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Are you people actually talking about eating the food sold in gas stations? Like, without dying?
Jesus Christ, I live in America, and there is no food sold in service stations, here. Just death and sadness. We're all full up on death and sadness.
Hot dogs sit on steel rollers and slowly (sadly) spin their miserable lives away. They spin for hours and even days at a time, growing ever more jerky-like and dismal, wrinkling and crumbling around their blackened little salt-hearts.
Sometimes, secret trucks come and deliver "hamburgers" wrapped in aluminum foil. These sit in glass cases under heat lamps, on a bed of crisply dead flies -- never cooked, only heated -- again for hours into days (into weeks?). The only difference here is that the hamburgers are not rotated, ever, and thus come to envy the hot dogs their terrible fate.
In addition to the above, some service stations offer customers a large bucket of opaque, yellowish-orange grease which can be plunged (by application of a feculent plastic lever) in obese rivulets onto stale corn chips. This is referred to as "nacho cheese".
Since many are displeased with the above offerings, most service stations located on interstate highways have partnered with popular fast-food restaurants, such as McDonald's Dead Cow Restaurant and Kentucky Dead Chicken.
These vast public lavatories serve thousands of irritable yet foul-smelling diners a day, and (apparently) rotated sausages and emulsified cheese fats won't quite cut the mustard. Instead, we now get a wide variety of truck-borne hamburger, chicken and pizza-like items that sit under eternal hot lamps, wilting to sordid perfection.
We used to have diners. Then they went away.
― adam beales (pye poudre), Wednesday, 3 January 2007 19:52 (seventeen years ago) link
Jesus Christ, I live in America, and there is no food sold in service stations, here.You crazy as hell and must not have grown up in the south. There are gas stations down here that are among the best meat-and-three diners anywhere, and about ten blocks from me thataway is the old Oak Park Amoco, now a Chevron, where you can get really good fried chicken and jojo potatoes. (But get it between 10:30 and 1 when it's fresh.)
my parents stopped at a little chef once, and in one of the few mindmelds between them and me when i was growing up, we immediateky walked back out again. (my sister wanted to stay though!)
― lexpretend (lexpretend), Wednesday, 3 January 2007 20:03 (seventeen years ago) link
another memory: me and my mates goonar and cookie driving to york to look at the university (that's what we told our head of sixth form)/fuck about for a day. cookie was one of the first in the year to pass his driving test, having taken one of those one-week intensive courses; he was driving his sister's re-registered 1978 fiesta. this would have been, what, 1992: the only tape in the car was "nevermind". you can get very sick of "nevermind". i think that was when me and nirvana parted ways.
anyway, we chug from blackpool to york, look at the university for three seconds, fuck about, buy cigs, have a sneaky pint, then head back. on the way home we stop at a little chef somewhere; can't remember where.
i have a toasted teacake and a cup of tea. goonar has a pancake and some coffee. cookie orders fish, chips, peas, bread and tea, followed by some kind of fudge dessert with fake cream.
back in the car, goonar asks: "so, you off out tonight, cookie? that why you're having an early tea?"
"naah," he burps. "i'm off home for me dinner."
happy days.
― grimly fiendish (simon), Wednesday, 3 January 2007 20:14 (seventeen years ago) link