sh!t cheap hotels.
You know the ones I mean – they all look exactly the same on the inside and have enough ash-fronted formica in them to tip the earth off it’s sodding axis. The receptionist is always from eastern Europe and has the asexual charisma of a slightly distorted reflection of an attractive woman.
Last time I was unlucky enough to be stuck firmly inside one of these awful places, I discovered (whilst naked and naively hopeful) that there was an approximate water pressure of f*ck ALL per f*ckING NOTHING AT ALL. I ended up having to ‘shower’ under a tepid trickle of water. It would have been more effective to make a toddler cry then hold it over my head. But less morally correct.
And why the twisting f*ck do they put that long and ridiculous fecal smear of selfishly patterned cloth along the bottom of the bed -what the f*ck even IS it?
Why is it that these crappy chain hotels also seem to arrogantly deem it necessary to spitefully nail paintings to the walls in their rooms that you wouldn’t expect find in a third rate, heavily abusive old people’s home?
It’s always either a crock of f*ckawful smeary abstract vomit that looks as though a wounded cat has run mouth-first through a full English breakfast, or sterile prints of ancient bollocks that no one bloody liked the first f*cking time round.
What, exactly, do they think this w@nkART brings to that BOXf*ck of a room?
They must hopefully imagine a weary businessman is going to loosen his tie, make himself a cup of tea using the f*ckING STUPIDLY TINY kettle (which still manages to be louder than the f*cking Hadron Collider) and gaze up at whatever smear of toss they’ve chosen to enhance the room with and think to themselves ‘Goodness, that picture of a couple of fat naked cherubs looking winsome has perked me right up. I think I’ll cheerfully crack one off and then get going with that ninety-eight slide presentation RIGHT NOW!’
No. The grubby business-pervert is going to loosen his tie, perch on the bottom edge of the bed with his stubby member proudly between his thumb and forefinger before tumescently unleashing his three minutes of free porn and furiously cry-w@nking himself into a lonely slumber.
THAT is what those f*cking stripes of cloth are for: w@nk shields for the acorn wielding business minded spunk wranglers. Fair enough.