jAMAICAN ME LEARN thai quando?
A lot of times management will do nothing to stop the disruptions during a night stay at a number of various starred hotels and motels across the great vast landscape of America. Yesterday I was with a couple of friends and one person dressed in overalls. I identify this person person not a friend or even a person because it was -1 degree during a winter night in Chicago and she did nothing but make me feel like a naughty girl begging for daddy’s dick in between my toes. I was wearing a bra. It had bows in it to show it was securely fastened. That was all I had on. I had a bra on with bows and that's all, but I had sparkling shorts on as well and a bra with bows on the bra and the bra was see through. Maybe the shaming woman didn’t have nipples and was jealous. Maybe she had too many nipples. I don’t know any of this information, I just know she called me a slut.
Slut. A slut is a word I won’t define because it instantaneously discards the work of a million women and two million abusive men, who set the groundwork for us to fight against them. If I was to use the word slut I would turn it on its head, add a couple letters and make it “tussl”. I am about to tussl this bitch to the God damn floor until there isn’t any skin “over-all” her body anymore. Violence and the art of Thai Quando is what I learned when staying at The Hampton Inn all throughout 2018. We were a happy family. One that made meat loaf a couple times a week. And when we ran out of chocolate chip Eggo waffles for breakfast in the morning, we made meat loaf. Houses get sold, lawns get mowed, not too many black people: thats just life in suburban Tennessee. I love black people. Today I live outside of reality with my homies, justice and liberty, but back in those times of 2018 we were remodeling the floors as a family. They were dirty and worn and practically death traps like the electoral college. Just plain oak flooring. Luckily they were to be replaced with oak flooring. Worry not, though, these oak floors were much more expensive than the last ones and much worse quality. And that's why we left our home to the will of the remodel and shacked up as a family at the Hampton inn for an indeterminate quantity of time.
“What is that music playing?” “It sounds Jamaican.” “You’re right.” “It’s Jamaican me crazy!” The recurring argument had through the entirety of our stay at the shit bucket Hampton Inn. Why it’s not called the “Hampton Get Out” I’ll never know. None of my fair skinned family will know. The indoor pool was the sight of the growing virus that will soon eliminate the human race sometime in the next 10 months. The bathtub was usable only to the gorilla sharing the space with us. The gunshots echoed in my dreams as a sort of ritual beat played as we danced through fire and watched our Roth IRA accounts get drained and fed to the crocodiles in the lake. But it was Jamaican music that sunk into our ears like satanic devil bait, beckoning us to call upon a deeper power that will forever change the course of technology and idol cynicism in the young 6 to 7 year old children, breathing as antiseptics to the antonyms of great foreign leaders and the Hollywood press. It's weird to imagine there was a life before the Hampton Inn. Back at our home, our bastion of suburban safety, wood was being laid down on the floor. Ironically the many masculine men and dads in my family sharing space in the hotel wouldn’t see wood for weeks. Only hear steel. Steel drums echo out into a vast and acrid corridor, whose most cunning and apparent quality being the sudden lack of meat loaf.
Archenam. He was the head of management, but it's impossible to say if he ever truly existed. After the first week of us complaining daily he started coming to our room almost by instinct, knowing there would be something that needed to be changed. Everyday we had a million demands centering on our new blood clots or the demonic whispers in the closet or the sudden floating toward the ceiling fan routinely at 3:41 PM. None of these complaints really mattered though. Nothing held a candle to the sheer torment we felt from the nonstop Jamaican music. But every day, Archenam’s response was the same.“I’ll see what I can do.” But came no answers. The music only crescendoed to today where it’s impossible to say if the music was ever really there or if there really is or ever was a place called Jamaica.
Three weeks went by in the hotel when early one morning I woke up in the Dojo naked. Archenam sat across from me. Disoriented, he shot at me with his great moves of Thai Quando. Showing me a culture I was neither familiar with nor comfortable, seeing as most of my meals consumed up untill this point consisted of meat topped with ketchup. But alas, weeks of training began, and after a moment of passion, a hot red sunset and hard oak wood: I was broken. He broke who I once was. A person rigid and pressed into glass, but with each lesson at the Hampton Inn, I became so much more a collection of broken pieces, who knew a lot about thai quando and dressing in things that showed off my figure and round bosom. So when the girl from yesterday, declared me a slut and lunged at me, she quickly found herself laying on the ground unconscious. It taught me a lesson. One, so many will glean and thank me for. However. The cost of telling the lesson to you will come at a great price. A price far worse than the risk of the cost. So just remember this from my tale: there was a gorilla in the bathroom at the Hampton Inn in 2018. And I think there always will.
