John Travolta Likes His Hotel Rooms Done Up Like A Fancy Crack Den
Side note: “Fancy crack den” is also one of the code words those gossips in the Scientology Centre bathhouse use for his b-hole.
Forget The National Enquirer’s exposé on Ted Cruz being a mega cheating slut who allegedly dipped his peen in at least 5 side pieces (I bet his O face looks like a Grandpa Munster claymation figurine trying to sneeze and cough at the same time)! The biggest and most escandaloso story of the day is how (WARNING: Super Glue your chair to the floor and hold on extra tight or you may knock over from the shock of it all) John Travolta will only let you massage his body if you’ve got a real dick attached to your crotch. I’ll wait here as you call a handyman from Angie’s List to fix your floor, because I’m sure that brand new shocking information caused you to rip your chair outta that bitch.
Page Six somehow got a hold of the rider that John Travolta allegedly gives to every hotel he stays in. I guess when you’re a rich, famous trick, you can give a hotel a list of your weird ass requirements and they’ll actually follow it. While us poor peasants get a, “Bitch, who are you, Beyonce?”, look from the front desk clerk at a Super 8 when we ask for a blow dryer that works. Here’s some of the things that are supposedly on Travolta’s rider:
– He needs a “male masseur” on hand, because DUH and DUH and DUH.
– The windows in his hotel room must be covered with aluminum foil and black out curtains.
– He brings his own bed sheets with him.
– He requires that his hotel room stay empty for at least 24 hours before he checks in, because he doesn’t want any scents from strangers wafting up into his delicate nose tunnels. Page Six says that’s a Scientology thing. L. Ron Hubbard apparently hated rose perfume, so all members must be reject scents.
Reading about the “male masseur” thing is like getting hit in the face with an anvil made of pure DUH. The bed sheets thing also makes sense, because John Travolta doesn’t want anybody’s refugee Thetans jumping aboard his body. But the aluminum foil AND black out curtain shit? Either John Travolta smokes crack or Evil Lord Xenu’s brain-reading lasers cannot penetrate through Reynolds Wrap. (Blinds To Go should really do a Scientology collection of nothing but foil blinds.) Or maybe after a long, stressful morning, John Travolta loves nothing more than to go back to his hotel room, pull the frazzled long-haired guinea pig off of his head and soothe its nerves by getting his-and-her (yes, it’s a her) massages in the dark. Yeah, that’s probably it.
Pic: Wenn.com