I spent the last three days in Richmond, Virginia. Richmond, The Hartford Of The South! I stayed at a hotel which was, in most respects, delightful. But it had a few tragic flaws. First of all, it had no pay-per-view porn of any kind on the options menu. Fucking Southern hypocrites. There’s an entire bottle of free body lotion in the bathroom with my penis’s name on it (That name? “The Bull.”). You’re telling me all I have to masturbate to is my imagination? That’s bullshit.

Second of all, and this is something every middle-of-the-pack hotel does: No fitted sheets on the bed. I think we’re all quite familiar with the standard hotel bed. It consists of one bottom sheet, one top sheet, one ratty blanket, and one bedspread that hasn’t been washed in over six decades. Mine likely still had traces of Charles Robb’s DNA on it. Anyway, these beds are made so tightly, it’s like sleeping under a goddamn sheet of Cling Wrap. And, since they never use fitted sheets, anytime I try pulling the sheets out from under the mattress to get some breathing room, the whole goddamn thing comes undone.

I am a restless sleeper. I toss. I turn. I breathe heavily. I scratch myself. I even practice Tae Kwon Do. I rotate sleeping positions like I’ve been skewered on a goddamn spit. Back, side, stomach, side, back, side, etc. As a result, I have never slept in a standard issue hotel bed without waking up the next day splayed out on a bare mattress with a laundry heap of sheets spilling over the side. This annoys the fuck out of me.

Are fitted sheets that expensive? Is there not enough room in a hotel budget for elastic? GET SOME FITTED SHEETS ON YOUR BEDS, HOTEL MANAGERS. Cornell University didn’t teach you JACK SHIT about proper hospitality.

Anyway, here are your cheerleaders for the week. Did you know one of the Cowboys’ cheerleaders is named Starr Spangler? I bet she’s seen a hotel bed or two.