The First Ever Bathroom Review on Yelp
Dear Mobil Gas Station on Santa Monica and Highland
I wish I was writing this review for the quality of your fuel, be it gasoline or whatever lukewarm hot dogs you sell. Do you sell hot dogs? I recall an orange glow coming from next to your soda machine. It is likely those were hot dogs. Much like a mugging victim, I can only recall the immediate details of the travesty that occurred to me.
After partaking in a rousing game of dodgeball at the local rec center (because I am a 23-year old trying to hold onto his youth and this is the only way I get a chance to talk to girls), I needed to use your facilities. I had to stop by the local comic book shop before the night was over (again, big winner here) and the girl running the counter there and I have been playing a flirty game of Doctor Who conversations. I needed to freshen up before.
I filled up my tank with your unleaded gasoline, sealing the bond between merchant and customer: I buy some of your gas, you are indebted to give me change for a dollar and/or promise I will use your restrooms unmolested. Those seventy dollars worth of gas was a contract guaranteeing I wouldn’t get The AIDS from your business.
Next to your bathroom door were several cases of yet-to-be-stocked energy drinks and sodas. They just lay there, asking to be taken, or for a guy to carry them into the bathroom and pee into them. I don’t know; I’m not supposed to think about this stuff.
The floor of your bathroom was coated in some foreign, clear, sticky gel. At about a half-inch deep, it reminded me of the hate-ooze from Ghostbusters 2. Have you seen that movie, Mobil Gas Station? Remember how they fell in that stuff in the old sewers and it was the worst thing ever? This is an apt metaphor, because touching this muck also filled me with rage.
You had three pipes with spigots protruding from your wall. None of them worked. Much like most of the pipes in Super Mario, they led to nothing and I feared there was something vile waiting inside to bite me.
You did have a toilet, good job for that. It became my rock, my sinking ship in an ocean of disease. It takes a lot for a man to realize the safest place to set the underwear he’s about to put on is on the lid of a toilet seat.
As I lept from toilet to sink like the worst game of “The floor is lava”, I got to enjoy the art in your bathroom. Across one wall was a mural done in Sharpee; a giant heart that read “ALEX + LEE”. There was also a syringe sticking into the heart mural, as if the youths tagging your bathroom knew the lifestyle choices that would eventually mar their love. I should mention that it was just a drawing of a syringe, not an actual needle. Though if you know your own bathroom, you likely expected it to be real.
There are a few easy fixes I could suggest for your restroom: a fresh coat of paint, a drain on the floor or even a few placemats to throw around so I can stand upright without becoming posessed by Viggo the Carpathian. While changing, I fell down into the darkness. My butt has The Black Plague now.
You can see the review here.