GhettoGas, I love you. You never cease to amaze me. Any time of day or night, I can darken your doorway and know I’m in for a treat. Why, just this morning I swung by your dilapidated, sagging structure to find not one, not two, but three gentlemen all sipping from paper bags blocking the front entrance to your “store.”
And once inside, after subjecting myself to blatant staring and uncomfortable giggling by said brown baggers, I was delighted to find yet another toothless gentleman ordering chimichangas. Imported by hatchback and warmed by heatlamp, these chimichangas had the undeniable scent of the men’s room at Great America, shocking my senses awake and preparing me for the day ahead.
Convenience is key at GhettoGas. I knew that when I returned to my car to find a hobo washing my windshield for me, slapping water all over the place and shoving his weathered outstretched hand in my face. If only I hadn’t spent my last dollar on a vintage Diet Snapple from your dusty shelves. Maybe then, he would have maintained his composure.
But it’s all part of the experience at GhettoGas. And I wouldn’t change it for the world…