American(!) Bathrooms of America(!)

Throughout my short life, I've made quite a few mistakes.  And judging by the timing of the publishing of this post, I'm assuming that you, the reader, think this will eventually lead to some New year's resolution.

Well, I'll break it down for you right away.

New Year's Resolutions number one:  Avoid Gas Station bathrooms like the plagues you could get from sitting on those dirty toilet seats.

What?  Another post dedicated to the fine (kinda not really) art of toilet jokes?  Wasn't this once a classy blog?

If you just asked that, I think you should really reconsider what "classy" means.

If you managed to make it past that horrible introduction, I'm sure you can get the basic jist of my post this time.  If you have yet to, well I'm going to anyway!  Don't you feel special?

The correct answer is yes.


So it all started last night.  See, I'm in this play.  It's a fantastic piece about the Holocaust, and it's really dramatic.  Unfortunately, that really isn't important at the moment.  The point is that, aside from acting, I also found myself building the set of the play.

The things I do to get another Chevron on my letter jacket that I don't own.

Either way, the techies and I were scheduled to work on building this set from seven to ten, but I had a visit from a special someone and found myself making an important decision:

So, of course, I didn't eat dinner that night.

Curse you, Disney Animation Studios and your inability to produce a terrible animated movie!

Because I am incredible at making healthy choices, I found myself pretty hungry after three hours of constant woodwork, which is a lot for me, considering I spend my free time blogging and thinking up terrible puns.

For example:  Why is this blog like a carrot?

Answer:  It can't be "beet!"

God, I crack myself up.

Now, back to the framework of my story.

Get it?  Framework?  And we're currently working on the framework of the play's set? Eh? Ehh? Okay fine. Don't laugh.  That's cool.

The point is, I was really craving some high-quality American cheap food because I'm convinced that seven-plus hours without eating counts as "starving."  And so were my friends.

That's right.  I actually have a life.

Kind of.  These are Theatre nerds we're talking about, here.

Either way, as we walked out of the school where we were building, it was about ten at night.  My friend Autumn didn't really want to go home just yet, and it had been decided that we were all really hungry because we are all lazy, fat, Americans.

This is such a Patriotic post.

This should go down in the history books!  Move over, John Henry, Mutton-Chops McDorsey is on the prowl!

And to think I thought that this blog couldn't get any classier...

...it gets so much worse.

Although I have to admit, those are some pretty sweet mutton chops for something as lowly as Microsoft Paint.

I'd like to thank America for this one.

Now where was I?

Oh, yeah!  American eating.

So, we agreed to meet up at Applebees in about twenty minutes.  Applebees because we were all super-cheap teenagers who liked half-off appetizers (Again, I'd like to thank America!), and twenty minutes because three of us were girls who needed to go home for various reasons.

My guess was that they'd change clothes.

I was right.

(American Education)

Okay, I think I'm done with American tongue-in-cheek propaganda. (American Humility! Boo Yah!)

So, the girls left and I had twenty minutes to kill.  I didn't want to drive home because I knew that at home were the atrocities of Facebook and Blogger (my two foes in terms of getting shit done), so  there went those plans.

And then it hit me.

I really needed to pee.

And now I'm done with my mostly unnecessary backstory.

As I turned the keys in my [mom's] Jeep, I decided to make a decision to stop in the gas station to pee.

This is the mistake I was talking about in the first paragraph.

Gas stations are pretty much only good for two things:  getting gasoline for your motor vehicle and getting really cheap bags of air with about two or three BBQ chips inside.

Oh, and getting AriZona tea and Red Bull.  I collectively refer to these two as the angels of drink-dom.

I totally just made that up on the spot because of Red Bull's motto.

Either way, gas stations are not meant to be solely used as bathrooms.  And let me explain.

At ten o'clock at night, nothing is more painfully suggestive than a male teenager waltzing into a gas station and heading straight for the bathrooms, only to come out, look at a couple magazines as if to buy them, and then walk out without making a stop at the register.

I didn't even think of this until I closed the bathroom door and found myself face-to-face with the condom distributor from Hell.

Any man who has ever had the unpleasantness of having to take a pee break at a gas station has come face to face with these novelty condom dispensers (if you'd even call them that).

Not to mention that the bathroom at this place was sketchier than a genuine drawing pad owned by Leonardo Da Vinci.

I did kind of like the graffiti yelling about explicit torments you should do to cops.  That really made me proud of my fellow countrymen (In America!).

But seriously, as much as I love to have stations set up throughout the dumps (no pun intended for once) of bathroomian society where you can make plans "when life can't wait," (which I swear on my dead cat's body is their motto)  I'm really starting to fall under the impression that no money is being made whatsoever on these products.

I mean, as much as I'd love to use "Horny Goat Weed," I really think that my libido is in check.  And those "Rough Riders?"  No thanks, I'll just stick with avoiding that whole cowboy reference whatsoever.

It was really hard to make that last sentence not be a joke about masturbation.

Either way, as I made my way from Leo's water closet, I realized that just stopping into the bathroom would look really sketchy, so I made my way over to the magazines.

I think my phenomenal acting skills covered  my embarrassment of what the three cashiers must have thought would have been a thoroughly sexed up night for me.  Although the fattest of the three, a sad College kid, probably an English major, gave me that knowing look that only a man can give another man.

I walked out of that Super America in a defiant strut, which probably looked more like a sheepish shuffle.

I'm not going there ever again.