Who Knew? Surprising Things You Can Find in a Gas Station Restroom

Can you think of anything more repulsive than gas station restrooms?

Well, three day-old roadkill and previews of Nick Cage movies come to mind. Seriously though, gas station restrooms are the necessary evils of any road trip. I say road trip because of course, no one in a lucid state would actually use a gas station bathroom while in their own town. If you prefer a public toilet to your own toilet five minutes down the road, then I'm afraid the pungent aroma of urinal cakes has seeped into your brain and terminally impaired your judgment. Enjoy the fruits of your home base. Old McDonald never left the farm for Church's to get his fried chicken on. Dig?

But on the road you have no choice. Soiling yourself is permitted if you aren't potty trained but that excuse won't fly when you're 30 and cramped with others in a van heading to Timbuktu. Other people expect you to relieve yourself respectfully (like at a rest stop or in a roadside ditch). Yet sometimes the gas station restroom is the only option. And these guys are not breaking their backs to give you a pleasant experience. They only care about you buying gas and feed bags of hot fries.

Some of these bathrooms don't even have stalls. I'm particularly intrigued by the jail cell-sized stall-less restroom with the urinal and regular toilet side-by-side. What's the purpose of the urinal? It's like they dreamed up this magical scenario where a urinal user would not only leave the door unlocked but be perfectly comfortable with another man coming in and pooping right beside him, while also assuming the other man had no apprehension about pooping in front of a stranger. Big dreams and big assumptions.

But gas station restrooms aren't all bad. If you're lucky, you may happen upon one with a scale or even cologne dispenser. Have you seen these? Okay, pics and analysis:

The Digital Scale- This is a ridiculous innovation, which makes it perfect for a gas station restroom. First off, who doesn't want to weigh themselves after releasing five hours worth of road trip intestinal burdens? But seriously, does this thing not look like a State Fair High-Striker game to you? Jump on fatty and see if you can ring the bell!

I love the marketing boast of "exact weight." If a scale that freakin' big does not deliver my weight to the precise decimal ounce I'll demand my quarter back. But really, at the end of the day, do we need to pay 25 cents to remind us how fat we are?

Now if you look closely, you'll see it's not just a scale. You also get "Today's Lucky Lotto Numbers." Makes sense; guy loses a pound and suddenly thinks he can win the lottery. Honestly this is just the nudge the degenerate gambler needs to plunge into a lotto ticket buying frenzy before departure.

Hold on though! That quarter is continuing to work for you. As you can see, the machine also offers "Your Daily Personal Message." But it's a gas station restroom scale. How personalized can it be? The only information the machine has on you is your weight. Perhaps messages offer dietary advice like, "Hmm. You might want to grab a pack of Slim-Fasts on the way out" or "Past the point of no return. Enjoy the Funyuns until your next heart attack." More likely the message is some sappy fortune or ethereal words of wisdom. And anyone coming to a gas station restroom scale for life help has reached a sad state of affairs.




















The Cologne Dispenser- This is an essential device for the guy who suddenly needs to smell better at a gas station. The machine offers "exquisite replicas" of brand name colognes. Let's first be clear that nothing exquisite exists in an Exxon lavatory.

In its effort to tempt us with promises of olfactory excellence, the machine fails miserably to do so upon Direction #4, "Push plunger firmly for desired fragrance." Be assured anything involving a plunger will not make you smell better.

Also, you gotta love the CAUTION sign warning the customer to "Keep cologne spray out of eyes and facial area." Sadly I feel the candidates for gas station restroom cologne dispenser spray are also good candidates for firing the stuff right into their eyeballs. Same dudes that would ignore the "Flammable No Smoking" warning and blowtorch their face off in an effort to impress ladies at the gas station.

You can't make this stuff up, folks.

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What did I miss? What do you find hilarious about gas stations? Be sure to add Isn't That Random to your RSS feed if you haven't already!

Tweet Tweet 4.0

Are you on Twitter? If not, that's okay. Just know that it's going to be bigger than Facebook one day and you're going to feel really left out. In fact right now, I feel really obligated to include you. So here are some of my thoughts (better known as tweets) I've posted the past few months on Twitter.

Stevie Wonder has to be the coolest looking bald, long-haired guy EVER! Hulk Hogan is a respectable but distant second. #Grammys

You can't deny it. "Over the Top" IS the greatest arm wrestling movie of ALL TIME.

My unnecessary word of the day is "teeth." I'm perfectly comfortable telling others I regularly brush my tooths.

Dear #Geico Cavemen: Please go ahead and evolve so we can move on to a new ad campaign.

So for the first time in my life tonight, another human sneezed directly into my mouth. #dadlife

Dictionary.com's Word of the Day is "crib." That is not challenging at all. Did you guys let a baby pick this one?

Rage Against the Machine. It's what helps skinny white guys do push-ups.

Just greeted a black woman and got stuck between saying "Hi" and "Hello." Came out "Holla." #awkward

I just sneezed and excused myself alone in my car. I think that entitles me to some sort of politeness overachiever award.

What's your goal for weightlifting? Strength? Tone? Personally I'm aiming for low muscle atrophy when I'm 80. #aiminglow

Proud to say I'm one of the few Americans who actually uses his waffle maker.

Did you know the Sun is known as the "yellow dwarf"? That is racist, politically incorrect, AND irresponsibly inaccurate!

At Blood Drive with radio playing a "Two-for-Tuesday" Nickelback set. I politely asked the nurse to place the needle in my jugular.

Can't believe "Very Dry" is an option on dryer dials. When would I ever want my clothes "still kind of wet"?

Miller Lite won Best American Light Lager at #GABF. So what? That's like winning a contest for Most Quaffable Urine.

Just checked out a book and it's due in 2 weeks. Thanks library for that whopping amount of time you've given me to READ A BOOK.

Took the week off for work and suddenly realized I'd taken the week off from bathing.

Who thought Willie Nelson/Norah Jones doing "Baby It's Cold Outside" would work? Sounds like an old creeper holding a pretty lady hostage.

Wife: "Buy Buy Baby is baby stuff heaven." Me: "Bye bye money."

The DMV Headquarters does not renew driver's licenses. And that makes perfect government sense.

Hey Reindeer Antlers On Car Guy- please note that when you cut me off it just makes me wanting to shoot you feel more natural.

Someone mopping around you always diminishes the dining experience.

Hey Lowe's, when you see me wandering around aimlessly, just know it's b/c I can never find anything in your hellhole of a store.

When people claim they had the best hot dog ever, I'm like, "well yeah, but....it's still a hot dog."

Guy at Pullen Park asks if we want to sample popcorn. Basically, his question should be, "do you know what popcorn tastes like?"


Join me on Twitter! Follow me @CarsonJSpeight !

I WILL Protect You from the Ebola Virus (and Other Pledges to My Son)

So how's that New Year's resolution going?

At this point, for most of us just remembering what our resolution was in the first place is a feat. In fact, that's going to be my resolution in 2013--to remember my resolution by February.

Seriously though, whether you'd resolved to stop picking your boogers (me 2009) or chilling out with the high-fives (me 2006) or easing out of your jort phase (me 2000-2004), by Spring you were one booger-pickin', high-fivin', jort-wearin' fool.

But for me this year, something changed. I started to take resolutions seriously. You see, I watched Courageous, a movie that is all about a resolution. Five men, intent on being better husbands and fathers, make a resolution filled with "I Will" statements regarding what they will be for their families. The movie ends with a moving speech from the lead character, building to a crescendo of emphatic "I WILL"s.

I was pumped up. As the father of a 16-month-old boy, I wanted to make my own resolution to him, and live by it for the rest of my life. So here it is-

MY RESOLUTION TO MY SON, HUDSON CHARLES SPEIGHT.
ON THIS DAY, FRIDAY FEBRUARY 10TH, 2012, IN THE PRESENCE OF RANDOMONIUM READERS AND GOD AS MY WITNESS...

I WILL ensure my son's impersonation of a Jamaican is sound.

I WILL teach him that every part of the steak except the bone is edible.

I WILL let him have his first beer when he is seven so he won't want to drink again 'til he's 27.

I WILL show him how I shoot a basketball so he will know how not to shoot a basketball.

I WILL let him have multiple birthdays at Chuck-E-Cheese, but he will never beat me in Ski-ball.

I WILL unintentionally show him the dangers of a nail gun and I WILL intentionally show him a picture of a chainsaw in a book. I ain't gettin' near that crap for real.

I WILL agree with him that his math homework is a complete waste of time and will be for the next ten years. Suck it up dude.

I WILL teach him to kiss his mother, just not the way I kiss his mother.

I WILL attempt to explain Lady Gaga and fail miserably.

I WILL laugh with him when we listen to Grandpa on the toilet.

I WILL tell him what the F-word is but it won't be the real F-word and he'll go around saying it to all his confused friends (think I'll go with "Fergie").

I WILL show him how to fight using Jean-Claude Van Damme movies (muted of course, 'cause that dialogue is insufferable).

I WILL remind him I can't beat up other dads. It's not that I don't want to, I'm just physically inferior.

I WILL teach him about the ill-effects of drug abuse showing past and present pictures of Keith Richards.

I WILL make him do things I regret I never did, like kiss the princesses at Disney World.

I WILL talk with him about "the birds and the bees" but I think I'll use "the elephants and the turtles" 'cause that's just way funnier.

I WILL instruct him in punting a football from a very early age. Let's face it, it's his only chance to be a pro.

I WILL encourage he take up a musical instrument. Something he can master rather quickly. Probably finger cymbals.

I WILL teach him that there are no impermissible moves on the dance floor, as long as you keep your pants on.

I WILL temper his pride by revealing my own YMCA Honor Camper awards. That's right, I pluralized it.

I WILL make sure he is always properly hydrating, 'cause with Mama and Daddy's genes he's gonna sweat like a warthog.

I WILL nonchalantly take him to Civil War re-enactments and be like, "OH MY GOD, look son, it's a war!!!"

I WILL teach him horrible magic tricks so to convince him it's not cool.


What WILL YOU do for your children?
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Why You Should Never Wash Your Car At Home

In the world of doing chores, for me washing cars ranks somewhere between scraping charred pig parts off the crock pot and combing the backyard to collect turds. (In case you're wondering, that would be turds from my dog, and I'm not really collecting them, like for an exhibit, just for the trash can.) Anyway, I hate washing my car.

But I equally loathe the idea of paying someone else to do it. It's okay, I have soap, water, and hands, I think I can handle this. Even so, washing cars is just really stupid to me. The earth washes my car for free at least once a month. And it should, seeing as how it dirties my car right back up within days. That's what's so depressing about washing your car. Lots of work (or money for all you suckers) and one mud puddle puts you right back where you were before.

Yet this past Sunday, something possessed me to abandon all my prejudices and embark upon this trivial exercise in auto cleanliness. After all, it had been at least a year since I had thought about washing my car. It'd been much longer since I actually did it. So why not give it a whirl?

Dumbest decision of 2012.

For starters, don't wash your car in January. The air is cold, the water is cold, and this is a fruitless activity anyway. I'm voluntarily piling misery upon misery like an idiot. Well for some reason, I disregard that and consider this time it will all be worth it. So I go and grab my "car washing bucket," which in the last year has served as a stool for a charcoal bag.

I should have immediately quit when I reached into the bucket and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves, one yellow, one orange, and both left-handed. How is that possible? It's mind blowing that I once had two pairs of rubber gloves and discarded a pair (not even the same pair) in favor of two gloves for the same hand, which happens to be my non-scrubbing hand. Again, ignoring the signs of imminent and epic failure, I pressed on to complete the task of ruining a perfectly good afternoon.

Now on to the hose, that green, irksome devil coiled up in its hose reel like a sleeping death adder. Just walking over to it brings forth a small voice in my head telling me that none of this is worth it. I believe it, but press on. I begin to unwind the hose, dragging it across the yard like the blankey of a pissed four year-old. And then the predictable JERK! The hose is stuck and I sulk back to the reel to unstick it. After repeating this process at least three times, the hose was stretched to the car and finally, I think, we were ready to rock.

So I flip the switch on the nozzle and the way things are going, you can probably guess how much water came out.I peer back across the yard to notice the hose resembles less of a flowing grass snake and more of a jacked-up mattress spring. Upon closer inspection there were places in the hose so warped they made right angles. Not a recipe for steady water flow. Being that I lacked Chuck Norris hands, there was no way to work out the kinks myself. It would require a tool; pliers, I thought.

Which was yet another sign I was losing my mind. If washing your car requires fetching your toolbox, things have gone terribly wrong. Quit while you're way behind and go be with your family. But no, I decided to persevere. Amazingly, after taking pliers to my garden hose, there was still no water flow! Now baffled, I returned to the water source only to discover the water was never turned on. This produced an odd laugh, one of both happy relief and stupefied self-humiliation. Like a clown who's shat himself.

Looking back upon the lawn, I descried some water coming from the nozzle, but even more was spraying upward like Old Faithful from a hole in the the middle of the hose. Undeterred, I grabbed some duct tape and wrapped up what I thought was an air tight seal, only to be disappointed with the resulting sideways Old Faithfuls now sprinkling the lawn.

Who cares, come hell or high water I am washing this car. Fuming, I took the hose to the car in a frenzied get-it-over-with pace. I aimed for the car and flipped the nozzle to full blast. And instead of a clean, direct shot on the vehicle, I myself was sprayed with cold January water, shooting out in at least eight directions from both sides of the nozzle, which had sprung from irreparable leaks. My fury had now reached its boiling point. I briefly considered doing my best with the hose itself, and simply deposit the defunct nozzle in the trash can. But that didn't satiate my blood lust. So I thought, "I must smash it."

With hose still attached, I took the little plastic nozzle behind the car where worried neighbors wouldn't witness the impending carnage. Summoning my inner-McEnroe I unleashed two downward swings of fury, pummeling the nozzle with all my might into the driveway pavement. A couple pieces flew off but the majority of it was still in tact. One last burst of testosteronic violence sent the nozzle flying off the hose, and like the final but futile strike of a king cobra on an impervious honey badger, it flew upward into my chin.

But I hardly felt it. Truth is, destroying the piece of crap and putting a climactic ending on an otherwise sad story was a rush I hadn't felt in awhile. I hadn't even noticed my bloodied chin until after gathering my whacked-out hose, two left-handled gloves, and nozzle shrapnel for the junk heap. Ironically, trashing these items salvaged my day. It meant I now had a really good excuse to never wash my car again.