by Adam Carolla
And no more scented soap either. I switched to the natural, unscented soap and now I don’t have to inhale the smell of Spring Rain Linen or lavender every time I take a sip. Actually, I have just decided that in my country, there will only be coffee-scented dish detergent. Just another gift from me to you, America.
WD-40: Speaking of scents, this is intoxicating for men. Ladies, we don’t give a shit about, or more accurately are nauseated by, your perfume, but we love this stuff. WD-40 smells like progress. I’m hereby making a presidential decree that the makers of WD-40 create and market a scent for women.
SERVICES THAT NEED MY SERVICE
As you can tell by now, I’m going to be the anti-big-government president. That said, there are many businesses and industries which form the backbone of our great nation that have fallen on hard times, or are tripping over themselves so hard they are in danger of going away entirely. I’m not talking about doing an auto-industry-style bailout, just providing a little guidance from my administration. I’ll be sure to give my personal attention to the first one . . . the strip club.
STRIP CLUBS
This is an American institution that is slipping away. I recently went to Jimmy Kimmel’s bachelor party. I hadn’t been to a strip joint in a while and was quite depressed over what I found.
First and foremost—the music. Strip clubs used to play Grand Funk Railroad, the Cult, and Mötley Crüe. There was a time when bands would write songs specifically for strip clubs, like “Girls, Girls, Girls.” This was not what graced my ears at this particular bachelor party. Nowadays it’s just nonstop pumping syntho crap that’s played so loud it hurts your teeth. I’m in a strip club, not the Matrix. This isn’t dude music, its pulsating, grinding techno that some gay guy created on his Mac. The strip club is supposed to be sacred ground. You’re supposed to play songs by Foghat. What happened? Do you really want asexual pussies like Moby making strip-club music? They hate strip clubs. He wasn’t at the Seventh Veil or Spearmint Rhino last night. He was throwing red paint on old ladies in fur coats. Strip-club music should come from guys like Warrant, who actually spent time there. An hour into the bachelor party my eardrums were bleeding and I would have performed oral on the DJ for even a tiny sliver of some “Cherry Pie.”
I blame the cocktails. That’s another thing I noticed. In the glory days of strip clubs you used to be able to get a gin fizz or a couple of fingers of Cutty Sark, Sinatra-style. You drank like Frank. Now it’s all vodka with Red Bull, Rock Star, or Monster energy drink. Strip clubs are already full of douchebags. They’ve now taken that asshole and turbo-charged him. It’s a disaster. These guys were eights on the douche-hole meter before, but now they’re elevens.
And that’s why they like the shitty music: they’re simultaneously drunk and beaked out of their minds. What’s up? You’re at a strip club, there are naked women. Boobies are the only drug you need.
A little side rant: We’re completely overcaffeinated as a culture. Remember as a kid when coffee was just for the dad on Leave It to Beaver? Now every teenager is carrying a super-grande-venti machiatto frappé. We talk about how we need “energy” but not one single teenager I talk to can string a sentence together. Sixty-five-year-olds need energy, not seventeen-year-olds. They have no lust for life. There’s no amount of caffeine that can make up for that. If you like what you do, and have a passion, you’ll wake up every day with energy. There’s no chemical substitute for enthusiasm. And Red Bull tastes like ass.
And speaking of lust and strip clubs, what happened to the performances? It used to be erotic and slow but now it’s turned into Gymkata out there. (Google it if you don’t know what I’m talking about.) I don’t want to see Mitch Gaylord on a pole, I want to see a half-naked chick with a C- or D-cup jiggling around a pole. That’s what that pole is there for. It was initially installed for when the stripper was so drunk she couldn’t support herself. I like to see them a little boozy and having trouble walking in their stripper wedges. Now the chicks are out there doing stuff Bart Conner couldn’t pull off. Crazy yoga moves, climbing gym-class ropes, running and diving on the pole and then holding themselves up like a flag at half-staff. It’s going to be an Olympic event next time around, I’m positive of this. I’m seeing striated veins in their arms, six-pack abs, and there’s not a boob to be found in the place because they’re all built like the guy from Iron Maiden album covers. They have hard edges. And then they take that aggression out on your junk. It’s like your lap is a nail and their pussy is a hammer.
At Jimmy’s bachelor party I was watching chicks do acrobatics that, literally, included fire. I was thinking, “You are going to hurt yourself.” That’s not what you want to be thinking at a strip club. It was impressive, but I don’t go to the strip club to be impressed. Just because I can’t do what you are doing doesn’t mean it’s going to give me a boner. I’ve seen twelve-year-olds do one of those cup-stacking competitions. It’s impressive, but I don’t want to beat off to it. It’s like the goddamned Cirque du Soleil in strip clubs now. That’s fine if you want to be entertained with your parents. But I’m looking to be entertained with my penis.
Let me explain the entertainment component of strip clubs—NUDE CHICKS. Let’s never forget that. In the good old days did anyone ever go to a strip club and think, “Sure she’s got a D-cup and is naked two feet in front of me, but why isn’t she bending rebar over the back of her neck?”
And how about a little less information, ladies? I want to maintain the fantasy that you’re just stripping your way through med school. I don’t want to hear about how your ex-boyfriend stabbed you fourteen times or how much you love your kids. (A quick funny/sad story related to this. I went to a peep show once in New York and because I’m hypervigilant, I noticed, behind the gal, a stroller and diaper bag. I could barely beat off.)
Here’s my promise to you, America. In my first hundred days in office we will bring back Ye Olde Strip Joints. No techno, no Red Bull, no personal information. Just plenty of curves, sloe gin, and “Slow Ride.”
While I’m on the subject I also have a new green initiative. Half of the strippers you see in Vegas are from L.A. So there will be no more going from Los Angeles to Las Vegas to hit the strip club. It’s a waste of the Southwest jet fuel. We’re setting up a new government website so you and the stripper you’d be ridden by in Vegas can just meet in Van Nuys for the lap dance. You’ll just get the info for the apartment she shares with four roommates, all named Tami, and meet her there. It’s about energy savings, kind of like a car pool for your cock.
THE HOTEL INDUSTRY
I travel a ton and stay in a different hotel almost every weekend. During this time I’ve noticed that the hospitality industry could stand to make a few improvements. The hotel business is heavily regulated, so why not create a few more rules that will make travelers happier and thus increase the profitability that my government can wet its beak on? That’s what we call a win-win.
This one happens at about one-tenth of the hotels where I stay—just enough to piss me off but not enough that I’m prepared for it. It’s probably happened to you too. You check in, get your room number, get your key card, plop your bags down on the bed, grab the remote, and . . . nothing. The remote doesn’t work. So you do that move that feels effective, but just might work. You pop the hatch on the back and give the batteries that magic thumb roll. Again, nothing. So then you go up closer to the TV and try the remote again, thinking, “Maybe I’m out of range.” Nope. Then you think, “Maybe it’s the angle.” So you try it with the left hand, then the right hand, and eventually you stand up on the bed and hold it up over your shoulder like you’re doing a skyhook. Not that that has ever worked, but my question is, what if it does? So you call down to the front desk and tell them the TV isn’t working, and come to think of it neither is the A/C. They then say, “Sir, you need to take the key card and put in the slot behind the door to activate the electronics in the room.” Hey fuckwad, maybe you could have said something whil
e you were giving me the card down at the desk. You know, a little heads-up that nothing in the room is going to work unless I slide the card into the vagina that is conveniently blocked when I open the door to the room. It’s like they assume you work at the same hotel as they do. They need to have a huge red arrow that says “Put it in here or nothing is going to work.” Or even better, here’s the way to eliminate this. All those cards should be shaped like a penis. It would be fun to slide it into that slot, you’d never lose it, and you’d know exactly where to put it.
Okay, so now you know the remote is not the issue. There was no juice flowing to the TV. But the remote is still nothing like the one you, or anyone, has at home. The buttons are confusing and you don’t know where the power is, so you just press the biggest button and end up buying Dolphin Tale 2. And on this note I’m now declaring that all hotel rooms must possess a DVR. We’re ten years into DVRs. Why can’t we get them in hotels? I’m constantly watching the news in my room and trying to hit a pause button that isn’t there. Plus I’m not spending the whole trip in my room. I’m going to go out and see some sights or do some shows. When I get back to the room I’d like to catch up on my Real Housewives like everyone else.
That’s if you can find the remote at all. Sometimes it’s in the drawer, other times it’s Velcroed to the top of the TV. Some of the fancy places store it in an elegant leather book thing, but you think that’s the Bible, so you avoid it over the guilt from the copious masturbation you’re about to do. Here’s my executive order—from now on we put every hotel TV remote on the toilet seat. That way you’ll always see it. And while I’m mandating, the maids must change out the batteries on the remote every two weeks.
So you’ve found your remote, navigated the sea of buttons to turn the TV on, and you’re instantly taken to the hotel channel. You know, the station which is just a loop of good-looking people in bathrobes getting massages or having a margarita by the pool with a voice-over telling you to relax, enjoy your stay, and order their world-class room service or an adult movie. Please stop enticing people to fuck on my comforter. I didn’t bring my own bed. I’m not sitting in a beanbag in the corner. Plus, you are delivering a mixed message. You’ve got the TV imploring you to stain my bed, meanwhile in the nightstand next to that bed is a Gideon Bible saying you’ll go to hell for it.
Even more annoying is the video loop of all the other hotels in the chain. They’re always nicer than the one you’re staying in. I was at the Detroit Marriott by the airport sitting on the edge of my bed watching a slide show of all the other exotic locations—white sand beaches on Waikiki, the Sydney Opera House, the Hong Kong skyline. Meanwhile I look out my window and my view is the ass end of the Detroit airport blocked by an air-conditioning condenser covered in snow. From now on, you can only show lesser hotels on this video loop. Which means if I’m at the Detroit Marriott, I should only be seeing the Marriott in Tikrit, Benghazi, or wherever a Blackhawk was down.
I don’t need the local magazine either. You know the superglossy, “looks like it’s never been read because it hasn’t” magazine sitting on the end table with Kathy Ireland on the cover. It’s always a D-list celebrity and a bunch of suggestions for shit you’re not going to do. I’m not going to go horseback riding or hot-air ballooning. I have plans. Do you think I just woke up in a hotel room in Sacramento and now need to find some romantic day trips? I came here with an agenda. And if I do have time to kill, I’m just going to whip out the iPad and my dick.
A quick story related to this. I was in San Jose doing a show and had some time on my hands and so I thought I’d put my dork in my hands. I took out the iPad to let my fingers do the walking and find out what new and innovative porn was coming out of Stuttgart. As I was looking at the smorgasbord of choices on YouPorn I noticed that the pictures were a little blurry. I thought, “Shit, I need my reading glasses.” I can’t believe these two things have intersected. I never dreamed I’d be so old that I’d need grandpa bifocals for beating off. If you asked me in high school if I’d still be whacking it after age had wrecked my vision, I would have slapped you. So anyway, I got my reading glasses out, put them on, and went back to work. At a certain point I looked up and caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, pants around my ankles, sporting gray pubes and reading glasses, and thought, “Jesus Christ, Carolla, you have hit rock bottom.”
And on this same note, my government will put an end to all theme hotels. These always seem like a fun idea—“Oh, we’re in the Jungle Room”—but this is just for obese middle-aged couples looking to spice up their once-a-year anniversary fuck. So from now on there will be no more Western rooms or Caveman rooms. The only theme at hotels henceforward is “No Stray Pubes.”
On to the hotel coffee. This drives me insane. You always end up making the coffee yourself because they gouge you on the pot you order from room service. That’s even more inflated than the in-room porn. A carafe of mediocre black coffee should not cost twenty-three dollars.
So you use the in-room single-cup coffeemaker. The problem is that next to the machine are two little pouches. They’re both silver but one has a light ghost of blue lettering that says “decaf.” If you squint and the light hits it just right, you can figure out what the fuck you’re about to drink. How many people have been burned by this? The pouch of decaf should be hunting-vest orange.
More accurately, it shouldn’t be there at all. I can’t stand the lightweight pussy who can’t handle a cup of coffee. Why are we at a 50/50 ratio on this? If you had a barbecue, you wouldn’t have two ice chests—one full of craft-brew beer and another full of O’Doul’s. Starbucks must move less than 10 percent decaf but in the hotel it’s 50 percent. There are so many more normal human beings who understand that coffee serves a purpose than these decaf cowards. Need proof? Just go to any self-serve K-cup-style coffeemaker in the hotel lobby kitchenette and notice how the box of regular coffee has, at best, two pods rattling around in it while the decaf dispenser looks like a New York subway car at five o’clock.
There’s no federal mandate that says you must provide coffee in the room. This is an added convenience from the hotel. So I am offering a federal mandate:
From now on, my administration demands regular coffee only. If you want decaf, fuck off. Leave the hotel and go to Starbucks. I’m tempted with my fuck-you money to buy a bunch of those empty decaf pouches, fill them with sand and diatomaceous earth, and leave them in hotel rooms. Then when people open them they’ll find a note that reads, “Fuck you, pussy.” Coffee serves a purpose. It is a caffeine delivery system. If you drink decaf you don’t need coffee. You can get the same effect from a Fresca. It’s never like “We’re going to be driving all night. I need some decaf” or “Don’t mess with me when I first wake up and before I’ve had my decaf.”
These people are like vegetarians. They don’t love decaf, they just want you to know they don’t drink caffeine. And to the hotels—why are you limiting me and other regular Joes to one cup of regular joe just to accommodate the handful of babies who can’t handle real coffee? From now on you decaf drinkers should not expect the business to accommodate you. If you needed insulin, you wouldn’t expect it to be provided. You’d bring it yourself. Are you that delicate? Are you a human being or an inbred poodle?
And while I’m on room service, I’m never sure what to do with the tray. I see it out in the hallway but that feels weird to me. It’s not like when you’re done eating at a restaurant you throw the plate on the floor. Why is this the practice in a hotel? The Four Seasons in the South of France and the aforementioned Detroit Marriott have the same room-service tray policy. Just slide those half-eaten mashed potatoes out into the hallway. Someone will grab it eventually. In my America, we will bring back the dumbwaiter, a little elevator in the wall in the middle of the hallway where you put your tray and send it down to the Mexicans in the basement.
This “chuck it in the hallway” policy also feels like an invasion of privacy. Against my better i
nstincts I always have to do the math on the guy behind the door when I see his dirty dishes. “Oh, he’s an omelet guy. Two glasses—I wonder if he’s with his wife or his mistress.” Plus, if I see wasted food I get annoyed. I’m not ashamed to say that I’ve been more than tempted to grab a couple cold fries or chicken fingers off the spent room-service tray.
And when it comes to room service, why is the tip included? As you might know, I don’t like when they add the gratuity at the restaurant if you have the party of six or more. That’s just called a tax or a tariff. If you look up “gratuity,” the definition is “a gift or reward, usually of money, for services rendered, given without claim or obligation.” I understand why they think this is necessary, but this isn’t the way tipping works. Sometimes you’re going to get stiffed, other times Phil Spector is going to come in, order a Shirley Temple, and leave you five hundred bucks. Kimmel tips around 50 percent, my parents are coming in at 9 percent. So it evens out. But why is a tip included in room service? I’m alone in my underpants. That’s just one person, not six. And what if you did have six people in your hotel room for a couple of overpriced, underwhelming burgers? Would you waive the tip altogether just to confuse me? Please, let’s get our tip shit together.
And when did we sign off on the supercute novelty “Do Not Disturb” signs? It used to just be DO NOT DISTURB on one side and PLEASE MAKE UP ROOM on the other. Now you see all kinds of silliness. Here are just a few 100 percent real examples—I NEED A MOMENT. MAKE THAT 30 MOMENTS; TRANQUILLITY PLEASE; BRAINSTORM: IT’S REALLY COMING DOWN IN HERE. BETTER COME BACK WHEN IT CLEARS UP; IN THE ZONE. ONE KNOCK COULD BRING ME OUT OF IT; and BUILDING AWESOME PILLOW FORTS. The only thing I’m doing in my hotel room is napping, shitting, or beating off. That’s what they should say: DO NOT DISTURB—NAPPING, SHITTING, or BEATING OFF on one side and PLEASE MAKE UP ROOM—I’M DONE NAPPING, SHITTING, AND BEATING OFF on the other. Also, I know the cleaning crew only speaks Spanish and so do hotel owners, so the cuter you get with the verbiage, the more likely they are to misunderstand the sign and interrupt me during one of those three sacred activities. That said, I’m also doing away with the Spanish version that reads NO MOLESTE. If I’m going to molest someone, or something, in my hotel room, that is my business.
