The last time I went to New York, I had so little money that I told my travel agent not to worry about ups and extras and just book me the cheapest travel package he could put together.
When I got to New York and found the little hotel my agent booked me into, I checked in and took the elevator up to my room. I opened the door, took a look inside and was horrified at what I saw.
I went back down to the front desk and talked to the manager. I told him that when I looked into my room it looked as small as a closet, the bed was unmade, there were beer cans on the floor and I’d thought I’d seen a mouse scurrying for cover. I told him I’d wanted something cheap, but not something that cheap. I asked him if he could upgrade me to a more deluxe package.
The manager asked me if a gang of thugs had beaten me up and stolen all my things when I was in the elevator. I told him no. The manager said, “Apparently, sir, you’re already getting our deluxe package.”
(Coming tomorrow: Mrs. Blandings And The Tissue Horror)