Thursday, August 15, 2013

Massholecunt: Part II



I've said it time and time again - when you start screaming and yelling, calling people incompetent and slinging personal insults, the chances of you getting what you want virtually disappear. Yes, we're in the business of hospitality. Yes, we're supposed to make everything about your stay pleasant, and if there's a problem, it's our DUTY to fix it for you. But guess what? You're still talking to a human being. That's a cardinal rule when deal with hotel employees - remember that they're people first. People who have more power than you'd expect. Just read Jacob Tomsky's book, Heads in Beds, if you don't believe me. 

I'll get to the Massholecunt in a minute, but first, here's a quick little example of how to deal with a delicate situation: 

A bellman brought down a cart for a middle-aged American couple. They needed a taxi to LaGuardia airport, so I hailed one as they organized their stuff. As I turned to go about my business, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned, and the woman, clearly shaken, had her hand on her mouth with tears in her eyes. 

Then, in the calmest and quietest voice she could muster, her leaned toward my ear: 

Woman - "I think my iPad is missing from my bag." 

She didn't scream, she didn't point fingers, she didn't threaten anyone. All she did was get my attention. 

Doorman - "Okay, did you check everything?" 

Woman - "I think so."

I immediately got security.

With her calmness, and her refraining from accusing the bellmen of rummaging through her stuff and causing a scene, she immediately had me on her side. She eventually found it in another suitcase, and apologized profusely to me afterward. Had she opened her bag and started screaming, she would have vilified herself immediately. 

Seriously, never fucking yell - even in your most livid state. It will get you nowhere. The calmer you are when something goes wrong, the more likely the staff will work with you. I promise. 

But back to this fucking twat from Boston. 

Massholecunt - "WHAT. THE. FUUUUUUUUCK?!?!?!" 

I jumped and nearly dropped the phone. I looked up, and saw her stomping over to Ralph and ordering him to come look at her front bumper. 

It's worth re-mentioning that this KIA Optimum was a rental. 

Massholecunt - "WHAT'S THIS FUCKING SCRATCH?!?! WHAT'S THIS FUCKING SCRATCH?!?" 

Ralph stood there, horrified. Judging by the quivering of his chin and bulged eyeballs, I could tell that he immediately regretted getting himself involved with this psycho to avoid lifting a few heavy bags. 

Massholecunt - "THIS FUCKING SCRATCH! WAS NOT FUCKING HERE! WHEN I DROPPED IT OFF!!!" 

And here, my fine readers, is where my experience comes into play. I've been doing this for almost two years now, and while bumping heads with lunatics like this has made for some great stories, I knew that dealing with her would do nothing but raise my blood pressure. So for the time, instead of following the misery and putting myself in the line of fire, I did the sensible thing:

Stayed the fuck out of it. 

And guess what? It was one of the best decisions I've ever made while working in this god forsaken job. 

I grabbed our security guard on duty, who, and bless his heart, is about as useful as a can full of smashed rectums, and watched the show. 

Here are the highlights of the next thirty minutes: 

- Massholecunt came storming into the lobby, where security intercepted her:

Security - "Ma'am, I'm gonna need you to calm down." 

Massholecunt - "DON'T YOU FUCKING TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!!! I WANT SOMEONE TO PAY FOR THIS DAMAGE!!!" 

I think he farted with fear. 

Security - "Imma... well... we gonna... umm.. let me... um... look at the... umm.. damage." 

Security went outside to survey the damage. I walked inside and watch the delightful silent picture of Massholecunt flailing and pointing her arms like a gangster rapper as Security quivered and nodded and pretended to talk to someone on his radio. 

- Massholecunt, tired of the sound of marbles swishing in a coffee can that is security trying to negotiate a solution, ran into the lobby and demanded a manager: 

Massholecunt - "I NEED A MOTHERFUCKING MANAGER!!! MY CAR TOOK AN HOUR TO GET HERE AND IT HAS DAMAGE IN THE FRONT!!! FUCKING RETARDED!!!" 

It took twenty-six minutes, but I'm not saying a word. Today, I am a spectator. 

My manager eventually came out, and she continued to go apeshit: 

Massholecunt - "THE FUCKING CAR TOOK AN HOUR AND FIFTEEN MINUTES TO GET HERE AND THERE'S DAMAGE ON THE FUCKING FRONT BUMPER THAT WASN'T FUCKING HERE WHEN I PUT IT IN THE GARAGE. THIS IS FUCKING DISGUSTING AND EVERYONE THAT WORKS HERE IS A FUCKING RETARD!!!" 

Okay, so remember when I said that yelling gets you nowhere? Calling everyone on the staff a retard also falls into that category. 

My manager simply wrote down the phone number of the parking garage, offered to let her use the bell captain phone, and went right back to his office. 

- Ever go to a parking garage in Manhattan? If so, have you ever had an attendant that spoke perfect English? Maybe you have, but at our garage, not a one of those guys can muster anything beyond a little bIt of Spanglish. With her rage and the serious language barrier, her ten-minute tirade on the phone was just a beautiful thing to listen to: 

Massholecunt - "IT TOOK AN HOUR AND A HALF FOR THE FUCKING CAR TO COME... THERE'S A FUCKING SCRATCH ON THE FRONT FUCKING BUMPER... ON THE BUMPER!!!... ON THE BUMPEEEERRRRRR!!!!!.... ARE YOU FUCKING DEAF OR RETARDED?!?!... ON THE FUCKING BUMPER... I WANT YOU TO FUCKING FIX IT... THE FUCKING BUMPER!!!!" 

This went on and on and on. Eventually, I had to go to the bell stand to get staples, and I was able to overhear this delightful little nugget: 

Massholecunt - "OK!!! OK!!! I'M COMING DOWN THERE FOR YOU TO SEE!!!" 

Then, on the other end of the phone, I hear a faint, thick hispanic accent: 

Valet - "No no no no no no no no!!! I send someone there!" 

She slammed the phone onto the receiver and made her triumphant exit: 

Massholecunt - "FUCKING BED BUGS!!! THIS PLACE HAS BED BUGS!!! FUCKING DISGUSTING!!!" 

- I stood by the door as she yelled some more to her embarrassed friends. About ten minutes later, "Jorge", the manager at the garage, came strolling up the street. 

I stepped outside, because I had to see how this would end. And end it did, fucking beautifully. 

Jorge stood with his arms folded and stared at the front bumper as the psychopath ranted and raved, pointing and threatening to sue. He stood there, seemingly unfazed, as if he had a trick up his sleeve. Then, just as she gave him a teeny-tiny window to get a word in edgewise, he crouched down and took a closer look at the "damage". 

He licked his thumb, rubbed the bumper for a couple of seconds, then stood up.

Jorge - "It's fixed." 

The color of red in Massholecunt's face turned to magenta, as I'm sure was a result of a mixture of humiliation and unnecessary anger. 

Jorge - "Hey, Doorman!!!" 

I waved at Jorge as he disappeared down the street. Massholecunt and her friends got in the KIA Optima and drove off. No apologies. 

The moral of the story - Don't be an animal. Be nice and maybe someone will work with you to find a really fucking easy solution. 

1 comment:

  1. Amaaaaaaaaazing! Nothing better than listening to a masshole rant about nothing. Growing up in a NH lake town, I saw my fair share.

    Though if she were a *true* masshole, you spelled it wrong, as she would have been screaming and yelling about the "FUCKING BUMPAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH"

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