Originally Posted by Jazzop

[Best read in the voice of Werner Herzog]

It is no secret that the prevailing characteristics of a hotel's typical guest shifts significantly between weekdays (Mon-Thurs) and weekends (Fri-Sun). The summertime, with its weddings, bar mitzvahs, proms, church youth group trips, and so on, is the culmination of this frenzied semiweekly social migration. As if they were two species, distinguished by Freudian psychosexual stage but sharing the same ecological niche, the anal-retentive business traveler cedes its foraging ground to the incoming anal-expulsive leisure traveler, who repurposes the domain for its gambols of fecund gluttony. Like waves of voracious insects emerging in ecdysiastic synchrony, these oncomers rapidly strip bare the fertile club lounge in a tragedy of the commons.

It begins in the hours just after dawn, as the smell of hot breakfast items alerts the sentinels of the herd (presumably those with small children, as this observer notes from the Doppler shift of shrill voices and staccato footfalls up and down the hallway). The sentinels prematurely pounce on the food even before its presentation is complete and the serving hour has begun, while stigmergically alerting the main body of the herd through a complex series of door slams. Those whose nests are too distant to hear the alerts (i.e., on other floors) and who would not normally have access to the repast are escorted in a type of chain migration by those conspecifics whose keycards open the appropriate doors. Finally, in a bold and surprising display of environmental shaping, doors to the stairwell and lounge are propped open to grant unobstructed access. The herd eventually retreats in apparent satiety, as evidenced by the copious amounts of uneaten food on the floors, seats, tabletops, and abandoned dishes. In their departure, they collect armfuls of beverages from the refrigerator, leaving it completely barren.

Throughout the day, foragers periodically return to this site to confirm and ensure that it remains devoid of anything that may be carried off. Juveniles loiter and, in a carefully timed ballet of anarchy, eventually exhaust the printing supplies and lock up the computer stations in glorious simultaneity.

As the shadows grow long, a new prey is to be stalked in the lounge: the hapless and ironically named hors d'oeuvre. The hunters make quick work of these unlucky victims, surprisingly turning such small portions into complete meals. Their handiwork is so cruelly efficient that the lounge staff simply abandon all hope of replenishing the supply and disappear in defeat. The final rounds are made and all remaining food and beverage are absconded with, including the carton of milk intended for the coffee drinkers-- which is no longer needed, of course, now that the delicate espresso machine has been broken. Once again, the degree of satiety from this evening raid can be measured by the plates of half-eaten food that are placed on the hallway floor outside their rooms two hours later.

On certain occasions, the astute observer can take in another intriguing ethological display from our guests. As they return from their places of nightly debauch, clearly dissatisfied with the business hours and/or liquid volumetry of the ethanolic proprietor, the more enthusiastic individuals may claim the lounge as a site of continued consumptive and play behavior. This period usually lasts as long as the supply of ethanol or White Castle, whichever is longer.

It remains to be seen how this weekly spoiling can be sustained by the host ecosystem. Perhaps, like a barren tundra surviving harsh winter storms, it receives its vital injection of energy from the spring-like rays that emerge on Monday afternoons, healing the damage and inoculating it against future cycles of destruction and pillage.