Showed up with ten bikes and zero warning like we run a fucking warehouse? FUCK YOU.

You booked ten beds.
Cool.
Fine.
Expected.

But what you didn’t mention, not in the booking, not in the messages, not in a single breath of communication, was the fucking fleet of metal horses you were dragging behind you.

Ten people.
Ten bikes.
No heads-up.
No respect.
Just a full-on bike invasion like you’re competing in the Olympic Camino Time Trial and we’re your pit crew.

FUCK. YOU.

We don’t have space for ten bikes.
We don’t have magic bike racks that fall from the ceiling when your dumbass group arrives.
This isn’t a fucking garage.
It’s a hostel.
Beds. Towels. Humans.
Not spokes, pedals, and your shitty Lycra gear dripping sweat all over the floor.

And don’t pull the classic

You didn’t ask.
You didn’t warn.
You didn’t even have the basic brain function to write a message saying

Let me be clear.
I don’t care how far you cycled today.
I don’t care how sore your ass is.
I don’t care how proud you are of your €3,000 machine with a name like “Trek Alpha UltraJesus.”
You show up without warning and dump ten bikes on us like we’re your personal storage unit?

FUCK YOU.

Next time, write a message.
Call ahead.
Use your grown-up words.
Because if you keep pulling this shit
I’m going to lock all your bikes together and throw the key into the forest.

Until then

FUCK YOU.