February 27, 2008

Trip Report

For some stupid reason, our Senior Management has decided that a trip report must be written and submitted once you return from any company related travel. To the best of my knowledge, my department is the only one required to do this. It reminds me of having to type up my notes from class at the end of the year and submitting them for a grade. Being who I am, you will find Day 1 of my trip report below.

Day 1

The day had finally come. It was a long, difficult journey, but in the end I’d made it. It was time for Training, that mythical word in the computer tech’s lexicon that can mean anything from a boring, crappy lunch to lobster on the company’s dime. For me, that word meant only one thing; Vacation.

The drive to Birmingham was like my last girlfriend, straight as an arrow and flat as a board. The GPS committed suicide halfway there because it had nothing to say except “maintain present road”. The sexy, mechanical voice groaned like a hippo raising itself out of its feces-infested lagoon, and then shrieked like the Big Gay Mule at a pole-sitting contest before frying its internal circuits. It was then I knew the day was going to get worse.

The hotel they booked me into was like a submarine on the last few days of its cruise, long, hard, and full of seamen. Well, not seamen in the nautical sense, but you get the picture. The area I’m in is like the urban sprawl that’s affected this country since the end of the Cold War. Miles and miles of chain restaurants, Office Depots, Best Buys, and Mrs. Wong’s Nookie Parlor and Noodle Emporium. And I don’t mean noodle in the nautical sense, but you get the picture.

I checked in and gave them my hotel perks card. It’s not exactly my card, but I pretend it is and the desk clerk follows my lead. She gives me a look that says she’d like to see my submarine make an unscheduled stop in her harbor, but since I can smell the tuna canning boat at anchor just off her coast, I decided to pass. As repayment, Miss Chicken of the Sea gives me an “upgrade” to a nice, quiet, corner room right next to the ice maker, elevator, and local immigration office, or what the hotel likes to call “Housekeeping”. The last time I saw this many Mexicans in one place was at a refried bean eating contest outside the local Taco Bell. Some folks are against having illegals in the country but I say bring ‘em on! If they want nothing more than to clean my toilet and pick the pubes out of the shower drain, then I say “More power to you, Amigo”.

After unpacking and taking an incredibly satisfying dump, I headed on down to Che Paul’s, the restaurant in the hotel offering “fine cuisine”. The waiter in this place flamed so badly that I had to order my steak extra rare just to make sure he wouldn’t burn it before bringing it to the table. This particular piece of meat had more whip marks on it than the Big Gay Mule after an all-night Noodle party at Mrs. Wong’s. When he offered me his frozen banana for dessert, I knew it was time to blow that joint. No pun intended.

Heading back to my room, I was hoping to find that blonde-haired, blue-eyed nympho that I knew was waiting for me just around the corner. Tonight was my lucky night. There she was alright, displaying the charms that Mother Nature gave her and Dr. Johnson had enhanced. As I brought this honey to bed, my last thought was, “Damn, I hope I remembered to charge my laptop battery”. It was going to be a long night.