A Honeymoon Horror Story (As Witnessed by Mr. Smudg)
Ah, honeymoons-those magical, rose-colored days of wedded bliss. That is, until one poor soul mistakes heat-lamp pepperoni for a good life choice.
This week’s horror story? A stack of twenty towels. You read that right.. TWENTY. Each one soaked in a post-pizza exorcism, courtesy of a new husband who dared to trust festival food.
And who had to deal with the aftermath?
Hi, it’s me. Mr. Smudg. Your reluctant laundry goblin and grumpy stain whisperer.
Let me paint you a picture. I clock in, minding my own business, daydreaming of drinking espresso in Rome, when I am ambushed by a laundry cart that smells like shame, stomach acid, and broken vows. Inside? A towel mountain soaked in seven stages of food poisoning. A pile of towels that came with a warning and a backstory.
One towel was even stiffer. STIFF…and not in a good way.
Now, I’ve seen some things in my time. Blood. Bodily fluids. Objects that buzz. But this-this was an olfactory assault on all five senses and my will to live. The once white towels came back … speckled.
Thank you to the guests who called down and whispered “twenty towels” like a war crime confession. At least you tried to contain the horror. You’re better than most.
To housekeeping: my condolences. We are brothers in bleach.
And to all of you reading this, let this be a reminder– behind every fluffy towel and crisp sheet is a crew (and one emotionally damaged mascot) working overtime to erase your bodily betrayals.
Until next time,
Mr. Smudg
Saving linens, one biohazard at a time.