Dear, Creepy Late Night Gas Stations
You know what’s awesome about you guys? The impending sense of murder and rape that permeates every square-inch of you. There’s nothing more soothing to the senses then pumping some gas and wondering if that faint shuffling sound behind us is a crazed hobo heroin addict, or just your run-of-the-mill ritual murderer that’s looking to appease the moon with a fresh sacrifice. So, in that sense, thanks for feeling like a place that, with your shining bright white lights, acts as a shining beacon of hope, like a light house is to a lost boat at sea, to people that that look like they just barely survived a meth orgy that ended with a few more deaths then is normally tolerated at your average meth orgy.
We at Holy Taco would also like to thank you, Creepy Late Night Gas Stations, for your stalwart attitudes toward the mysterious brown stains around your gas pumps. While regulatory agencies have repeatedly told you to clean up that chunky puddle of drunk person diarrhea that we drove over, you have boldly stood your ground in staunch defiance of common decency. That puddle of what could very well be motor oil had someone tied a fat baby’s ass to the oil tank really gives your station a general sense of decrepitude usually reserved for only the most squatter-lived-in houses that were abandoned due to gang-related arson.
And you get full marks for positioning that cop car just off to the side of the parking lot, right next to the caged tanks of propane that would be obscuring the cop’s view of any potential dangers if the cop were actually awake to see any wrong-doings. Thank you for being one of the few late night homes for sugary treats that allows officers of the law to crash from a sugar rush and switch off their radios as if they were bothersome alarm clocks that keep ringing on their day off.
We would also like to commend you on the ornate tapestry of profane, racist, and anti-Semitic graffiti that adorns your outer walls. We always like being reminded that blacks and Jews should go back to their countries of origin before we nestle ourselves in to bed. We can’t begin to convey the overwhelming sense of ennui that wraps our hearts as we fall asleep knowing that there is little hope for us as a species. This is especially true when the man or women behind the counter in the Creepy Late Night Gas Station is of the race or nationality that is specifically singled out in your hateful outer wall graffiti. Such a discrepancy lets us know that you more than likely agree with the sentiment, and believe that one ethnic group should act subserviently to your chosen ethnic group.
And lastly, we would like to thank you for your most excellent placement of video cameras, as to record any wrong-doings that the comatose police officer will almost surely miss. The level of reassurance we feel when we see multiple cameras with multiple frayed wires hanging loosely from their bases just hammers home the idea that this is a gas station that has seen its fair share of overly-crafty robberies. In stark contrast to our feelings about the racist graffiti, we like knowing that the place we are currently spending money at has been attacked by highly organized crackheads in need of a few dollars and extra-long Slim Jims – the money, to stave off angry drug lords; the Slim Jims, for sustenance.
P.S. – And lest we forget about the gaggle of suburban, “heterosexual” fathers that gather behind your dumpsters to express themselves artistically by spraying your walls with semen. We’re never sure if they’re actually there or not, for we would never interrupt their creative pow-wows, but we can vaguely make out their pelvic thrusts and ankle-fallen trousers as we speed away from your business, never to return under the cover of night that, for some reason, gives the perverts, vagrants, and criminals of our city – of all cities — an excuse to do all the crazy shit they do in and around you.