Last Working Gas Station Bathroom On Earth Discovered, Used
The line for the urine-stained bathroom at the shabby Chevron station off California's Highway 49 reached appalling proportions yesterday, after one commuter jokingly asked the attendant if he could use it and was shocked to hear a "yes" reply for the first time in his entire life.
"I was like, what in the hell did you just say?" Eric Roath, a confederate re-enactor, vividly recalls.
Roath, who hadn't even needed to pee when he requested use of the toilet, was momentarily stunned when the man across the counter actually smiled and handed him an ancient-looking key attached to the arm of a small child.
"I wasn't stupid about it. I acted all calm and took the key. But inside, I knew how lucky I was," he says, sucking on a Blow Pop. "Sure as hell I did."
Roath added that, although he knew better, he still left the key in the doorknob and went straight to his car afterward, driving off carelessly.
Tina Fiddler, a woman who's always had trouble pumping her own gas, eyed the entire ordeal from inside the confines of her vehicle. "He just left that poor child dangling from the doorknob," she said, pushing her automatic door lock button repeatedly.
Other witnesses were indignant once they began to realize that someone was actually entering the oil-stained metal door and searching blindly for a light to turn on.
"Hey, what the fuck!" someone screamed from pump #4. "I have to piss, too, goddamnit!" She bolted for the door, leaving a crying newborn strapped inside its car seat.
Another patron heard the commotion and flung his gas nuzzle aside, vying for his only chance to see inside an actual working gas station john.
Several witnesses at the pay phones, who had no intention of sitting down on such a filthy porcelain seat, recounted hearing a primal yell -- "Raahhhhhhh!!!" -- erupt from a group of stoners who finally figured out what was going on and ambushed the bathroom, having just left the quickie mart with faded boxes of Pop Tarts and miniature bags of Cool Ranch Doritos.
By the time the paramedics arrived, the place was trashed and the small child attached to the key ring had gone missing.
The gas station attendant, Amir Ashmir, sat dejectedly by the air/water machine outside, "My father, he always told me: My son. Never, ever let one of them in. I thought, maybe just one. What could it hurt?"
His tears fell on the "Out of Order" sign still clenched in his hand. "I have disgraced my entire profession and will most likely commit suicide now."
The last known visit to a working gas station bathroom was documented over 30 years ago, somewhere in the south, and has been the subject of many archeological documentaries and a few stories inside National Geographic.
Most had given up the hope of finding the long-lost remnants of the satisfactory customer service one would imagine any multibillion-dollar oil conglomeration would naturally want to offer its middle class benefactors.
When asked why Chevron, and other fossil fuel–sucking companies like it, doesn't offer this amenity to the peasantry, Jim Davis, president of Chevron Energy Solutions, looked peeved.
"See here, we don't have to do anythin' of the sort. We make shit loads of money off drivers everyday with or without a pot to piss in."
Davis, heaving out of his chair and hunkering over to the liquor cabinet, added, "Ain't it enough we're fully stocked with them fancy low-carb bars and glow-in-the-dark figurine lighters?"
He scooped a wet glob of Skoal out of its tin and swabbed it behind his lower lip.
"This is my world, d'you understand me! Now git the hell outta here, 'afore I give you sumthin' to really cry about."
Spitting, he pulled his belt off and made snapping sound with it.