There’s Paris Hilton. There’s the guy who’ll leave the lights on for ya. And then there’s Larry Whitten. Larry, an ex-marine and all-around badass, hopes to be the next big thing in the hotel/motel biz. And he thinks the way to make that happen isn’t by providing mints on the pillows or cheap porn on the TV, it’s to be the world’s biggest racist a-hole.
You see, Larry has decided that all of his hard-working Mexican staff should pretend that they ain’t Mexican at all. So, he’s forced them to Americanize their names while on the job. Marcos? You’re now Marks. Guiterrez? You’re now George. Martin? You’re now Martin – just say it without Tequilla on your breath.
Yep, Larry Whitten believes the best way to get hookers and their Johns to frequent his fine New Mexican extablishment is to go Anglo. What he doesn’t realize is, nobody gives a flying crap who empties the condom wrappers from the wastebasket.
If our room is clean and our beds are made and there are no floaters left in the toilet, we don’t care how it got that way. You want to hire two Taliban to vacuum up our spooge? Fine with us. You want to bring in a couple of drug lords to dust off our lamp shades? That’s OK too. Just make sure the HBO is free and the mini-soaps are plentiful. Becuase that kind of service speaks volumes. In any language.
Enough of us have woken up in the wee hours of the morning with a bar room surprise lying next to us. It’s shocking. It’s horrifying. But when we finally calm the demons in our heads and wipe the vodka gimlet out of our eyes, we take responsibility for dragging the roadkill into our beds. And we repent by vowing sobriety for all eternity. Or at least until the nausea goes away.
