Handicapped People Are Pimps!

So the good news (depending on your view of me) is that I’ve survived a weekend of debauchery in San Francisco. All in all it was a pretty crazy weekend, and while I don’t plan to bore you with all the details, here were some of the memorable moments:

• Traffic to the airport was horrendous due to the army closing a number of highways in the New York area. Why did they close down roads? A truck carrying a tomahawk missile had crashed, throwing its cargo into the Saw Mill Parkway. Boy, those guys in the military are doing a bang-up job.
• M.C. Hammer is still alive. I was on the same Jet Blue flight as him on Friday night. Meaning that, as far as I know, there were no celebrities on my plane.
• The Wailers (as in Bob Marley and the) stayed in my hotel on Saturday. Meaning that, as far as I know, there were celebrities (and most likely, gang-banged, hash-smoking groupies) under the same roof as me.
• Eight Jack and Cokes, two shots of jagermeister, and a quarter of a bottle of sake is still not enough to get me to dance, sing karaoke, or make out with members of the same sex. I wish I could say the same for my friends...because everything above was engaged in by some member of my posse.

I don’t have a whole lot of experience with hotels. I mean I know enough that if they charge by the hour, you shouldn’t be expecting scented soaps and chocolates on the pillow…Although chances are good that your bed will contain both interesting scents and brown stains.

Let me just say this when it comes to hotel accommodations, though: those handicapped folks really know how to travel in style. And not just because of the mopeds, legal drugs and sponge baths.

This is now the second time that I’ve shown up at a hotel and been given a handicapped room. And people told me that the slow, barely cognoscente glint in my eyes would never come in handy.

The first time this happened, the clerk told me, “I’m going to put you in a room for the differently-abled. Is that ok?”

Not sure what to make of this development, I said, “Umm…sure.” I figured that at most I’d be seeing an extra ramp or something. So I was shocked when I found that my room was equipped with a full-size hot-tub/whirlpool. I really don’t know why they figured that paraplegics needed with a hot-tub. It’s not like they can even feel their legs! They’re enjoying the soak only 50% as much as the rest of us!

I don’t know about the rest of you, but when I’m on the road, I like to drink. Heavily. IN fact, I don’t even consider it a real trip unless I have to go in for dialysis at least twice. And as you all know, when you’re drinking until you suffer massive kidney failure, you have many enemies, not the least of which are stairs, bladder control, and standing vertical. This point leads me to the next reason I love my room: two eyeholes. One for when I’m sober, and one when I’m unable to claw my way higher than my knees. It’s perfect for half-way into that third bottle of Southern Comfort when there’s a knock on your door. Because it’s important to know whether it’s the cops coming to beat you into submission for bellowing off-key renditions of bawdy Frank Zappa songs, or that call girl you ordered what seems like 2 days ago.

My favorite feature of handicapped rooms, however, is the shower. Have you ever laid in bed and thought, “Gee, I’d love to be clean, but that would mean standing on my feet for a whole ten minutes. Isn’t there a way that I can sit on my ass be hosed down like livestock?” Well, my lazy, smelly friends, wonder no longer. The shower in my hotel features a detachable showerhead and a bench. Which is perfect whether you’re suffering from Lou Gehrig's Disease or just a nasty hangover.

All in all, it’s been a truly remarkable couple of days. And between my room and the parking, I’m seriously considering asking some friend to take a bat to my legs. Because somehow I know that the closest I'll ever come to living like a pimp is taking a blow to my spine.

Wow, I’m going to Hell for this post.