This motel is the kind of place where you could legitimately fear being turned into sausage by the owners if the flesh-eating bacteria in the pool doesn’t get you first. Still, the velvet wallpaper is cute. Some of the guests don’t seem as trashy as me. What must they think? We were drinking Black Label in the hot tub with a man whose herniated belly hung down below his crotch, and when a young couple walked in, looked at the pool, grimaced, and turned away, he studied her backside like a diabetic yearning for a rare treat. This morning I see them at breakfast and wonder what the protocol is for saying, You’re not like us, you should leave while you still can. This is the Motel Wisconsin. Don’t try the sausage.
AuthorMarkMiller 1 Minute
Published by AuthorMarkMiller
I am most recently an absurdist living in a dystopia. Watch for falling objects. View all posts by AuthorMarkMiller