The Trivago Guy's Girlfriend Tells Her Side Of The 'Browser History' Incident

What is Gary telling people?

Oh, you bet your ass I kicked him out. Did he tell you why?

His browser history. Now, I know that trifling moron doesn't think I have the leisure time to go following him around the internet. Some of us work for a living.

By the way, if I did check his browser history -- which I wouldn't; I have THINGS TO DO -- I'm pretty sure it would go back to the Clinton administration. He doesn't know how any of that shit works. The fact that he's got the balls to offer anybody any internet-related advice is hilarious.

His email address is coolgary421@hotmail.com. Because coolgary420 was taken. He's an idiot.

Here's what actually happened: I came home from a fourteen-hour day -- which started out horribly because I was on a business trip and the hotel he recommended was two blocks from a hospital. Fucking ambulances back and forth right under my window all night. But I still nailed my sales presentation, even on a total of about forty-five minutes' sleep, because some of us are professionals.

Anyway, right before I get on the red-eye, I text him. The painters are coming. Please make sure you're up at 8 to let them in. Kiss face emoji.

Get off the plane at 8:45. What do you know? Four missed calls from the painters. Where's Gary?

I'm supposed to go straight back to the office but now I'm worried. Gary didn't text. The painters have been pounding on the door. No answer. Did something happen to Gary? I call in, tell my assistant I'll be in at noon, and go home instead, thinking the whole time that my boyfriend might actually be lying dead on the floor when I get in there.

Well, the good news is that Gary's alive. The bad news is that when I was getting on a plane, Gary and his buddy Roy were getting blackout drunk in front of Caddyshack for the fiftieth time. In fact, it's kind of a surprise that Gary didn't aspirate on his own vomit. Guess when I call to reschedule the painters I can see if they can point me toward any decent flooring contractors because I'm pretty sure the acid from Gary's puke isn't going to come out with a little bit of Murphy's Oil.

Roy shit his pants.

How did Gary look when you saw him? Was his shirt buttoned right? Yeah, it was like that when I kicked his ass out. I assume he did it wrong because he was drunk, but why was his shirt open at any point during Movie Night? See, these are questions I shouldn't have to ask!

Also, I would have let him put his stupid Dockers back on before he left the house. And I would have also encouraged him to put on A BELT, not that he would have.

I don't really know why he decided to go out in public essentially bottomless. Does he think this is going to be helpful to him when he's trying to check into a hotel? Because for all his talk about how great Trivago is for finding cheap hotel rooms, he's going to have a hard time booking any online now that I've cancelled him from every credit card where I'm the primary cardholder, a.k.a. all of them. DON'T THINK RAMADA'S GONNA TAKE YOUR SEARS CARD, GAR.

I watched him pack, too. That bag contains twelve identical buttondowns and a nose hair trimmer.

So that's why Gary doesn't live here anymore: he and the only person he knows that's an even bigger simpleton than he is decided to respect the home THAT I PAY FOR by spraying it with their effluent.

But according to him I decided to go open up his seven-year-old Acer to see if he's looking at runaways' tits? Cute. Hey, Gary? Fucking DUH.