Gas Station It Is

I have this friend. I won't tell you his name because I am honestly going to describe something he should be ashamed of. He won't because that is the kind of guy he is. But he should be.
He lives about two hours from me. So before I get on the road to his house I had coffee and a huge diet coke. About ten minutes from his house I have to potty. Naturally. Well, Paige is with me and she has been to his house. She informs me that it might be in my best interest to use a gas station bathroom. Seriously??!! Yuck! The town we are in is certainly not known for their cleanliness.
I can't find suitable gas station.
"Are you sure it is that bad?" I ask her innocently. I mean, he is a boy, so it probably isn't clean, but I've done worse.
So we arrive and he points me in direction of bathroom.
The floor is dirty, potty not so bad.
I have decided I will attempt usage.
It has a smell I can't really place.
I sit on toilet.
It moves.
A lot.
I thought I had broken the damn thing.
It almost threw me off.
I had to brace myself by holding my hands against the wall in front of me.
Which isn't clean either by the way.
Then, when I have managed to wipe and stay on toilet without dripping on myself, I go to flush. But it won't.
I have to reach my hand in the tank part and pull up on the chain.
Didn't I feel classy.
After I rinsed my hands I noticed there was nothing to wipe them off on, except for the crusted towels lying about.
I passed. My jeans worked well enough.