Throwing Poo

I don't want to turn this into a bitch-about-travel website (especially when there are so many other wonderful things to bitch about), but since that particular activity eats up 50% of my week, sometimes it's a little hard to resist.  Still, it must be tedious for people who aren't subjected to business travel, like constantly being shown someone else's baby pictures (Here's one of me trying to hail a taxi.  I have my mother’s eyes.)
 
These are the unsympathetic thoughts that I imagine enter people's minds when I broach this topic:
 
Aw, poor little travel monkey with all his tiny bottles of scotch and shampoo. 
 
Isn't this site supposed to be mildly interesting?
 
Housewives are desperate
Farms cows say, "Moo"
I never get to go anywhere
So fuck you, Crunchy Blue
 
What's that smell?
 
This is not the kind of poo throwing site I was searching for. Rats. Well, up you go for now, Mr. Trousers.
 
The thing is, at this point I'm accustomed to all the crappy service and overall disappointment that comes with biz travel.   I typically don't get worked up over delayed flights, rental car companies with nothing left but minivans, hotel rooms that smell like ashtrays and $20 breakfasts.  It's all par for the course.
 
However, when some unexpected setback invades my psyche like an unlubricated nightstick, I totally rage out.  I'm talking Van Halen who-the-fuck-put-brown-M&M's-in this-bowl, luxury-suite-trashing frenzy.  It’s moments like this that make me seriously consider the possibility of demonic possession.   
 
Last week I was on the road and, as usual, I was traveling light.  (When you spend a lot of time dragging luggage through airports and parking lots, you learn to leave behind what you don't absolutely need, like in 'Nam).  I'm getting dressed the next morning and realize that the dry cleaner somehow shrunk my suit pants.   I've got a meeting in thirty minutes and am a bowtie and a bicycle away from being Pee Wee Herman.  Suddenly my outfit options are 1) the Jerry Seinfeld (dress shirt, tie and day-old jeans), or 2) the Katrina-wary businessman.  This is when the Tourette's usually kicks in.
 
I have neither the money nor the will to pay for hotel room damage.  So I do what I can - move the bed, grab the iron from the closet and smash it against the floor until it comes apart in my hand, move the bed back over the battered spot. 
 
I realize that this "mishap" was not the direct fault of the hotel and I shouldn't take it out on them. But, more than likely, they recently screwed some other poor, unfortunate grunt, so the hell with them. 
 
Hopefully, 800 miles away, a brother-in-arms is outside a dry cleaner stuffing a busted ink pen deep in the pocket of an old pair of pants that don't quite fit anymore.