Category Archives: comedy


Well, it’s here, that self-congratulatory jerk-off fest and ass kissing extravaganza!

Film, music, and television award shows! Look I’m not trying to hate, I enjoy one or two shows here and there. But Jesus Christ it’s nonstop in this town! I would love if they gave an award for ‘biggest douche bag, biggest asshole, the biggest pain in the ass to work with, biggest ass, biggest man boobs…’

I don’t know, maybe if we get a little more creative, and a little more self-deprecatory maybe the general public wouldn’t take actors and celebrities so seriously. They seem to look at them as these monumental, incredibly important, amazing people. What’s worse though are the sycophants & minions that blog and report on said celebritards. And a lot of those people stay right here in the hotel. These are the flies buzzing around the secondary shit that is Hollywood. Based on the delusion that there’s any glamour in Hollywood, entertainment reporters would be the very lowest on that wrung. How do I know? Because I worked for an entertainment magazine (STAR) long enough to see what a load of stupid fucking tripe all that information and news is. But hey, I grew up in this town so I’m probably a little jaded.

Ok on with it.

Golden Globes Night.
I get a big order $860.00 rm. 412, knock knock.
‘Room service.’ The TV is LOUD; I hear audience laughter as well as heavy room chatter. A lot is going on in there. I sense douchery; I hope I’m wrong.
‘What? what? Who is that? Why are you bothering us! Come back later.’

I knock again and scream loudly over the noise, ‘ROOM SERVICE!’
‘Yes, Yes. Okay. Hold on.’ The door opens a Perez Hilton looking guy gives me a dismissive wave in. Fat dude in purple skinny jeans and deep v-neck with a wolf’s head print. I’m annoyed, right off the bat. Why do I have to be visually offended by your bad taste in fashion and your lack of physical exercise? I hate everything.

I go in, 10 or 12 people are huddled on a couch looking up at a wall mounted plasma screen. They’re consumed.
They’re desperate for a fix. They speak as if they know the celebrities intimately and personally. Using first names, or shortening the name or making child like names of the nominees.
‘Oh my god Patty (Patricia Arquette) is hot!’
‘Well Meryl is like that…’
‘Bobby D was up for that.’
‘And Well George (Clooney I suppose) is so blah blah…’
I’m totally ignored, and someone says ‘pause it.’ The poor man’s Perez replies, ‘Don’t you fucking dare, I need to see this in real time! Ok come in. Quickly please.’ At that point I move even slower. ‘Where would you like…’ I say slowly.
‘Oh god, just over there. Where ever.’

Then a chubby girl in skintight everything. ‘No no not there! Just leave it. Right by the window.’ She gets up with a grunt. ‘Nyuuhh, oh my this looks fan fucking tastic!’ Another rude chubby wubby on the Couch yells, ‘eat my quesadilla bitches and just see what fucking happens!’
‘Oh shut up Gavin!’ I back up towards the door, now I really want to get out of here. I feel my soul being sucked out of every orifice. The depth of this crowd resembles a dried out birdbath.

I leave the room. I look in the book, of course there’s no extra tip or gratuity. ‘Oh God you cheap assholes,’ I say under my breath as I round a corner. I bump into a bellman that’s bringing someone’s luggage to the lobby. ‘Yeah man,’ he says ‘this is the cheapest fucking crowd of the year prepare yourself.’ The next room, 516. Just tea. Small order smaller auto gratuity. I knock,
Room service before I can even finish the sentence a girl whips open the door,
‘Finally.’ she says. The room’s packed with wardrobe racks, and suitcases, and boxes, and shoes and high-end designer shopping bags, jewelry strewn all over the tables. I manage my way around the obstacle course of couture footwear and accessories. I give her the check.
‘Yes yes I’m here dressing and styling VIPs I’m sorry to be short, I just need things delivered very quickly.’
‘That’s nice.’ I say.
She grins at me.
I walk out.

Short & Sweet
The Grammys. In the great words of Chuck D of Public Enemy, ‘Who gives a fuck about a goddamn Grammy.’

More senseless awards for art. I will not be commenting on Kanye West, because I really don’t care. I haven’t heard the new Beck album either. I’ve never listened to music because it won an award. Seems like an Award just solidifies your self-worth as well as a future paycheck.
Most of the guests that I dealt with on Grammy night were too self obsessed to be dismissive or mean. Anybody that was of real importance was already at the show. At the end of any shift (regardless of the event that’s taking place) I usually laugh it off. And I realize that it’s not my career path and you wouldn’t get the entertainment of this lovely little blog, so I will be reporting more about this fantastic award season after the Academy Awards! And we’ll see you at the movies!



More Hotel Insanity

If you’re sick like just sniffly, well, the only reason why we care is that we don’t want to be around you. If you constantly verbalize your cold, flu, or allergies it’s really mundane and boring. Americans have some form of healthcare now! At this point in our current international climate, your little cold or allergies are whiny 1st world bullshit. No one truly gives a rats ass. And if they (the sick people enablers) cater and constantly kowtow to that shit, the little sickies are gonna’ leech on to that codependency and ride it into their golden years. I’ve seen it!

Anyway, so I deliver to a guy who orders quite frequently. This guy always has some story about his health. Mr. Harmon in 511. He has a different boy toy in the room every time I deliver an order. Most of them look like Santa Monica street hustlers. With their little backpacks and plastic bags of clothes and shit sitting on the couch.

Tonight’s delivery interaction;
I knock on the door. It opens, its dark, and smells like cheap stripper strawberry incense or oil.
‘How you doing Mr. Harmon?’
He’s about 6’2″ and really pale and bloated. He looks like Larry Bird’s estranged brother. And has an eerie fucking vibe to boot.
He throws his hands in the air theatrically.
‘Oh God, no Bueno! I think I caught a bad cold, Ramon is going to get me Theraflu.’ Ramon is grabbing his jacket and rushing out into the cold night.
‘I’m sure the concierge has it.’ I say.
‘No, Ramon loves to walk the streets. He’s been doing that for years.’ He turns on the light, I wish he hadn’t.

‘Listen I have this weird thing with my eyes, they keep going back-and-forth.’ He’s pointing at his eyes. ‘Have you ever had that?’ He’s moving his index finger back-and-forth between both eyes. I’m standing there watching this charade. Why oh why the fuck do I have to get a play-by-play of your present status Harmon? ‘We’ll have you?’ He asks again. ‘No Mr. Harmon. I’ve never had that.’
‘Hmm, yeah it’s a pretty unique thing. Well, the doctor gave me some promethazine, but I already took four Norco so I might not be good to mix them.’ Those were drugs that I used to use quite frequently, sick or not. ‘What would you do?’
Harmon asks. At this point, I’m in total ‘who gives a fuck’ mode. So I’m like, ‘Yeah go ahead and guzzle down the promethazine. You’ll get real drowsy and nod off, and then maybe your eyeballs will stop moving back-and-forth.’ He runs into the other room, ‘Hold on hold on,’ he says. Oh no, I just want to get the fuck out of here.

‘Mr. Harmon can you please sign the check?’
He comes running back with two small packages. ‘My housekeeper gave me these the other day. She gets them from some little bodega botanica place in East Los Angeles. They’re Mexican bath salts. Maybe these will help me.’
It’s probably not a good idea to drink the promethazine and then take the bath, right?’
‘Well unless never want to wake up.’ Which sounds like a great idea for either one of us at this point. ‘Ha ha ha. That’s funny.’ He signs and hands me back the bill. Well ‘pray for me by name!’ He says in a show tune like voice. I finally leave. I look in the checkbook, no tip. I feel like my spirit has been run over by a Stolen Cadillac Escalade.

Same night, two hours later. Simple order.
I’m delivering chamomile tea to a Mrs. Gordon, room 319. I’m taxed and tired.
I just want it to be over. Let this night be done. I knock.
‘Room service.’ No answer I lean in, I hear somebody scurrying around. I knock again. No answer, again I hear scurrying around. I knock louder. Still nothing.
‘ROOM SERVICE.’ Nothing. Jesus what the fuck. I kick the bottom of the door three times. ‘ROOM SERVICE!!’
‘Oh ok. Of course.’ I hear a droll voice say.

A frumpy depressed looking blonde 20 something opens the door. My intuition tells me another mundane, soul-sucking situation lies in my wake.
‘Just put the tray on the bed. Listen, I’m concerned. My sliding glass patio door won’t lock properly. Maybe you can take a look.’ I hand her the bill. She puts it down without signing it. That’s always a bad sign. I walk over to the door. It latches. No fuss no muss.
‘It’s fine ma’am.’ I walk towards the bill.

She looks over at the checkbook. ‘I finished a production job early, and I’m here for a couple of days. I’m so bored. What should I do? Don’t say the movies, Universal Studios or Disneyland. Those are stupid suggestions. I already got mad at the bellman for suggesting all that garbage.’ Her voice is high pitched like lee press on nails on a chalkboard, or metal patio furniture being pulled across concrete. I offer up museums, and exhibits, coffee houses, and quaint little hipster neighborhoods.

‘Boring. Boring.’ She says. ‘I need some action!’
‘Maybe go pick up an LA Weekly. You’ll find the back pages loaded with all kinds of activity.’
Her eyes lit up. ‘What are you talking about? Sex, S and M, sex clubs, prostitutes?’
That’s not what I’m talking about. God.’
I looked over at the bill, and made my way to the door. She signs it and is shaking her head.
‘I was talking about music venues, nightclubs, dance clubs. But hey, whatever.’ She growls at me and hands me the bill. I walk out. I’m done for the night. I’d rather fill catsup bottles or do some other form of side work then deal with these people. Just for tonight, I need to get my mojo back.


Just A Bill


Bill DeSantis was an alcoholic. He was a young-looking 59. Six feet one inch. Lean and trim, a full head of hair. And relatively soft dark features and hazel eyes. He really could knock ‘em back. Somehow he held his job at the Petunia’s liquor and mini-mart. It was located out in Simi Valley. A quiet refrigerator-white town, which primarily hosted policemen and upper-middle-class residents. Petunia was a family owned super convenience store. Petunia was Bill’s mother in law. At 86 she was still sharp as a whip. She liked Bill. He worked the graveyard shift. Which was real freedom, his time to do what he pleased.

He stocked shelves, handled general clean up, and matched the orders as they came in from vendors: The dairies, bakeries, soda companies, beer and wine distributors. He really didn’t need the job. He had a pension and retirement, but no hobbies. He grew bored sitting around the house. At work, he’d sneak out for a shot and a beer. Like clockwork, usually every hour, or until his head would nearly explode with the anxiety of the everyday rigor morale that would drive even the sanest man to drink.

Bill loved graveyard for two reasons:

1) His wife Myrna wouldn’t fuck with him and his drinking.

2) Fewer shoppers and people to deal with.

Bill disliked people and wanted to be left alone. Bill had a serious problem when he drank into his blackout potential, which even occurred at work. Bill mistook everything for a toilet. Bill would piss on the Hostess display racks, in the cold storage, and once on the safe. At home, he would piss on the sofa, the ottoman, and a couple of times in the cat’s litter box (which was okay so long as Felix wasn’t in there.) On one occasion, when Felix was in there, Bill pissed on him and Felix leaped at Bill, his claws (3 on the right paw, to be exact) got stuck on Bill’s cock. Bill ran through the house with Felix, a seventeen-pound rescue tabby, attached to his cock. Luckily, Myrna was at work. Bill screamed in agony. Felix hissed in fear. Finally, Felix was un-hooked from his vine.

Bill soaked his cock in rubbing alcohol, fearful of feline leukemia, or some unknown disease you can contract from the shit & bacteria under a cat’s claws. He rarely had sex with Myrna, so she never found out. Bill couldn’t escape his drinking. He tried 12 step programs, exercise, therapy, gambling, even took a ceramics class at the learning annex. He gave up. He was going to drink. Period. One night at work Bill had two new people to train. There were also three skids of groceries, from three different vendors. There was also plenty of inventories to stock from the earlier shift. The day man, Phil Mazzone, called in sick and left Bill a stack of merchandise to sort, stock, price, and inventory.

Bill felt the pressure, He went out on his first break and took four shots of 151 and drank an Old English 22 oz. He was on the side of the building looking up at the sky grateful for the immediate effects of liquor. He came back into the store, plenty buzzed. The trainees and his lack of solitude and space aggravated him. He looked at them. Sue was a pierced and tattooed overweight 21-year-old with a green faux hawk, piercing blue eyes, and cystic acne. She wore sagging tight jeans and a 1/2 shirt that revealed her morbidly obese midriff.

‘Girl has no shame’ bill said to himself. As he was pondering this she quickly rifled off three questions,

‘Do we have to clock out for lunch if we bring lunch? Is overtime after eight hours? Do we get plenty of overtime? Where can I get a smock?

‘Whoa Whoa, easy! Quit asking so many damn questions, I’ll get to all that.’

Then the other trainee, Steve, a struggling actor who thought nights would be good so he could maybe audition during the day, piped in. ‘Hey man, no need to talk to her that way.’ Bill looked at him. He looked like a typical starving actor, distressed torn leather jacket,  hair mousse, ‘Affliction’ (whatever the fuck that means) t-shirt, faded big thread jeans, basically a ‘Costas Mandylor’ look alike.

‘Who the fuck asked you, Shut you’re fuckin’ rat hole or you’ll be doing work as an extra in General Hospital.’’ Then Sue, ‘Hey watch it Bill, you asshole!’

‘I don’t have to take this’, Steve said with a quivering lip, ‘I’m outta here!’

‘Good. See ya. Break a neck or a leg. One less fuckin’ moron to train.’’

‘You old tub a shit!’ The girl with a thousand questions screamed, ‘We’ll take you to the labor board.’

‘Do whatever you want pizza face!’ Bill was furious. They both walked

out, the actor mumbling something and taking a six-pack.

Bill was alone. He sat down on a box of pork and beans, took a couple more shots, and had a 40 oz. Old English and he was feeling like a new man. He was really drunk now.

’Fuck ‘em. Fuck them all’

Bill got up to piss, walked over by the register, whipped out his shriveled, cat-scratched cock, and pissed on a 240-volt outlet where the lottery machine was plugged in until it was removed after Priscilla revealed she had a compulsive gambling problem. Bill wasn’t thinking about that, though. He had 240 volts going inside him; the excruciating sensation this produced was so hideous. He would rather have had six cats latch on to his cock than this.

‘Am I going to die?’ He mused. Every drunken episode passed before his eyes. He wished suddenly that he didn’t drink so much, then blackness. He woke up in the hospital mumbling about the Felix the cat.

‘Bill, Mr. DeSantis, Sir, can you hear me,’ Dr. Cohn said.

‘Yeah, yeah, I hear ya.’

‘Do you remember what happened?’

‘Yes. I was over at the register at the store and I got a terrible shock, I think I need an attorney.’

‘What was your penis doing out of your pants when they found you?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Sir, you’re penis was out of your trousers. There was urine near an electrical outlet. Also, your blood alcohol level was .34  again, point three four.’

‘Sounds like a setup to me, I want to speak to my lawyer!’

Dr. Cohen shook his head and left the room.

A lawyer showed up at about two-thirty, wearing a cheap, old, brown Men’s Wearhouse suit.

The pants one size too small at the waist and two sizes too small at the length.

‘Christ, what an embarrassing sight you are.’

‘I hope we have a case, Bill,’ Martin Duckworth said.

Martin was from a long line of ambulance chasers. His father and his father’s father was an attorney. He got Bill a settlement from an accident and won a slip and fall case for Myrna about a year ago. So Bill thought he might have a chance. That night Bill had incredible dreams. He was suffering from DT’s. Big bottles of 151 Rum and Old English 800. Armies of bottles chasing him. Bill screamed in his sleep, awoke very quickly, ran out into the street and was run over by a delivery truck. It was on its way to Petunia’s Mini Market. It was carrying wine and spirits.