What is it about hotels that makes us all go so bizarrely and baroquely berserk?
Give an average bloke a room key and a mint on his pillow and suddenly that person turns into a rule-breaking, wild-eyed, Charlie Sheenian sexual outlaw. Stick an average broad in a hotel bar and she turns into Rielle Hunter. (More about her hotel antics in a moment.) A friend of mine who works in the hotel industry keeps me abreast of all the latest trends in anti-social and revolting guest behavior. According to my "hospitality insider," nefarious guest activities are only becoming more foul and disturbing. My pal's job involves the design and refurbishment of soft furnishings in the rooms of gracious hotels. Though he enjoys his work, he has started to feel somewhat constrained, specifically in regard to fabric choices. Whether for upholstery, drapes, or bedding, every textile he selects must now be BCP-resistant, by which he means resistant to-drumroll-blood, cum, and poo.
Before you leap to the comments section to express in no uncertain terms just how disgusted you are, know this: I am disgusted too. The pantheon of gnarly activities people get up to in hotels is objectively disgusting. It would be disgusting if you were not disgusted.
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