So a couple of minutes ago I found myself sitting on the bathroom floor of room 341 in a La Quinta Inn, eating chicken from a Styrofoam container. Hell, here’s the proof …
In case you’re wondering, there’s no glory in eating chicken from a Styrofoam container on the floor of room 341 of the La Quinta Inn. None at all. If you think—really, really, really think—of what’s gone on in this room, well … blfldlsdlasdjasd. I’ll be blunt: I’m sure, in the hotel’s 20 years, 341 has been a place for male hookers, female hookers, transvestite hookers; an average of 14.3 masterbatory acts per week; boogers wiped on the desk, on the carpet; infant drool; dog drool; little nuggets of shit falling from diapers. On and on and on. There’s a reason my folks always, without fail, wrap hotel room remote controls in plastic Glad bags. Namely, because these rooms are germ spas.
However, hunger is hunger, chicken is chicken and my kids are asleep in the main room. Hence, there I sat, eating … in the bathroom.
On the floor.
Ew.
