7 Charming Amenities of the World's Grossest Motel Room
How I ended up here is not the story. At least, it's not the story right now. I have no doubt that I'm more than enough of an asshole to share those details with the world at some point. But it won't be this day. Right now, there's only one story here, and that's the room itself. More specifically, the charming amenities of the shitty motel room I
Hello. My name is Adam Tod Brown, and I'm new here. Well, not technically new, I've written a few things in the past
that you might be familiar with. But I recently accepted a full-time job as an editor and columnist here at Cracked. Also, I'm living in a shitty motel room right now. Sorry if that last sentence shatters your illusions of what kind of fame and riches await a person who ascends to the very heights of dick jokery by landing a job with the most successful failed magazine of all-time. I assure you, it's not as bleak as it sounds. For starters, when I say I'm living in a shitty motel room, I just mean right now, as I'm writing this. If there is a God (and a fat check from Cracked coming on Friday) I'll be out of this dive in a few more days. How I ended up here is not the story. At least, it's not the story right now. I have no doubt that I'm more than enough of an asshole to share those details with the world at some point. But it won't be this day. Right now, there's only one story here, and that's the room itself. More specifically, the charming amenities of the shitty motel room I'm living.
The Shower Curtain That's Way Too Small for the Shower
I know this isn't the greatest photo. I'm sorry about that. Accepted photography standards fly out the window when you're standing in a bathroom that has an extra shower head that dispenses syphilis. Just joking, it doesn't have that. The fact that you'll catch syphilis in this room is just implied. Anyway, that goddamn shower curtain. As you can see, there's a little bit of extra shower rod there in the upper right corner of the picture. That's because, despite what everything you learned in school may lead you to believe, there are no laws of physics in place that are capable of keeping this sheet of yellow-stained plastic stretched far enough to adequately cover the entire shower. I sometimes stand in awe of it during my weekly shower, liter of vodka in hand, still partially clothed, watching water gleefully penetrate the shower curtain's meager defenses and splash to the floor. I can't begin to tell you how many tricks and techniques I've employed to try and get this thing to stay in some kind of useful position. But no matter what I try, it just snaps back into the same ineffective stance you see in the picture. By the time I'm done showering, the amount of moisture on the floor is rivaled only by the 8 inches of standing water in the bottom of the tub that will still be working its way down the drain when you finally read this.
The Sketchy Neighbors Across the Hall
Pimp and prostitute? Drug dealers? All of the above? I'm not 100 percent sure which side of the crime spectrum the shady looking couple staying in the room across from me fall on, I just know that between the approximate hours of 9 a.m. - 4 a.m., that room is one endless parade of visitors. The routine is always the same. First, the dude leaves. I know this to be the case because, well, I fucking watch them through the peephole sometimes. Sue me. Entertainment is scarce in a place like this. Anyway, dude leaves and a few minutes later, there's a knock at the door. This visitor is always a male. Always. Said gentleman caller usually stays for about 30 minutes and leaves. A few minutes after that, the male occupant of the room returns. Repeat to infinity. So, they're either selling drugs or selling sex or selling both. Whatever the case, I'm not happy about it. I mean, seriously, only when I'm at my absolute brokest do a drug dealer and a prostitute move in across the hall from me. It's like being on the verge of starvation while watching a pizza commercial (which, coincidentally, is exactly what I'm doing as I type this). Just joking. I'm not that desperate (yet). And here's something else I'm not desperate enough for ...
The "Continental Breakfast"
Like any respectable house of prostitution and reasonably priced weekly motel rooms, this joint does indeed offer guests a "continental breakfast" each morning. In this case, the feast is available between the hours of 6am-10am. The biggest problem there lies in the fact that, given my current circumstances, the chances of me waking up from the previous night's blackout prior to 10am are slim to none. But, as luck would have it, there was a day earlier this week when I didn't manage to stumble my way to bed until well after 6am. So, being sort of awake and only moderately disoriented, I decided to investigate this "continental breakfast" firsthand to see what treasures it held. To the best of my recollection, the following items were available: -A Plexiglas container filled with a cereal that vaguely resembled Froot Loops -A carafe of powdered milk That's it. Not a donut, bagel or English muffin in sight. Toast? Fuck toast. Just a pile of sure to be stale Froot Loops and a big jug of disgusting powdered milk. If any of you reading this grew up immersed in the wonders that only a life of poverty can provide, then you know what kind of animal powdered milk is, and you know that no self-respecting adult would willingly consume that shit. Not even one staying in a motel room that has a prescription for Valtrex posted on the door right underneath the fire escape map (which I think is from a different building altogether).
The Cozy Sitting Area
Sometimes, a person just needs a quiet place to sit and reflect. If that person is living in a shitty motel room like I am right now, rest assured, their "place to go" options are sparse. Usually, it just means getting out of bed and walking to the other side of the room. What you see in the above photo is what you'll find on the other side of my shitty motel room. Isn't it just quaintest? I must admit, I've never actually sat here and I plan on burning that computer bag and the earwigs almost certainly infesting it the second I'm gone. But still, in a dive like this, it's a nice effort. And as you can clearly see, those industrial strength plaid curtains are unique in their ability to keep the room completely dark whether they are open or closed. That's craftsmanship you could only find in the 1940s when those curtains were made. Also, heads up, rapists. I think the locks on the window are just for show.
The Precariously Placed Television
No, your eyes do not deceive you. That's an old school (as in heavy as shit) television haphazardly placed on top of a sloped cabinet that I think is supposed to only be used for storing dead hookers until nightfall (they don't keep too well after that). How this struck anyone as a decent idea is something I will never understand. How this television has never struck someone on the head is also a mystery. I mean, it is technically attached to the wall, but only because there's (most likely pirated) cable running to it.
The shit isn't even secured to the top of the shelf in any way. Someone just tossed that bitch on top of a sloped cabinet and was like "fuck it, lunch." Sometimes, when I'm at my darkest (which is precisely whenever I'm watching Kathie Lee and Hoda on the Today show), I stand under this television and hope for gravity to take its natural course. Ha! Comedy!
The Power Outlets
Do you know why those power outlets look surprised? It's because they can't believe anyone actually paid money for them. In a plot twist I've yet to experience in my entire life, every single outlet in this room is too large for anything resembling a traditional power cord. It's like I'm in Europe or something. Every single one. All of them. Too big. No matter what device you plug in, the cord just kind of dangles precariously for a second before falling pointlessly to the floor, still yearning for precious electricity.
Just taking this photo produced enough force to knock this out of the wall moments later.
I don't have enough words in my vocabulary to accurately describe what kind of a problem this presents. It won't surprise you to know that working for a website comes with a lot of time spent on a computer. As "luck" would have it, the laptop I use for work doesn't have a battery in it. I usually just plug it in to the wall. I do own a battery, but when you're fleeing to a shitty motel, it's not the kind of thing you think to retrieve. So here I sit, writing a depressing comedy article about the horrors of being in a shitty motel room, unable to even breathe in the direction of my laptop's power cord, lest my computer screen go black as the plug tumbles out of the one outlet that's (kind of) capable of holding it tightly. Needless to say, it's happened three times just while writing this.
My Pet Hair
Don't get the wrong idea here. I don't call this my "pet hair" because I have pets here in the room with me. That would imply that there was a shred of happiness to be found in this disaster of a dwelling. There is not. Rather, I call it my "pet hair" because, like a loyal dog unwilling to leave its owner's side during times of turmoil, this hair has been in this room with me the entire time I've been here. It's stuck to the bathroom door frame and has heroically survived repeated visits from "housekeeping." In my current state of emotional vulnerability, I like to imagine that housekeeping tries to remove it each morning when I briefly step out to panhandle for cigarette money, but their efforts are thwarted solely through this rogue hair's ceaseless dedication to seeing me through this storm. And then I cry. Weeks from now, I'm sure I'll realize that this hair cares nothing for me and is only here because of housekeeping's equally ceaseless dedication to not wiping away the thick patina of filth that's been holding it in place since sometime around 2003. But right now, that hair is my only friend, and I love it dearly.
