Somewhere buried deep in the archives of a certain (unnamed) hotel there is documented proof that I once shared a room with "George Clooney" and "Barney Rubble".
A few years ago we had a large custom furniture delivery to do that was a long ways out of town. The project required several days to complete, and I brought along two helpers (Bobby and Captain Bob) to assist me with the work.
Due to a late start and multiple traffic delays we were extremely late arriving at our destination, which was a hotel very close to where we had to be the next day. We arrived at about 2:00 a.m. totally exhausted, and at that point we wanted nothing more than to check in and get some sleep.
But things did not go quite as planned.
For starters, when we arrived at the hotel I knew well enough that a large truck such as our's should be parked well away from the main lobby. Therefore I took the initiative to find a piece of bare pavement at the far outer edge of the main parking lot. There wasn't another vehicle within 50 feet of where we parked.
After gathering out bags and making the long trek to the main lobby we were met at the front door by the night manager.
"Is that your truck?" he asked.
"You can't park there."
"Why not? It's not blocking anything and it's not in anyone's way."
"Well, you just can't. It's hotel policy."
By this point I had figured out that the manager I was dealing with wasn't the sharpest knife in the proverbial drawer. And based on previous experience I also knew that explaining logic and common sense under such circumstances was going to be futile at best. Therefore, I set my bag down, walked back to the truck, and drove it around back to park somewhere in the unlit nether regions behind the building.
After reparking the truck and gingerly stumbling my way back through the utter darkness it was finally time to check into the room. After registering my name, address and contact info I handed over my credit card to verify payment for the room.
Just when I thought we were finally going to get the keys the manager then asks for the names of the two guys who were with me.
"What difference does it make?" I asked. "You have my name; you know where I live; you've been paid for the room, and you have my credit card info. If the room gets trashed or one of your little soaps gets stolen, you have everything you need to come after me. What difference does it make who these guys are?"
"It's hotel policy" came his standard reply yet again.
(Ugghh, here we go again).
"George" I blurted out (making something up as I nodded in Captain Bob's direction). "His name is George."
"George who?" asked the night manager (obviously falling for the ruse).
Without missing a beat Captain Bob said: "Clooney".
"How do you spell that?"
"C-L-O-O-N-E-Y" said the Captain with a calm, deadpan look. His demeanor was classic, and it took every ounce of restrain on both our parts not to burst out laughing.
"And who's the other guy?" asked the manager, nodding at Bobby.
"Barney. Barney Rubble. R-U-B-B-L-E." I offered.
And, so, without bothering to check any ID from "George Clooney" and "Barney Rubble" the night manager proceeded to add their names to register and hand us the keys to our room.
The only thing to add to this story is that I had fun the next day explaining to my wife how I had spent the night in a hotel with "George Clooney".