Another week, another “what in the seafood buffet is this?” moment for Mr. Smudg.
There he was, knee-deep in towels, when something felt… different. Not the usual sock. Not the suspicious crinkle of a fast-food wrapper. No. This had weight. This had texture. This had a crunch.
And then he saw it.
A lobster tail. Half-eaten. Glistening. Still wearing its little red shell tuxedo like it had just walked off the fine-dining runway. Smelling of rotting lemon, and roasted garlic butter.
Why was it here?
Who finished dinner, looked at a laundry bin, and thought: “Yessss. This is the place.”
Smudg froze, tongs in hand (because bare hands are for rookies and he had learned his lesson at this point). The questions flooded in faster than the rinse cycle:
Did the guest get full mid-bite and panic?
Did they confuse “turn-down service” with “turf-and-surf service”?
Was this some new level of hospitality protest?
To make matters worse, the lobster had… marinated. The buttery perfume had seeped into the towels, creating what Smudg dubbed “Eau de Lobster Thermidor.” It was less “five-star spa” and more “fish market on a humid Tuesday.”
The housekeeping log that day?
Item 1: Towels, stained with sticky yellow…butter?
Item 2: Sheets, questionable but salvageable.
Item 3: Lobster carcass, emotionally damaging.
Mr. Smudg did what any sane laundry professional would do:
He double-bagged it, whispered a quick eulogy, and wheeled it to the dumpster like it was a Viking funeral at sea.
This week’s lesson?
Lobster belongs on plates, not pillowcases.
The laundry bin is not your personal compost.
And above all, never, EVER trust a guest who orders shellfish past midnight.
Until next time—
Mr. Smudg
Still here. Still grumpy. Still wondering if he qualifies for hazard pay in seafood currency.
#MrSmudg #LaundryChronicles #LobsterLogic #HospitalityHumor #ShellfishBehavior