Savory soaps, lush gardens

As I spent the last 7 nights in sundry motels, I have come to realize that there exists a great deal of things I hate about them.

Where on earth to start.

Let's begin with the ass-bar. My first night was spent in a motel located somewhere in the God-forsaken land of far eastern Nevada. So this was one of the stranger motel showers in which I have ever sluiced off my filthy body. The shower head came out of the ceiling and faced the ass-bar. As I rubbed the horrible motel soap (which I shall touch upon shortly) all over my body, I was constantly wary of coming too close to the shower curtain. There is truly nothing worse than having a foreign shower curtain suction itself to your unsuspecting body. Because lord only knows how many other bodies that filthy curtain has been attached to like a leech.

So, as I bent over to wash my feet, I realized that my rear-end conformed perfectly to that handicap-helper-bar midway up the shower wall. I couldn't help but wonder how many other asses had been gently cupped by that ass bar, and just how many times Lupita--or maybe Steve, to be fair--had never even had the thought cross his or her mind to wash that unassuming bar. Or, the ass bar, as it were.

Why does motel soap have to suck so bad? I guess the answer to that lies in the question--MOTEL. Those practically microscopic mini-soaps always smell like lard. Maybe mixed with dirt and plastic. And heaven forbid you forget your best deep healing lotion, because those caustic little bars from hell will dry you out faster than you can say "caustic little bars from hell, oh, how I hate them."

And of course, they only ever provide you with one, never mind the room is being rented to 3 people. As though they assume that 3 disgusting men want to rub the same minuscule little bar of misery over their disgusting bodies. I suppose it is a bonding experience, the sharing of one's filthy body remnants--which surely clung to the soap--with everyone else.

Why are motel towels always about half the size of regular ones? Do they think only rail-thin midgets are patronizing the Motel 6's these days? I suppose when looked at upon a grander scale, cutting 6-10 inches off of the towel length probably saves them at least a few miles worth of towel washing per year. Thanks Motel 6 for helping save the whales at the cost of my discomfort. I guess if I make the mistake of leaving my clothing out in the main sleeping area, my travel mates will be thrilled to see my genitals on account of the whale saving. Belugas.

Lastly is something that I observed between our first and last motel stay. I think that if you are a normal, sanitary human being, the first thing you do upon entering a motel room is peel off the bed spread and throw it on the floor, thus avoiding the certain semen/vaginal discharges that have accrued upon that never-washed hunk of fabric. "Peter tracks," as my uncle shamelessly refers to them. Go ahead an mentally figure out on your own exactly what that one means.

Well, our last night was spent in an outwardly dumpy, inwardly decent motel. The beds were super fluffy, with large down comforters. You can certainly bet that those large, white comforters didn't immediately meet the fate of all of the previous crusty sperm rags. As I lie there upon my roll-away, eagerly awaiting the inevitable awakening with a crinkled spine, I thought "Huh. Why is nobody throwing the seemingly nice bed spreads on the ground? If anything, it is probably less likely that these are washed often, as they are filled with dead goose. Enjoy your comfy beds, buried beneath a mass of dried bodily fluids, pricks." (I lost the coin toss, thus sealing my fate with the roll-away.) As I lie there, smugly imagining them nestled in their cocoons of reproductive filth, the thought occurred to me that it was probably an even likelier scenario that my particular bed was rarely/never washed. It was probably simply folded back up and shoved into the closet, to await the next poor fool who lost the coin toss. At that thought, my bitterness was renewed. At least it wasn't likely that much sexual romping had occurred on a roll-away.

I guess I shall end this with a few photos from my favorite motel of the trip, The Seaside. Possibly one of the finest establishments in which I have lain my sweet head.
I believe it was the lovely mural of the Belugas that drew us into the Seaside. I like to imagine that they are dropping out of the sky, about to explode upon the pavement below (I blame them for my short-towel-woes.)And here, we have a rather quaint little lounging area, complete with jelly fish and sundry sea life mural, and a foam cup with fresh picked daisies on the table. Here, we had our 70's era snack machine, complete with peppermint Mentos and a package of Ramen noodles. Possibly a rice crispy treat. Knowing California, that Ramen pack was marked up at least 1000%.And last, but certainly not least--a small cannabis garden, dutifully manicured, right outside our bathroom window.

May Zeus smile down upon the good Seaside Inn, and ever bring her wealth and a healthy growing season.