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Clean Sheets

I have nothing against Ohio. I’m sure it’s a fine state.

And I know several accountants - all perfectly lovely people.

But for reasons I don’t fully understand, this story is much better with an accountant from Ohio in it.

A motel owner from a small town in South Dakota told me this story. One day an accountant from Ohio checked in. He said he’d be in town for a week and that while he was there, he wouldn’t need any towels or clean sheets. This seemed odd, but I’m guessing a motel owner meets a certain number of odd people, so he shrugged and agreed.

After about three days, the owner was handing out assignments to the people who cleaned the rooms and said, “I know the guy in 107 said he didn’t need any housekeeping service, but just pop in there and change the sheets and drop off some clean towels.”

The housekeeper worked her way through her list of rooms, but when she opened the door to Room 107, she stopped everything and screamed.

She ran back to the front desk and brought the owner back with her. He poked his head in the door, then uttered a word that probably shouldn’t be printed here.

The accountant from Ohio had covered the floor of the room in newspapers. He’d taken some big hooks, the kind you hang bicycles from in a garage, and screwed them into the ceiling. He had gutted two deer, which were hanging from the ceiling.

Now, for those of you from South Dakota, or Ohio for that matter, this is not the sort of activity encouraged in the better class of hotels.

The owner said a couple more words and went out into his parking lot to get a breath of fresh air. He saw the chief of police driving by and flagged him down.

Oddly enough, when he saw Room 107 in the newly remodeled hotel, the sheriff said the same word that the hotel owner had said.

The two men and the housekeeper went back out to the parking lot. For some reason, fresh air seemed like it was in short supply in Room 107.

A short time later, they noticed the accountant from Ohio backing up to a side door on the hotel. He opened the tailgate on his pickup, and dragged a dead antelope out onto the pavement.

The antlers got stuck on the curb and there was a brief struggle to get the door open. The chief of police sauntered over (they teach sauntering in police school in South Dakota), and held the door open. The accountant glanced over his shoulder, said, “Hey, thanks,” and started dragging the antelope down the hall to his room.  

Apparently, he hadn’t used up all his hooks.

The chief of police followed him for a few steps down the hall and then said, “Buddy, you’re under arrest.  At the moment I have no idea what for, but you are definitely under arrest.”

Isn’t that a good story?  You may be wondering why I chose to tell it now . . . it isn’t even hunting season.

Well, it wasn’t hunting season in South Dakota, either. It seems that the accountant from Ohio thought that South Dakota was still part of the Wild West, with no hunting seasons or rules.

Just lots of dirty sheets.

Copyright 2013 Brent Olson

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