Growing up, whenever my family took the traditional car-piled road trips, we very rarely, if ever, stopped. My father was absolutely determined to get wherever we were going within a recklessly short timeframe, stopping only for gas and only then not until every last fume had been exhausted. There were no drinks, no snacks, and no bathroom breaks.
But, worst of all, there was definitely no roadside attractions. No giant gophers, no fruit stands, no greasy spoon diners. I still remember, standing over his grave, fist balled, vowing that when I grew up, whenever I would take a road trip, I would always take my time and dutifully stop at whatever attraction even vaguely piqued my interest, starting with that six-legged cow in Kansas a few weeks later.
Yes, it was disappointing, but goshdarnit, it was worth it.
Twenty years later, I’m still an absolute sucker for hand-painted billboards that tease everything from abortion stopping beating hearts to discount western wear outlets, vague historical points of interest and, most of all, off-the-exit-ramp eateries that make outrageous claims as to how whatever dish they serve, no matter how mundane, it will conclusively be the greatest one you’ll ever stuff in your face-hole.