So, back to our story. As I left off last week, Mr. Dickhead is ranting and raving at the bar about his child’s hot dog that he ordered at least 15 minutes ago and is demanding that they bring it out NOW as Little Johnny is getting crabbier by the minute. All I can think is that Minivan Mom would have never let this happen – you know she has an old stained Vera Bradley tote bag of some kind on her at all times with Goldfish, Cheerios and Gummy Bears – just waiting for any Meltdown Emergency. But, alas – Minivan Mom is not there and Dad is freaking out because Little Johnny is now completely losing it. I can’t help but think that what Little Johnny is really losing it about is that he is embarrassed about his stupid Dad, yelling and jumping around like some sort of ape.
Anyway, Dad decides he has finally had enough. He scoops Little Johnny up into his arms and finds the first bartender lady he can. “Okay! NOW you’ve done it!! Do you see my son here? He is CRYING because you people can’t seem to get a goddamn hot dog out here in a reasonable amount of time! Just CANCEL the hot dog! FORGET ABOUT IT!”
The bartender lady is just looking at him with no expression whatsoever. I love these ladies. It’s the same group of four West Indian ladies that have worked the Westin Pool Bar as long as I can remember and absolutely nothing can faze them – you just know they have dealt with every type of asshole on the planet – and this guy isn’t even close to the worst. She begins to make a drink as she calmly talks to Dad in her pretty West Indian accent. “The hot dog will be out here any minute now. You can’t cancel once it’s in the kitchen. Do you want it “to go” instead?”
This sends Dad over the edge. “NO! It’s TOO LATE now! I don’t want the goddamn hot dog now, do you understand?!? CANCEL it. I don’t want it! When it gets here you TAKE IT OFF MY BILL IMMEDIATELY. I mean it! My ROOM NUMBER IS 3172! 3172! 3172! Take it off my bill!” And with that he storms off, back to room 3172 I suppose. And, of course, within 30 seconds, the hot dog comes out of the kitchen. My husband and I are practically falling off our chairs. All I can think of is how much trouble Dickwad Dad is going to be in when he wakes Mom out of her nap to explain that Little Johnny has had no lunch at all.
Oh, and I now have his room number.
We fantisize about all the things we could do: Buy porn at the gift shop. Charge a big lobster to him at the restaurant. Drink unlimited Mimosas at the buffet. Order 50 hot dogs to his room. Hmmm… Maybe more old-school? The flaming bag of shit on the doorstep? Too hard. Buy 10 packages of hot dogs at the store throw them at his door? Too much work. Ring and run? That means I have to get off my barstool.
So, I wait. I wait until after our lunch, after our dinner, after our night on the town, after we get back to our house and are ready to go to bed. It’s about 2am. I call the Westin and ask for room number 3172. A groggy man-voice answers the phone – so much more quiet than the last time I saw him. “H.. Hello?”
“YOUR FUCKING HOT DOG IS READY NOW, SIR!!!!!” I scream into the receiver and then slam it down. And then I laughed and I laughed and I laughed. I know – it was stupid and petty – but boy, did it feel good!