The Shift Show - Hotel Edition Shift 2 The Entitled Guest

Shift Show Hotel Edition

Transcript

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You ever made a guest so entitled. You start wondering if they own the building. Like, did I miss a memo? Did they buy the hotel overnight? Did they acquire stock in the hotel industry and now think they're on the board? So I'm standing at the front desk minding my own business, when a man storms in like he's entering a courtroom. He slams his key down and says I need a refund. I say, okay, what seems to be the issue? He says, I didn't like the vibe in my room. Sir, the vibe? What would you like me to do with that? Adjust the fing shoe? Call a priest? Bring in a moodry? He continues. The room didn't match my energy. Sir, you checked in at eleven forty five PM. Your energy was exhaustion in a gas station sandwich. And that's when I knew this episode was writing itself. Welcome back to the Shift Show Hotel Edition, Shift 2. I'm your host, Jessie, your front desk philosopher, chaos coordinator, and the woman who's mastered the art of smiling while internally screaming. If you've ever worked in a hotel, survived a shift you still talk about, or just wondered what really happened behind those staff only doors, you're in the right place. I've worked just about every corner of a hotel. Front desk, breakfast, housekeeping support, sales, night audit, you name it, and trust me, the stories are endless. Some are hilarious, some are stressful, some make you question humanity, and some remind you why we keep showing up anyway. The show's for people who've lived it, the people who've escaped it, and the people who are just nosy enough to want the tea. Every week we're diving into real hotel stories from the people who survived them, starting with me. Today's episode is dedicated to the very special species of hotel guest, the entitled guest. You know the type. The ones who think the rules don't apply to them, the ones who believe they're the main character, the ones who walk in with a confidence someone who's never been told no in their life. So grab your coffee, clock in mentally, and get ready. Cause if you've ever worked in a hotel, you already know the shift doesn't start when you clock in. The shift starts the moment someone says Excuse me and today's shift is about to get traumatic. Shift two starts now So back to mister Therm didn't match my energy. I asked him what exactly was wrong. He says the pillows were too soft. Okay, reasonable. Then he says and the air felt judgmental. Sir? The air? The oxygen offended you? He then demands a refund for his entire stay, which by the way was one night. Because he didn't sleep like a king. Sir, you booked a standard queen. You slept exactly like what you paid for. But he's not done. He says I travel a lot. I know how hotels should treat me. Sir, you arrived at midnight with a coupon code and a bad attitude. Then he hits me with the classic line. I'm a rewards member. Sir, you are the lowest tier. You are the thank you for joining tier. You are the we appreciate your interest here. He insists he deserves an upgrade at midnight on a sold out night. I tell him we were fully booked. He says well, unbook someone. Sir, this is not the hunker games. We do not sacrifice guests for your comfort. Then and this is why I almost ascended, he says, Well, I'll take the manager's suite. Sir, that's an office. It has a desk, a chair, and a printer that jams every fourteen minutes. You want to sleep next to the paper shredder? All right, it's time for shift stories. The rapid fire moments that don't need a full episode, but absolutely deserve a spotlight. Today's top four entitled guest moments First up, the parking lot princess. A woman marched into the lobby with the confidence of someone who's never once parked her own vehicle. She had sunglasses on indoors, keys dangling dramatically from one finger, and the energy of a person who believes the world is her personal valet stand. She walks right up to the desk and says I need valet. Ma'am, we're not a full service hotel. We barely have pancakes in the morning. I smile politely and say, We don't offer valet service. She blinks at me like I just told her gravity stopped working. Well, someone needs to park my car. Ma'am, that someone is you. She sighs loudly, like she's carrying the emotional burden of the entire parking lot. Then she gestures towards the front door and says it's right outside. Yes, I assumed your car was not in the lobby. She leans in, whispering like she's sharing state secrets. I don't do parking lots. Ma'am, parking lots are a natural habitat. She continues. I'm not walking all the way out there. It's too far. It's thirty seven feet from the front door. I've seen toddlers with tiny legs make that journey without complaint. Then she tries a new tactic. Well, at other hotels, someone parks it for me. Ma'am, at other hotels, people also pay four hundred dollars a night. Here, we give you free waffles and hope for the best. She jingles her keys again, aggressively this time, like she's summoning a butler who does not exist. Finally she says, So what do you suggest I do? I suggest you park the car. She huffs, stomps out the front door like she's storming off a reality show set, and marches at her vehicle with the dramatic flair of a woman who's been personally wronged by asphalt. She parks terribly, comes back inside and says See, this is why I need valet. Ma'am, you don't need valet. You need Jesus and a driver's head refresher. Next up, the bullside CEO. A man strutted up to the front desk with the posture of someone who owns at least three Bluetooth headsets, and calls himself a serial entrepreneur on LinkedIn. He had sunglasses on, air pods in, and the kind of confidence only a man with absolutely no self awareness can possess. He says I need to reserve the pool. I blink. Reserve the pool? Yes, he says, annoyed. I didn't immediately understand his greatness. For a business call. Sir, this is not a private island. I explain gently, professionally, with the patience of a preschool teacher. The pool is open to all guests. We don't offer private reservations. He looks offended, deeply, personally. Like I just told him his startup failed. He leans in and whispers It's an important call. Sir, the last man who said that to me was trying to sell essential oils. He gestures towards the pool like he's unveiling a luxury venue. I need the entire area cleared. No kids, no splashing, no noise. Sir, it's a pool. Noise is literally the point. He continues. I can't have distractions. I'm discussing strategy. Sir, you're wearing flip flops. Your strategy's questionable. Then he asks with full seriousness, can you put up a sign something like pool clothes for executive use? Executive use. A hotel where the most executive thing that happens is someone making a waffle in the shape of Florida. I tell him again, the pool is open to everyone. He sighs dramatically, like I'm ruining his quarterly warnings report, and says fine, I'll have to adapt. He walks outside, sets up his laptop on a pole chair, and immediately gets splashed by a seven year old doing cannonballs, his face pured betrayal. He tries again, moves to another chair, splash. Another chair, splash. At one point a toddler hands him a pole noodle like it's a peace offering. He finally storms back inside, dripping wet, laptop under his arm, and says This environment is not conducive to productivity. Sir, neither's your attitude. Next up, the ice machine inspector. A guest marched up to the front desk with the seriousness of someone reporting a federal crime. No smile, no greeting, just pure urgent purpose. He says, I need to file a complaint. Great, fantastic. My favorite sentence. I brace myself. Was the pool too wet? Was the sun too bright? Did gravity personally offend him? Then he hits me with it. The ice is too cold. Sir? It's ice. Its entire personality is cold. I stare at him waiting for the punchline. There isn't one. He's dead serious. He looks traumatized. Like the ice cubes personally betrayed him. He continues. I put it in my drink and it made the cup cold. Sir? That's the job description. He leads in like he's revealing a conspiracy. I think your machine is malfunctioning. Malfunctioning. What do you want? Warm ice? Room temperature cubes? A gentle lukewarm suggestion of coldness? He says I've stayed at many hotels and I've never had ice this cold. Sir? Unless you've been staying exclusively at hotels on the equator, I'm not sure what to tell you. Then and this is where I almost ascended, he asked can someone adjust it? Adjust the ice? Sir, this is not a thermostat. This is frozen water. We do not have a mild chill setting. He's pacing now, hands on hips, like he's inspecting a construction site. I just think it's excessive, he says. Excessive coldness from ice at a hotel. Finally, he sighs dramatically and says, Fine, I'll just drink it without ice. Sir, that was always an option. He walks away like he just made a brave, self sacrificing decision. Meanwhile, I'm standing there trying to process the fact that I just had a full blown conversation about ice being too good at its job. And honestly, I still don't have commentary for that one. And finally, the breakfast diva. A woman marched up to the breakfast calendar with the confidence of someone who believes Gordon Ramsay's hiding in the back, waiting to take her order. She had her hands on her hips, her eyebrows raised, and the energy of a person who's never once cooked a meal, but catriques every single one. She says I need to speak to whoever made the eggs. Ma'am, the eggs come from a carton. A carton. The chef's name's Sisko. I smile and say Is there an issue with them? She sighs dramatically, like she's about to deliver a Ted talk and says they need more seasoning. Seasoning for the carton eggs. Ma'am, what seasoning do you want me to add? Hope? She continues. They're bland. They need something. Yes, they need to build real eggs. But here we are. She leans over the counter whispering like she's sharing a secret family recipe. Do you have paprika? Garlic salt? Maybe a little smoked sea salt? Smoked sea salt at a hotel breakfast bar. I tell her we have salt and pepper. She looks at me like I just offended her punishment. Salt and pepper? That's it. Ma'am, this is a complimentary breakfast. Not a Michelin testing menu. Then she asks, and I swear she meant this. Can you go back there and fix them? Fix them. Like I'm going to walk into the kitchen, open the carton, and perform an exorcism. I say they're pre made. She gasps. Pre made Ma'am, do you think we had a chicken in the back laying eggs to order? She shakes her head, deeply disappointed in the culinary standards of a mid tier hotel and says, Well, I guess I'll just have to make do. She takes a skip of eggs, sits down, and proceeds to drown them and ketchup like she's baptizing them. And that's when I realized it wasn't the eggs that needed seasoning, it was her expectations. It's now time for Guest Gone Wild. Today's Guest Gone Wild. A woman had demanded a late checkout at six PM A woman came to the desk with the confidence of someone who believes time itself bends to her will. She had her purse tucked under her arm like a gavel, and the energy of a person who's never once followed a checkout policy in her life. She says I need a late checkout. I smile. Sure, the latest we can do is one PM. She blinks slowly, dramatically, then says Oh no, I meant six PM six PM. Ma'am, that's not a late checkout. That's a whole new reservation. I explain. We can't extend that late. She crosses her arms and says, Well, I'm not leaving. Ma'am, it's called squatting. She doubles down. I paid good money to be here. Ma'am, you paid one hundred twenty nine ninety nine. That's not take over the property money. That's a continental breakfast and a prayer money. I try again. Housekeeping needs to get into your room. She waves her hand like she's dismissing peasants. They can wait. Ma'am, housekeeping's not waiting. Housekeeping's ready. They're literally standing outside your door with carts lined up like a tactical unit, praying for a breach. They have gloves on, they have supplies, they have a thousand yard stare of people who've seen things. I say, They've scheduled to clean now. She says, Well, I'll stay until I'm ready. Ma'am, housekeeping's ready now. At this point, the housekeepers are circling like sharks, they're whispering, they're tapping their feet. One of them's holding a stack of fresh towels like a weapon. I offer her compromise. If you need more time, we can book another night. She gasps like I suggested she donate a kidney. I'm not paying for another night. Ma'am, that's Hillary Hell hotels work. She storms off toward a room, muttering about customer service and rights, while housekeeping follows behind her like a SWAT team preparing to reclaim territory. And I'm just standing there thinking. If she stays past one PM, she's not a guest anymore. She's a tenant. And I'm not doing landlord paperwork today. Entitled guests will test your patience, your professionalism, and sometimes your will to live. But they also give us supposed stories. The ones we tell in the break room, the ones we text our coworkers about, the ones we laugh at years later. Hospitality isn't about perfection. It's about surviving the chaos with humor, race, and the occasional deep sigh. And if you've ever dealt with an entitled guest, just know you're not alone. We're all out here doing the Lord's work, one unreasonable request at a time. Alrighty, y'all. That wraps up today's shift. If you got a story about an entitled guest, and I know you do, send it to shiftshowpod at gmail.com. I want to hear the wildest, the pettiest, the most unbelievable moments. Until next time, stay hydrated, stay patient, and remember, some guests aren't wrong. They're just loud. See you on the next shift.