Newport Exxon Carwash

Hi there road warrior!
So I see that you are also one of those unfortunate souls who forgot to take a leak before hitting the pavement, and now you are desperately fidgeting in the seat of your car while driving in the middle of butt***f nowhere Delaware. Your bladder is about to pull a Hindenburg on you, and you are perhaps entertaining the unsanitary and unsavory thought of pulling and relieving yourself in the green pastures alongside the road, when you luckily find this review on your crackberry or iphone. Yes, there’s indeed, an Exxon Gas Station/​Carwash at your nearest exit. But I may I beg you to reconsider? The grass is perhaps a better option.
Sure, you, like me and my friends on that fateful day, also thought that gas stations on a road trip can be little havens of bodily relief and knee-​jerk consumption. Your tank needs a few more gallons, you may want to indulge in rarely sought junk food or sugar fixes, and heck, maybe you even want to try your hand at quick pick. All that –and wash your filthy car while you are at it– you may do. But the bathroom my friend, thats where the line is drawn between everything thats holy and vicious on this wobbling earth.
«All ye who are about to enter, abandon all hope»
From the moment you are handed the hell key attached to the most disgusting FULL-​SIZED BLEACH BOTTLE in order that you can go to the bathroom, you realize the error of your ways; the bottle has the distinct privilege of never having been washed since its factory conception in 1983. Hence, theres a distinct grayish texture on its surface that reminds you of starch, or the surface of a sinuous undiscovered sulphuric planet. The grime, grease and sweat of a whole generation of truckers have left their timeless mark and odor in what once was an object to cleanse and bring whiteness. A last irony of fate, and a paradox between your disgust and your bodily functions seeking release.
Enter the little door to toilet hell, and your pituitary will know the limits of its own resistance; your skin grazes the bleach bottle unwillingly while you attempt to stonewall your nostrils from further damage. The wet floor and the infinite darkness swell your soul with pangs of despair and dreams of hotel bathrooms with their fresh linens and potpourris. Exxon’s macabre janitor’s laughter reigns supreme in that little roadside station in Wilmington. You are lost.
You finish your duties with nature, but something has died with you in there; a memory cozily registers itself in your brain cortex, and you are unable to repress its foul presence even as you slam the doors back into the air and the light. You breath.
Yes, that was my story, and its all true. If you don’t believe me, my dear road warrior, I beg you to scroll down to the only other review for this place, and click on the local picture she posted so many moons ago.
In there, recorded for the annals of pain, lies the expression of my face and the reminder that all of this was not a figment or tirade, but the honest-​to-​god truth.

So, on our way back from our little road trip to DC, we kinda missed our New Jersey Turnpike exit… twice.
On round two, during our SECOND detour through Middle-of-Buttf**k-Nowhere Delaware, the little darlings in the backseat woke up from their precious naps and got all antsy, stating that WE NEED TO FIND A BATHROOM NOW. Yes, ALL CAPS.
And so we stopped off at Exxon in Newport, Delaware.
Annnnnnnnnnd let me just say this: Any establishment that attaches a FULL-​SIZED BLEACH BOTTLE to its restroom key (…because it’s such a highly coveted hot-​ticket item, duh) is worth at least an extra pair of stars for the pure comedic factor. (See, e.g., the look on Little Darling #2’s face in «Local Photos.») Seriously, the Hermes Birkin might have a little dangly lock and key, but they ain’t got NOTHING on Exxon’s bleach bottle. Oh, excuse me, I meant to clarify — of course that’s not a plastic bleach bottle. If you look closely, emblazoned on the side of the bottle is the line «I am Not a Plastic Bleach Bottle.»
Yeah, sometimes you need a little more than just satellite radio for road trip entertainment.
P. S.: Oh, and a little birdie told me they sell gas here, too? Who knew?