I work a lot, and I rarely take breaks, because I am sort of into self-torture.
But this week, the past year of busting my hump punched me about the face and labia, and I decided it’s time to escape from Sweaty Balls Town (my nickname for NYC in the dead of August). Coincidentally, it happened to be around Labor Day. Someone was really thinking when they put the holiday schedule together. So I did a little Googlin’ in search of a room to rent somewhere by the beach, and decided on, where else? A long stretch of land shaped like Manhattan’s fart known as The Hamptons.
I researched mostly Bed and Breakfast type places because though you can stay in a motel for pretty cheap, I’ll pay a little more and risk the chance of hearing old people bang to share a space with 6 to 10 chill adults versus sharing it with 80 screaming bougie kids.
I found several nice places in the $150-$200 range that seemed great—they had pools, Jacuzzis, included breakfast of course, looked cozy and comfortable and were a bong’s throw from the beach. I selected one and rented my room.
During the ordeal, I saw many, many rooms that ranged from $300 to $800 per night. The interesting part was that those places didn’t offer anything above the room I selected, except for maybe a better website, and some of them offered much less. One room that rented for $500 per night had no pool or Jacuzzi, but offered a—wow!—“beverage refrigerator.” You don’t say! Don’t they offer those in every standard cum-covered motel room? So what the fuck would I be paying an extra $300 for? Vag suck? Free back massage? Chocolate-covered strawberries? No, no, and no.
It appears I’d be paying for people’s laziness, opulence, greed, and “because we can fuck you if we want to” attitude. One woman I called asked me about the price range I was looking to pay, reiterating that everything is open to negotiation. When I said “$175-ish,” she laughed in my ear and said, “You won’t find a bed and breakfast out here at that price, and if you do, it will not be very good.”
Do you hear that, The Victorian House Bed and Breakfast? A Victorian On The Bay Bed and Breakfast basically said you guys suck AIDS dicks for fun.
Though I kind of love the idea of paying a buttload of money to, um, sleep over at someone’s grandparent s’ house, “Bed and Breakfast” is really just some fancy ass terminology for “home of a cat lady who is bad at being employed.” These “gracious hosts” are completely shitting in our mouths and calling it a sundae.
On a whim, I took a gander at Craigslist to see if there were any decent-looking shares, and I actually found a few. A lady whose email name was Nadine wrote back to me fast, saying I could rent a room in her “very nice house” with a pool and tennis court for $150 a night. She signed the email "Leslie." A quick Google search of her email address brought up a crazy story with links in the Times, Daily News and more about this woman, actual name Leslie Jennemann, and her partner (some dude) basically fucking over rich people by renting their houses for the summer and then subletting them to dozens of teens by the night or week. OK, so sure, maybe that’s the entire concept of AirBnB.com, but I’d probably be a little inflamed about the anus if I was paying $150 a night and was awakened at 5AM when a party bus full of coked-up Dalton brats rolls into the place where I’m trying to have a leisurely hump-cation.
But the other part of the search that left me even more chafed around the nips was that this Nadine/Leslie character had actually been caught up in the hit-and-run killing of a migrant potato-picker. Leave it to me to nearly rent a room from the hit-and-run lady on Craigslist. According to the story, she left the scene, went home to bang the gentleman who was in the car with her, and then told her insurance company the next day that she’d hit a deer. Maybe she meant to say, “a dear old migrant worker,” but they’d cut her off.
Whoops-a-daisy! Alcohol will make you run over the kookiest things.
I was almost tempted to stay with her just because—what a great story/interview and a mess of a vacation that might have been. And when I look at the house in the article, I bite my knuckle in pain just like Sonny Corleone did in The Godfather when he saw that Connie Corleone got her ass kicked by that douche Carlo Rizzi.
But instead, I’ll be staying near the beach in a Bed and Breakfast that will probably be occupied by a couple in their 30s and then about a half a dozen elderly people which is fine, because I love old people and they love me. We’ll probably have a Scrabble orgy.
The moral of this story: Always Google everything, especially people you meet on Craigslist. Also, “gracious host” might be coded speech for weirdo and/or skeevy shyster.
Leslie Jennemann: Thinks migrant potato-pickers are deer, then commits vehicular manslaughter against them. Also has rooms for rent in The Hamptons. Prices negotiable.