Motel Etiquette: How not to be a dick when staying somewhere that is not your house.

When I was a small person, one thing my mum used to always say to my sister & I when we were caught being little bastards at someone else's house was 'would you do that in your own home?'. To which my reply would always be 'Yes I would. Except you would growl & when you growl I get scared'. And then I got taller than her & wasn't so scared anymore. That & the fact I could run like Forrest Gump on speed.

Apart from the fact I often challenged my mum's excellent child rearing skills, my sister & I were raised with respect for other people & other people's property.

This meant when we went away on holidays & stayed in motels, apart from helping my dad turn the couch upside down & sift it for lost change (Holla Papa! The apple doth not fall far from the tree. I still do this), we never abused the places we stayed in. Because it wasn't our place to abuse.

As an adult, I have carried this rule on & when I am travelling I am always respectful of any property of which does not belong to me. Sadly, many others do not abide by this same rule. In fact, when staying in accommodation, many people throw all rules & manners out the door.

For those that aren't already aware, my husband & I live at a motel. We have been living there for a year & a half now & we love it hard. My husband works at the motel during the day & we are also responsible for the place after reception closes. Which means one of us always has to be on the premises by 8pm every. single. night.

While this commitment does affect our social life together, it's no great burden because we both have Nana tendency's & often display extreme anti social behaviour. Why go outside when you don't have to right? Plus it's just a shit hot place to live. My back porch looks out over the marina. I get to smell the ocean every morning. Get that up ya.

Because of our current living status, we get to experience on a day to day basis, the perils of bad manners displayed by others who choose to abuse the luxury of staying away from home.

It shits me. It shits me so hard in fact that Blake has to lock me in the house sometimes to stop me from starting a hate riot in the courtyard.

So as per usual, I have taken it upon myself to educate that select group of  disrespectful wanks on how one must behave when staying somewhere that is not their house.

Shitting in the shower is not ok. Ever.
If it weren't so offensive, I would wear it on a t-shirt. Hell, y'all know by now that I would probably wear it on a t-shirt anyway. Do you know why? Because people actually shit in the shower!! I am so not lying. More than one time now, the cleaners at the motel have had to deal with a non-accidental misdirected fecal.

Now I understand first hand that accidents happen *cough cough. Sometimes, we have no power over our angry bowels & one can be left clenching cheeks completely & utterly in vain. In my 32 years on this earth, & with my troubled digestion problem, this has never happened to me in the shower.

I understand that in some countries, taking a dump in the shower may be considered a normal practice. This is not a normal practice in NZ. We do not do poos in the shower.

In the late 1600's, a containment vesicle was invented to house the excrement & urine of a human being. This vesicle is called a toilet. The Shitter. The Shit House. The Throne. ecetera. This is what we are meant to use to rid our body of excess waste.

The only time I would accept this sort of a behaviour is if you were a baby. Babies have no control over when & where they code brown. It's not their fault. Babies don't go out on their own & stay in motels. Unless they have super powers. And for the record I have yet to meet a baby with super powers.

So next time you find yourself with the urge to crack one out, get the hell outta the shower & drop it in the toilet like a normal person. Do not EVER let it go in the shower then attempt to squash it down the plug with your foot. First of all ewwwww you filthy filthy bastard. And secondly, some nice person, a person who is just trying to survive in this harsh world, has to clean up your rancid bowel contents.

I would write you a letter asking you to please refrain from shitting in the shower if you choose to visit our premises again in the future. If I was allowed to. And if I had a voice of reason, which I don't, the more likely scenario would be you getting into your car to go to work one morning & discovering that someone had taken a nasty dump on your passenger seat.

A nasty present for a nasty person.

You do know that we have all your personal details in the database & I could find out where you live right?

All Night Dance Parties
I'm always down for a good party. Actually that's a lie. I hate parties. And I'm always the first to sneak away when the host is in the bathroom. But not before I motorboat the shit out of the party food. Man I love me some party snacks.

Over the last year & a half, I have had to break up a few motel rooms parties. Every so often, we have the pleasure of housing young fishermen/women. I understand that life on the sea is tough & stressful, & when on land you are overcome with urges to drink until you're half dead.

What happens is this select group text all their friends & invite them over to their motel room for a good old shindig.

We don't mind guests inviting guests over. But when these guests & their guests start yelling & screaming & basically being disruptive little assholes, stopping me & other paying guests from enjoying a good nights rest, that is where I draw the line. Game on muthafuckas.

I am lucky to be blessed with a rather large pair of invisible ball sacs. Not only do these assertive scrotum aid me in hushing disruptive motel guests but they also help me vent my rage & lack of tolerance for all that annoys me in life. There is a lot that annoys me. Like musicals, taxi driver pee on the floor of the work bathroom, thigh chafe, bees, people with rancid dirty neck folds......to name but a few.

Heading off the topic here for a moment, I went to the movies last weekend & saw Rock of Ages. What possessed me, I can not say, but 3 seconds in to the first scene, I realised it was indeed a musical movie. Fuck my life.

You know when you witness something so cheesy, the level of inner discomfort is so extreme that you proceed to purge small piles of vomit into your own hand. That is how I felt whilst watching this movie. It was so shit.

Blake looked at me with hateful fail eyes, mouthing 'why' at me every time someone spontaneously broke into song. I talked him into seeing this movie. Therefore the fault lay solely with me.

We slunk down real low in our seats, praying for the visual torture to end.

And when it was all over, just to reassure ourselves that not all was lost on our rainy Saturday afternoon, we tag team throat punched some hobos.

To really driver home just how shithouse I found this movie, I went on the radio this morning to tell the nation what I thought about it.

I will be waiting for the defamation of character law suit with baited breath Tom. You're welcome.

Don't do it. You have been warned.

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Smoking will harm you. But not as much as my hate dagger in your ribs when you smoke inside a motel room after politely being requested not to.
I've had an on/off relationship with cigarettes since I was 15 years old. I hate that I love to smoke, & to date it is the one thing that I just can't shake for good.

When I travel for work, I often stay in motels. If there is a sign anywhere in the motel room that says 'please do not smoke', I don't smoke. Easy.

Some people proactively choose to ignore it. And proceed to get aggressive/offended when charged extra to cover the arduous task of removing cigarette stench from the motel unit.

This really grates my tits.

Please note: If you throw your cigarette butts over the balcony like goddamn Mardigras confetti, I will reign down on you with the intensity of a thousand badly shod wild equine.

Hiding Drugs in furniture that isn't yours is also not ok also.
We have never actually had this happen. If I was in the business of hiding drugs, I would totally do it in the motel. However, as I mentioned previously, my voice of reason is non existent, so I wouldn't really take anything I tell you to do as an actual instruction.

For a couple of months we did have a pot-like stench coming from one of our rooms after a west coast couple had spent the night. Now I have a nose on me like a hound dog, but even my super sense of smell could not sniff out the offending narcotics. That's because there were none. But it was so much fun to pretend there was.

I thrive in made-up-in-my-head dangerous situations.

It turned out there was a blockage of leaves in the pipes in the wall behind the bed. So the owners got it fixed.

I still prefer the drug story though.

Please note: I do not do drugs of any shape or form. Nor do I condone planting a brick of hash in the underside compartment of a motel chair.

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Get your freak on. With the curtains closed.
In 2010, when Blake & I were on a family holiday on the Gold Coast, he spied a couple in the opposite hotel banging the living daylights out of each other, with the curtains wide open.

Now I'm all for holiday porn.  My horn meter has been known to raise quite significantly while away from the stresses of my every day life. The difference between me & the Gold Coast Humpers is that I like to make relations with my husband, without other people watching.

While I'm definitely no prude, I don't find it particularly endearing when I have to pick up a used joey off the floor beside the bed, or remove sheets that have a strangers man seed all over them. If you put your shit in the bin, I don't have to see it. Good rule!

By all means, ride whoever you want, as many times as you like, but for the love of god don't leave your sexual byproducts on display for my viewing pleasure. I don't want to see it. It makes me gag. And then I spew all over the carpet. Then we have a whole other grotty mess to clean up.

It's a vicious dirty cycle.

Any memorable motel adventures you care to share?

Back in my rock star days, many years ago, we used to travel the top of the south playing in various venues, & staying in random motels. One time, I went out partying with the natives. I danced so hard that I danced my room key right outta my pocket. I slept on the floor outside, but not before administering many swift fuck kicks to the front door. My band mate didn't hear me. He was in a Jack Daniels coma. When the sun rose, I was found asleep on the front porch, & there was a large whole in the motel unit door.

I was such a bad ass.

Peace, love, & happy travels

I've said it before, If this is the worst thing that can happen to me today, then my life is awesome. Except for maybe this.

Sometimes awful things happen to you. Truly awful tragic things that make you wonder who you slashed to death with a kitchen knife in your past life to cause the karmic realm to hate on you so ferociously. But you suck it up. Cos some of us are pretty staunch like that. And you move on. Or if you are an attention seeking whore, you write about it.........just like this.

Something happened to me yesterday. Something so disgusting that I wasn't sure if I wanted to share it or not. And then I told someone about it, & they laughed so hard they were crying shame tears for me.

So here we are.

You know that scene from Bridesmaids when everyone gets the shits from eating bad Portuguese food? And when the bride to be is running across the road to the toilet & proceeds to make kakas in her pants?

If you've clicked where this post is going & are questioning whether or not you want to know what happened to me, I suggest you leave now. Y'all know by now that there ain't nothing sacred with me.

Well yesterday, while sitting quietly at my desk minding my own business, dabbling in a bit of actual work, I found myself needing to pass wind. For the record, as much as I seem to write about farts on this here blog, I am by no means a frenzied fart bomb dropper.

Anyway, as I let the built up intestinal wind unleash itself slowly from my backside, to my absolute horror I realised that wind wasn't the only thing released from my backside orifice.

I shat in my own pants.

Before I could fully register what had happened I was high tailing it to the work bathroom. Thank christ no one else was in the office at the time.

Upon inspection, yes it seemed the violent diarrhoea that had been plaguing me since the early hours of yesterday morning had not fully subsided. And I misjudged my abilities, or lack thereof, to omit a simple fart.

Another thing, regardless of the fact I swear like a truckers whore, I am indeed a lady. I don't like to dally in the bathroom for any longer than necessary. I am clean & borderline obsessive compulsive with personal hygiene. So much so, that sometimes my vigorous backend cleansing ritual leaves me feeling like I've wiped my ass right off. With a kitchen scourer. And it smarts.

So I found myself somewhat stranded with a stinky mess in my undergarments in the one work toilet. Any minute now one of my drivers could come in to use the bathroom. What the fuck do I do?

I took my chucks off, removed my brand new black skinny jeans, carefully removed the horror undies, & then I panicked. Before I could even think about what I was doing, I had shoved my soiled panties in the sanitary disposal bin. Fuck my life. Seriously what is wrong with me?

There I was, still stranded in the toilet, except now I had no panties, only a slightly moist in the ass pair of shit jeans.

It wasn't a big mess. Luckily my epic butt cheeks had contained the mess like they were trying to trap a small forest animal. Praise the fat ass. I cleaned myself up, then remembered I had a spare pair of undies in my gym bag. I re-troued, momentarily commando, & penguin walked, cheeks clenched like my entire life depended on it, back into my office to fetch my gym bag.

Back in the safe haven of the toilet, I put on my clean pair of lady bloomers, & my gym pants. Cos I couldn't put my black jeans back on. There was a moist patch on the ass crack that one can only assume was courtesy of my spontaneous anal leakage problem.

Then I rang my husband. Ashamed & feeling slightly foolish, I requested that he deliver me a clean pair of jeans to my place of work. After hosing himself laughing for a good 10 minutes he finally agreed.

He turned up 15 minutes later & could not look me in the eye. I sat at my desk, my top half all officey & proper, & my bottom half looking geared up to slug it out in the gym. I looked like a complete fuckwit.

Clean pair of daks on, I got on with my day. But I couldn't help but feel a bit nervous about the demon pants buried deep in the sanitary disposal bin in the toilet. A man comes & empties that bin at the start of every month. He's always happy even though he possibly has one of the worst jobs in the world, & he always leaves me a small packet of jellybeans on the counter. I don't even want to think about what he's going to think when he discovers the feral panties.

I am going to try & mentally will them to decompose into dust with my awesome mind powers.

Failing that, I have two other options. Either I attempt to dig them out & find another way of disposing of the upset colon crime, or I leave town the week he's due to come in. I won't accept his gracious jellybean offering. I don't deserve it.

Because I am a giant baby who shits in her pants.

Please pray for me people. Pray that my boss or any of my other work colleagues do not read this post. Because I will die.

I may be a cool guy, but shit really does happen. In my pants apparently.

UPDATE: The 'When farts gone bad' tragedy pants have been retrieved from the sanitary disposal bin. DO not ask.

Have you ever had something so embarrassing happen to you that you swore you'd never tell anyone? I've kinda set the bar pretty high but go on set your secret free. We are all friends here.

Peace & love
Mrs Shitty Pants x

The worst birthday present ever.

I woke up from a dream this morning at 4:30am that I had shat my pants in my sleep. So I got up to check if I had indeed made a horror in my pants. 

As it turned out, there was no poos in pants. Huzzah I had only dreamt it!!. But thank god I was on the toilet because it was exactly at that time my gurgly unsettled stomach decided to explode like an angry volcano out my backend.

Yes too much information but I'm not apologising for that. The reason for sharing this information is because my body woke me up through my subconscious mind by making me dream about shitting in my own undergarments!! It was trying to warn me that I needed to get to a toilet stat!! This is friggin biological science in it's element yo! My own brain stopped me from shitting myself. The proof is right here for everyone to read.....still not sorry.

After sitting through a good hour & a half of aural torture courtesy of the Queens Jubilee concert last night, due to it being such utter shit, I'ma wondering if that was the cause of my cranky bowel this morning?

First of all, who in hell organises this event? Did the Queen specifically ask for a complete balls up shit fest concert for her birthday prize? I am thinking no. But dear lady, after watching it myself, that is indeed exactly what you got.

I was channel surfing, nothing on the box last night. I don't watch much TV as a general rule, I prefer to read. But last night I was so tired & exhausted from the raging Antarctic winds that pummelled my fair city all dam day yesterday, I just wanted to starfish on the couch & watch some crap TV. I somehow ended up on channel one just in time to see this....

Now I've heard of Gary Barlow, not sure who he is in relevance to anything, but I have heard his name mentioned before. To be fair, the man doesn't scrub up too badly, & he can sing. But what in the fuck was he doing singing with this tone deaf troll doll?

This could have been nice. But prom dress hooker ruined it all hopes of that. And thank god the queen wasn't even there yet because she would have cried. Sad angry tears. Because that right there is an aural assaulting of the highest order bullshit birthday present.

Get off the stage Cheryl whoever you are. And more importantly get the hell off my TV!!
I have it on good authority, thanks to my favourite UK liaison officer Carolyn, that this prostitute was in fact part of an all girl band in the UK called 'Girls Aloud'. Anyway, Simon Cowell wanted to bone her, but she said no thanks. And she gets reamed in the media for always lip syncing for live performances.

A handy tip Cheryl, please keep lip syncing. Otherwise it's quite possible the people of your nation may stone you. Including the Queen herself.

I don't feel bad about being mean to Cheryl. Singing for the Queen is a pretty big deal, next to singing the national anthem at an international All Blacks game (my dream), so I believe that it should at least be a prerequisite to be good.

Cheryl is not good. And I am proudly bitter about it because she is probably swimming in treasure & jewels, for being a way below par singer. I want treasure & jewels. Not because obviously I am awesome, but also because I have a whole shit tonne of really amazing singer friends that could have licked this girl easy.

FYI = 'licked this girl easy' meaning kicked her ass vocally. Not munching on her fanny bags.

Next up in the concert of doom was none other than the smooth crooner Cliff Richard himself.

When I was young, my sister & I used to dance together in the garage to Livin' Doll belting out of Dad's tape deck. My parents loved Cliff, we were young & not old enough to make up our own minds yet, so we loved Cliff hard too.

Many sunny Saturday afternoons were spent moshing like electrocuted river salmon round & round the concrete garage floor to Cliffs sultry voice. Luckily shin splints weren't an issue then, due to having pre-pubescent rubber band bones.

It seems the years have not been kind to Cliff. First of all he has a face on him like a wrinkly battered ballsac, & his hearing is obviously failing him. Because he spent the first part of his performance singing in Bb when the key of his song was in C. To the untrained ear you probably wouldn't notice, but I did. And it hurt me more than a well timed kick to the lady slats.

My eyes got misty as I watched Cliff gyrating around the stage in his beige hipster suit. I can't talk about him anymore.....it's just....(sob)...too hard.

Next we had Lang Lang the Asian (not sure of his country of origin) pianist. He was really something else. He smashed those piano keys like a BOSS with his freakishly speedy piano claws. Piano concertos really ain't my bag. Not unless performed by a naked Ryan Gosling from Crazy Stupid Love era.

And let the global fanny spasms begin......

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I once briefly dated a man who played the piano. It was because if his love for all things piano that my feelings for him never flourished. I just found it all a bit lady. And the fact that he was only ever actually good was when he was ripped off his tits. Even then the only song he could play was Bat out of Hell by Meatloaf. I can not stand Meatloaf or anything piano related now. Thanks to Mr Lady Fingers. Ick.

Tom Jones, dam that man still got some swagger. Out of all the performers I saw, keeping in mind that I missed Stevie Wonder, Paul McCartney & Elton, he was the by far the best. If I had of been in the front row, & 40 years older, I would've taken off my panties & biffed them at his face like decorating a christmas tree made entirely of Tom Jones. Mr Jones, you got it goin on!

Annie Lennox wore angel wings & performed There Must Be An Angel. But all I could think about was how she looked like she wanted to eat the faces of every single person in that audience. Or spit venom. It was terrifying. I've always questioned the possibility of her owning a rather large man fanny in her pantaloons. She just has a deep voice. That's what I chose to believe.

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When I was 10, my favourite female singer was Kylie Minogue. I remember walking around the back yard with Locomotion smokin' outta my small tape deck & thinking that everything was right in the world.

Along with my sister Hayley, & our neighbour Laura, we used to Locomote our way around the hospital grounds that backed onto our property. And once time, mid Loco, I was so deliriously happy that I pissed my own pants & buried them in the back yard because I was scared my mum would growl at me.

Last night, Kylie performed on stage for the Queen with some robot ladies & some fine dark skinned men in glitter pants. She was wearing ass hugging short shorts & a captains cap. It had buttons all over it. While initially I was impressed that Kylie could still indeed bring it, it was just really boring.

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In comparison to her back up dancers, Kylie looked like a little carnie. And if there is once thing in life that I am scared of more than tarantulas crawling on my face or being eaten by a shark because it smelt my menstruation, it's goddamn carnie folk.

And with that anti-climax I dragged myself off to bed to dream about shitting my pants.

Next year, I am thinking of actually going to England & streaming a live hate rage feed from Buckingham Palace. I am hoping my brother Kev aka The Social Assassin will accompany me? His tolerance of bullshit equally matches mine. And he's tall & can spew fire out his mouth like a dragon so he can also be my bodyguard.

Apologies for the non communicado of late. This bitch has been busy.

Peace & love