Hotel Duval Can Suck My Hair Balls…With All Due Respect
I went on a business trip to Tallahassee Florida this week, and aside from being 3 blocks away from Florida State University – and more importantly, 2 blocks away from sorority row – I was excited about the hotel that had been booked by a co-worker of mine who was originally supposed to go in my place. He’s a young guy; well-built and into the “scene” as they say. He likes modern hotels and easy access to women. Unfortunately, he’s got a pregnant girlfriend who might be going into labor at any moment; that’s where I step in and take over his spot at the grand Hotel Duval in the quaint, yet trying-really-hard downtown of the capital city of Florida.
It’s chic, it’s modern, and it has the city’s only rooftop bar; it’s aesthetically pleasing and yet, wholly impractical. For all the clean lines, simple color schemes and ultra-modern architectural panache…it was completely non-functional and the ass-master of nickel and diming guests who have a lack of disposable income (yours truly). But before I even get into the colossal fuck-storm that is the inside of the hotel, let me first begin with the outside. The only goddamn parking the actual hotel itself had, was valet only. An entire 8 story hotel would only allow you to park if you fucking paid for it. Never mind the $150 dollars per night I’m already paying to stay in your hillbilly Hilton, but now I have to pay $10 a day to park my ragged-out rental car there as well…plus tip?! Fuck you right in your pretentious asshole! So what’s the alternative you might ask? Metered parking on the road. METERED FUCKING PARKING in your shit-hole town. Is that the “hip” thing to do now days? To give so few fucks about your paying customers that you make them pay, not only you but the city as well, just to stay at your retarded-ass hotel?
Then as we move onto the inside, I’ll just begin with meals. I’ve stayed in countless hotels in countless cities in countless states…and the one thing 99% of them had in common, was that if they had any food at all, they usually had free continental breakfast. It’s just the way most hotels operate. Not Hotel Duval. Hotel Duval says: “Fuck you; we cater to the people who wipe their asses with dollar-dollar bills, ya’ll. You want bacon? Four bucks, bitch! What was that? You want eggs? I ran out of fucks to give this morning so I don’t care how you want them cooked…it’ll be 8 dollars for two, fuck-nuts.”
That’s fine…me and the work-partner went to Wal-Mart and stocked up on cheap food because it was reported on H.D.’s website that each room came equipped with a mini-fridge and microwave; it might be microwave food, but I could still keep my diet up for the most part. This time, Hotel Duval ran completely out of ‘fucks’ to give and decided: nope, 10 bucks a night for that too, ya fuckin’ cheap skate! Ten American fucking dollars to rent a goddamn microwave for 3 minutes of use. I’ve literally had hookers that charged less, for more. I’ve also dated girls recently who – fucked up cunts that they were – wouldn’t dream of charging that much for 3 minutes…probably. So, sandwiches for dinner it was, and heated things at work for lunch…where I could heat for FREE.
Next, apart from the money issue, was the overall functionality of these aesthetically pleasing rooms of royalty. There was a touch screen computer on the desk that didn’t work at all; like, it seriously just sat there and took up space. The bathroom was admittedly beautiful but was also the most disgusting part of the whole ordeal. First, the glass top sink would, for some ungodly reason, splash fluids in a million different directions no matter how low the faucet was set, or how softly you spit sperm or toothpaste into it. If you were to rinse your mouth out with red-dyed water, it would look worse than a movie theater in Aurora, Colorado. I’m sorry…too soon? Ok, it would look worse than a presidential limo in Dallas, Texas. Better? That’s a 40-year-old reference you sad-sack sons-of-bitches. Anyway, my point is, no matter how softly things were done, shit would go everywhere!
Then there was the shower; that nasty cesspool of stagnant piss-water and ever-wet semen ready to impregnate the most barren of women. The floor wasn’t tile, it was rocks. Not little pebbles, fucking rocks; porous rocks that, despite what the hotel owners say, will never ever ever ever ever fucking ever get actually cleaned. You can’t even pour bleach on them because they’re black stones; it would literally ruin them if you did. But all these raised stones means one thing, not all of the water is flowing to the drain at the end of the shower. Each one of those fucking rocks is in-and-of-itself a goddamn…well, dam, that blocks all of the water from draining; besides which fact, there’s no declination in the floor to help with this endeavor. This means whatever nasty-ass, coke-sniffing, AIDS-having businessman stayed in the room 24 hours prior to me, who jerked off to thoughts of the receptionist downstairs and pissed 40 ounces of Tom Collins’ and Mojitos all willy-nilly onto those beautiful black stones of design ‘pop’ sensation, is still sitting there, un-cleaned and waiting to infect whatever dick-headed douche-hole repeated the situation as if it were instructions on a shampoo bottle. I’ve showered once and only once because as soon as I saw how disgusting the floor was, my feet curled up inside of my legs and refused to come out until I poured the bottle of scotch (which I bought upon arrival), all over my skin in attempts to de-HIV myself. Seriously…who the fuck designed this Petri-dish of pandemonium? I think this hotel is the epicenter of the Ebola virus. Some unlucky Ugandan stayed here (possibly after a he won a marathon) and took the shit back to Africa. This whole time, we’ve been blaming fucking monkeys (the literal monkey, not the racist euphemism for black people, you insensitive bastards), for introducing that shit to earth.
And while we’re on the subject of the shower, this was my first experience with the waterfall, or rainfall or whatever the shit it’s called, shower head. Fuck that instrument of evil. I did a gym work out and my arms were feeling like jello; I needed to wash the ole’ armpits, and because the water was coming out perpendicular to the ceiling, I had to perform yoga just to get my stank-ass arms even remotely wet, never mind clean. Do you have any idea how hard it is to clean your ‘pits’ when you’ve just lifted the equivalent weight of a single Christina Aguilera? That’s a lot of goddamn weight! So suffice it to say, I still smelled like an Indian cab driver after my shower (no offense Indians…I love you guys and you seriously have the best food on the subcontinent of India).
Did I mention, I purchased a cigar at the rooftop bar, (cleverly named Level8, as in ‘eighth floor’) and when I got my bill after one $8 scotch, it was over $30? My shitty cigar that I only smoked half of because it wouldn’t stay lit – and I couldn’t find the fuck-tard of a maitre-d with the butane lighter to relight it – cost me $25. Fuck Hotel Duval. Fuck it right in it’s shitty, faux-hip atmosphere. I’m walking the two blocks over to sorority-row and the beautiful bevy of post-blossomed babes and their shitty hole-in-the-wall bars where the ass-raping isn’t getting done on my wallet, but on dumb coeds who leave their drinks unattended. Florida might turn out to be fun after all.