A funny thing happened on the way to posting a brilliant and funny blog entry today. I was editing and creating in Microsoft word instead of the WordPress interface. Why? No idea. I never do that. But today I did.

Anywho, I’m just pecking away absolutely spilling brilliance everywhere, when suddenly Microsoft Word closed.

No problem, I figured. I’ll just re-open Word and since I have AutoSave enabled, I can just recover the document.

Except I can’t. God dammit. I don’t know what happened, but the auto save and the auto-recover features are as useful as tits on a bull and as effective as an eight-year-old condom left in the glove compartment. Or an eight year old’s condom in left in the glove compartment. Neither would be very useful.

Anyway, I was hoping to regale you with a story from my visit to Northern California.

Last Wednesday night, we finished work around 7pm and headed down towards Stanford for dinner at one of the little restaurants on University Avenue. If you’ve never been to Stanford, let me just say Auburn it ain’t.

The campus is really quite something, but what tells the tale is the town. At Auburn, we were excited when Baskin Robbins and McDonald’s started taking checks. On University Avenue, there are college kids in sixty thousand dollar cars popping into places for a twelve-dollar scone and an eight-dollar cup of coffee. I simply could not wrap my head around the economics of attending a fifty thousand plus a year college.

But enough about that.

After a nice dinner where for once I didn’t have to put out in the car on the way home, we headed back to our hotel and to our respective rooms.

After getting into my room around 9p.m., I did the same thing that I normally do. Fired up the laptop, bought a cold Sierra Nevada from the dork in the lobby and turned on SportsCenter, all while catching up on my Bloglines reading, posting on a messageboard and browsing some porn. (You know if I’d left that out you would be thinking it anyway).

Anyway, I was scratching this little thing on my lower back on the right side, just beneath my incredible lats and just around the corner from my amazing obliques. I was kind of scratching it rather absent-mindedly when I realized that it was bleeding. I got a tissue and dabbed at the little bleeding spot, but the pesky little spot wouldn’t stop.

Rather than keep doing that, I decided I would just tuck a washcloth into the back right side of my shorts, and I’d just let it bleed and figured I’d just pitch the washcloth the next morning. I even said to myself “Who gives a shit? How much could a washcloth cost them?”

Two hours later when I awoke from a post-masturbatory tear-filled slumber, I decided to hit the sack. And then I went to bed.

But before I went to bed, I noticed that the scratch still hadn’t stopped bleeding. I decided to grab one of the many towels in the room and put it down on the bed to protect the linens. I even thought to myself “Fuck it. They’re charging two hundred a night. They can afford to lose a washcloth and a towel.”

And so I went to bed.

The next morning, I awoke after a very refreshing night of sleep. For the umpteenth day in a row, I was awakened simultaneously by the alarm clock and the hotel wake-up call. I got up, wandered thru darkness to take a whiz, then I wandered back out of the head, hit the button on the coffee maker and turned on that soft light by the door.

I turned to the right, paused, and nearly fainted at what I saw.

The bed looked like it had been sent thru a time machine from Sharon Tate’s house. There was blood EVERYWHERE! Seriously. I must have stood there for two whole minutes just staring.

For the record, here’s a picture of what my room looked like before I checked in:

And here is my rendering of the same room after the blood letting:

So now I’m standing there thinking to myself “Good Christ!! This looks like a crime scene. I wonder how what my company is gonna say when the bill includes an entire set of bed linens and towels?”

I got ready and went to work, but all day I kept wondering what housekeeping would say? I mean, you KNOW they have to work under the assumption that everything they touch has either been ejaculated on or had genitals rubbed on it. I know that is how I mark a room when I check in, and I just assume that everyone does that as well.

But to actually see the fluids everywhere and wonder things like “I wonder if that blood is clean?” or “Where did that bastard hide the body?” must be a tough way to make eight bucks an hour.

Later in the day I was telling a co-worker or three about the condition of my room, and one of them said “What if the maid called the cops?”

“Shit,” I thought to myself. “Isn’t it just my luck to have a mole bleed everywhere the same day that three hookers in Los Altos probably went missing and now the blood in my room is the same type as two of the victims’, and now there are two homicide dicks sitting in my room waiting to scare the shit out of me by arresting me.”

That didn’t happen, but when I got pulled out of the security line “randomly” in San Francisco Friday night, I was fairly certain that the jig was up and that they had just caught the Bowling Alley Bludgeoner. But alas, a few gloved rubs to my inner thighs and a ball juggling east and west by a very gentle and warm Pakistani fellow saw me thru and I was on my way home.

Of course, I couldn’t get home until I spent five hours sitting directly behind two total strangers trying drunkenly and LOUDLY to join the six mile high hand job and titty grab club.

Man, do I love business travel.