But people rarely think about the worst.

Especially the worst place to stay, because that is a dark road to go down, and America prefers Self-Help over History.

But because it is spring and it is beautiful outside, let’s examine the three worst motels I can find, and shiver for a moment in the new sun at the thought of staying a night there.

Number 3:

Number 2:

Number 1:

if we didn’t have motels, we wouldn’t have running water,
because running water depends on a government funded utilities department
and utilities departments are large, slowly run bureaucracies
and bureaucracies are run by overweight white men who have
low morals and sweat too much
and most of these men married their wives when they were much younger because they thought it would help their image in climbing the
ladder of the bureaucracy.
but slowly, like moss growing on a boulder,
their wives became unattractive to them,
and they lost  interest, and wanted to have an affair, so
they went to country club,
but since they are overweight white men that sweat too much, they couldn’t
find anyone who wanted to have a proper affair.
now,
they could go back to the utilities company and take their frustration out on their secretary who would then take their frustration out on a dispatch person who would then take their frustration out on an operator who would then take their frustration out on the dials that control the water supply
and the water would stop running.
but that doesn’t happen.
no.
our white, overweight leader of the water utility bureaucracy doesn’t get frustrated because he can’t have a proper affair with someone else’s wife at the country club.
no.
do You know what he does?
he tells his wife he is going to get a frosty from wendy’s,
but then,
he doesn’t go to wendy’s.
he goes to hardee’s
near the airport,
but not for a thickburger,
no.
he goes there because
that’s where the cheap hookers are.
he can’t go to the stoplight by morton’s steakhouse because that’s where
the high-class hookers go.
he can’t do that,
because people will see him.
and even though he’s the leader of the water utilities department
it doesn’t net him enough money to get one of the hookers from
the stoplight outside morton’s.
no
he has to go to hardee’s at the airport.
he picks her up.
she gets in.
they go to a motel.
and he gets whatever someone gets from a hooker from hardee’s near the airport.
and
he doesn’t
go back to the utilities company and take his frustration out on the secretary who would then take her frustration out on a dispatch person who would then take his frustration out on an operator who would then take his frustration out on the dials that control the water supply.
no,
he goes to the motel.
so You can take a bath.
so You can water your plants.
so You can drink a nice, clean, cool glass from the sink in your kitchen.
and a thousand other things run just as smooth,
because of the secrets of the motel.
the motel
sitting out there,
in the dark,
waiting
for You

Mo answers all of the burning questions that you have.  Here are five questions submitted by Mo’s fans that he answers eloquently and insightfully.   Have any questions, Mo might have time to answer them…

Had the story stopped there I would have been seen as a God amongst men in the eyes of my friends. The woman was gorgeous and the situation was prime “Forum” material. But as I lay there looking at her, with a semi and a smile, she was frozen in a moment of (what I can only imagine was) sheer terror. I tried explaining to her that it must have been some mistake. She gathered herself together and said, “Well my lamb. What a mistake it is!” My unsuspecting roommate and I walked straight to the motel manager and very politely described our situation. The manager told us that it was a simple error on his part. With all of the people rushing to get a room, he double-booked me into 218. And since all of the surrounding roads were closing, and all the other guests were already settled, I’d have to spend my night sharing a room with a beautiful stranger. Almost as soon as he finished telling us what had happened, I heard a voice behind me say, “Looks like we’re having a slumber party!” Followed by a chorus of underaged “Yaaays.” I turned around to meet Jerry Knorrs and his four children: James, Jenna, Jeremiah, and Jacob. I’d already met Jerry’s wife, Janet.

The seven of us made the awkward journey back to Room 218. Well, it was awkward for me anyway. As Jerry described it it was a “Serendipitous blessing in disguise.” The kids sang Amy Grant all the way to the door. James had a disturbingly impressive falsetto for a 15 year old. We got back to the room and I made a b-line for the empty desk chair in the corner. My plan was to simply get through this night. I’d slept through worse conditions. I apologized to Jerry and Janet and thanked them for being so understanding. Janet told me I had given her quite a scare. Had I come in any early I would have seen “the parts that only Jerry and her other favorite J man – Jesus – get to see.” What a tease. I couldn’t fall asleep. The kids kept arguing over which was the better testament. (The New eventually won out). I tried striking up some small talk with Janet. I asked her what she did, where was she from, was she happy, typical questions. Once Jerry joined our conversation after putting the kids to bed, I decided I needed some actual sleep myself.

When I woke up the next morning, Jenna and Jeremiah were standing over me. They had been watching me sleep. Jeremiah said I looked just like an angel, sent from above. The Knorrs insisted that I go with them to the Econolodge’s “World Famous Continental Breakfast.” Apparently world famous means stale fruit loops and nine powdered donuts to split amongst an entire motel. I finished my drink that Jacob had made for me (3 parts OJ, 2 parts Apple Juice, 1 part Friendship) and rushed back to my room to get my stuff. On my way out Jerry and Janet made sure to have all four kids hug me goodbye. First individually, then as a group. My mind was totally fixed on getting away from these people. So much so that it didn’t dawn on me until the following December that I’d given Jerry my address.

I still get a Christmas card every year.

It was Fall semester. Senior year.

I was trying to get some real-world experience.

Maybe create an opportunity. Maybe make some money.

Maybe give my life something interesting for people to mention during my eulogy if I died young.

You know. Normal college stuff.

Shit, I would have just settled for free juice.

To be honest, the reason I started helping Maggie out at the local juice bar wasn’t because of Maggie herself.

The first time I went in I was just thirsty.

I didn’t even really notice her.

She was sexy. Panamanian. 32. Fake parts. Obnoxiously skimpy clothes. Drove an Infiniti G37 Coupe. Black.

It was sexy, too.

You know when you see those girls that are so fine—and all your friends say so often enough—that they actually become less fine?

No?

Maybe I’m just weird.

Anyway. She was one of those girls.

Too out of my league.

Too old. Too hot. Too (2) many kids.

Too everything.

Her ex-husband (whom she was in the process of divorcing) owned every Waffle House in Northeastern Maryland.

Pretty standard.

After some small talk, I started helping her out pro bono.

My marketing/advertising plan for her tiny juice bar was grandiose, impractical, naïve. It called for $10,000.

She had $100.

One day, after presenting a fresh round of ads I had written for her, she changed the subject in an unexpectedly coquettish way.

“Tell me, Jahhk. Do you… evherr… dayyyte?”

Beat.

“Uhhh, yeah. Sometimes. Why? You wanna go out sometime?”

I’m a rusher.

“We shullld do tzhat. Grab a drink or someszing.”

Booyah.

“Cool.”

Fast-forward 4 days and a combined 7 vodka sodas later: Her Infiniti G37 Coupe has officially been made out in.

At least once.

She told me to call her again.

Taking a cue from an old favorite, I figured waiting 3 days would be kinda money.

3 nights later, she told me to meet her outside a Waffle House 10 miles South of campus.

When I pulled up, she was in her hot car, window down, one arm leaning out, looking good.

She told me to follow her.

What happened next I can’t actually say.

Not because I blacked out.

Although it felt like that at times.

I can’t because a true gentleman wouldn’t.

I will say this, though.

It happened in a motel room.

*No it’s not

I stayed in a motel once.  It was March of 1994 and it had one of those shaky beds.  I’m not really into that freaky stuff, so I declined to insert my quarters into the slot.  (But I can’t say I didn’t think about it.  Huh.)

The room smelt like murder.  It reminded me of my childhood.  Growing up in West Texas, murder was as familiar as fresh baked chocolate chip cookies.  I remember one time I smelled murder in the bathroom at the YMCA.  I was taking a break from swimming and I smelled it.  It smelled just like that motel room.  (But I didn’t know that at the time because the YMCA thing was in ’66 and I couldn’t tell the future.  Yet.)

I got sick of the murder smell in my motel room.  I opened some of the packets of free shampoo (they were like ketchup packets placed delicately on the side of the bathtub), and smeared them on my pillow, the dusty TV screen, and under my nose to cover up the smell.  It was shampoo by JADE.  Real nice stuff that smells like a bouquet of daisies covered in bumble bees.  I really like it a lot.

The lighted sign outside the motel that buzzed and snapped with the bugs advertised “FREE COLOR TV”.  I was excited.  I loved color TV.  I expected a Zenith or something with a crisp picture, but instead I got an old wood paneled one with the UHF dials that “tuck, tuck” when you turn them.  I watched a new episode of Baywatch and some reruns of Let’s Make A Deal in a fuzzy excuse for color.

The bath tub was clean, the towels were not.  They gave me two sets with my room.  I guess they thought I would have a lady with me.  Or a hooker maybe.  I had neither.  One set of towels was ripped and slightly brown.  The other set had touched the brown ones and had become brown by association.

The lock on the door was busted so I had to secure myself via the dinky chain on the door.  My guess was that the lock broke during a struggle that led to the murder in the air and/or the brown on the towels.  I hoped I was wrong, because I didn’t want to get murdered in the motel with the shaky bed and the fuzzy color TV and the brown towels.

I knew I was safe though.  Since the YMCA thing, I had learned to tell the future.  I knew that I would not become the new smell of murder that night.  I would walk out of that motel room at 7:30 the next morning with a bag full of complimentary JADE products and the understanding that I would return to that motel again exactly 15 years later to become the reason the lock was broken.