The Quest for the Holy Grail…Or…My Eternal Search for the Perfect Gas Station Pop

As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld

ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD

I am on a quest.

A sacred quest.

A quest that has consumed years of my life and countless miles of highway.

I seek the Holy Grail.

Not the cup of Christ.

Not some dusty chalice from the Last Supper.

No.

I seek something far more elusive.

Far more precious.

The perfect gas station fountain diet soda.

THE IMPORTANCE OF DIET

Let me be clear about something.

This must be diet.

Must.

Regular soda pop—with its full complement of sugar—sends me into a blind rage.

Not metaphorically.

Not "oh, I get a little cranky."

No.

I mean a primal, unstoppable fury.

A berserker state.

Once, I accidentally drank regular Mountain Dew.

I woke up three hours later in a Target parking lot.

Holding a decorative gourd.

No memory of how I got there.

No explanation for the gourd.

Just... rage residue, confusion, and a series of bruises of unclear origin.

So yes.

Diet.

This is non-negotiable.

THE PARAMETERS

The perfect fountain soda is not simply about the beverage itself.

It's about the entire experience.

The alchemy.

The variables.

The evervescence

Let me explain.

The Carbonation

Must be aggressive.

Not timid.

Not "gently sparkling."

I want it to fight me.

I want that first sip to feel like a tiny, delicious explosion.

Too flat? Unacceptable.

That's just sad syrup water.

The Ice

Crushed. Always crushed.

Cubed ice is for cowards and people who don't understand surface area.

Crushed ice integrates with the beverage.

Becomes part of the experience.

Cubed ice just... floats there.

Judging you.

Taking up space that should be occupied by more soda.

The Syrup-to-Carbonation Ratio

This is critical.

Critical.

Too much syrup? Cloying. Overwhelming. A liquid assault.

Too little? You're basically drinking TV static with a vague memory of flavor.

The ratio must be perfect.

And here's the thing:

No two gas stations have the same ratio.

Because no one—and I mean no one—is properly maintaining these machines.

The Cup

Must be large.

Not medium.

Not "I'm trying to be responsible about my beverage choices."

Large.

Because if I'm going on this quest—

if I'm going to drive to seventeen different gas stations in one afternoon—

I'm not doing it for moderation.

The Straw

Paper straws are an affront to God and nature.

They disintegrate.

They taste like regret.

If you hand me a paper straw, I will simply drink from the rim like a medieval peasant.

Plastic is controversial, I know.

But for fountain soda?

Necessary.

THE STATIONS

Over the years, I have developed a comprehensive taxonomy of gas station fountain soda quality.

A ranking system.

A hierarchy.

Tier 1: The Legends

These are rare.

Mythical, almost.

The stations where everything aligns.

Perfect carbonation.

Proper syrup ratio.

Ice that's actually cold.

Machines that were serviced sometime in the last month.

I've found maybe three in my entire life.

One was a Speedway outside of Columbus.

One was a QuikTrip in Kansas City.

And one—this haunts me—was a nameless truck stop somewhere in Indiana that I can no longer find.

I've tried.

God, I've tried.

I've driven that route six times.

It's gone.

Like Brigadoon.

Appearing only when the conditions are right.

Or possibly demolished for a Panera.

Tier 2: The Reliables

Solid.

Consistent.

Nothing fancy, but they deliver.

7-Eleven usually falls here.

Wawa, if you're on the East Coast.

These stations understand the fundamentals.

They might not achieve transcendence—

but they won't betray you.

Tier 3: The Variables

These are the wild cards.

Could be great.

Could be terrible.

Entirely dependent on:

• Time of day

• Who last serviced the machine

• Cosmic alignment

• Whether Mercury is in retrograde

Shell stations live here.

BP stations.

Circle K on a good day.

You're gambling.

Tier 4: The Disappointments

They have a fountain machine.

Technically.

But it's been broken since 2014.

The carbonation is a distant memory.

The ice dispenser makes a sound like dying machinery.

Half the buttons don't work.

And there's always—always—one flavor that's just... out.

Not marked "out."

Just... producing clear liquid.

Mystery fluid.

You press "Diet Coke" and get what I can only describe as "the concept of soda."

Most independent gas stations fall here.

Through no fault of their own.

Just... entropy.

Tier 5: The Abandoned

The machine is there.

But it's not plugged in.

Or it's been converted into storage for squeegees and windshield fluid.

Or there's a handwritten sign that says "Out of Order Since March."

It's March of the following year.

These stations have given up.

And honestly?

I respect that.

At least they're honest.

THE JOURNEY

My quest has taken me far.

Farther than any reasonable person should go for a beverage.

I've driven forty minutes out of my way because someone told me about a Marathon station with "really good carbonation."

They were right.

It was good.

For three weeks.

Then something changed.

The ratio shifted.

The magic died.

I've stood in gas stations at 2 AM—

the only customer—

sampling multiple flavors like a sommelier.

Diet Coke.

Diet Pepsi.

Diet Mountain Dew.

Coke Zero.

That weird Diet Dr. Pepper knockoff called "Dr. Thunder" or "Dr. Bob" or "Medical Professional."

Each one a possibility.

Each one a potential Grail.

I've engaged in lengthy conversations with gas station clerks about their fountain maintenance schedules.

Most look at me like I'm insane.

One—bless him—actually checked the service log.

Told me they'd just been cleaned that morning.

I bought three sodas.

All large.

Felt like a king.

THE VARIABLES I CANNOT CONTROL

Here's what drives me mad:

The perfect fountain soda is temporary.

Even when you find it—

even when all the stars align—

it won't last.

Because:

• The syrup will run low

• The CO2 will need replacing

• The machine will drift out of calibration

• Someone will change the filter

• Corporate will switch suppliers

• The universe will shift

I've returned to stations that once poured perfection—

only to find they've fallen to Tier 3.

Or worse.

It's heartbreaking.

Like visiting an old friend who's changed.

Who's lost something essential.

And you can't quite put your finger on what.

But you know.

THE SUGAR INCIDENT

I must tell you about the time I was betrayed.

By my own hubris.

By my own carelessness.

I was at a Shell station.

Tier 3, but I was feeling lucky.

I filled my cup.

Took a long, satisfying pull from the straw.

And immediately—

immediately—

I knew.

This was not diet.

This was regular.

Full sugar.

The forbidden nectar.

But it was too late.

The sugar hit my system like a starter pistol.

And I—

I transformed.

Not literally.

But close enough.

Everything became sharp.

Loud.

Unacceptable.

A man asked if I was in line at the checkout.

I said—and I quote—

"The CONCEPT of lines is a SOCIAL CONSTRUCT designed to CONTROL us!"

He moved away quickly.

The clerk asked if I was okay.

I bought seventeen scratch-off tickets.

I don't even play the lottery.

I drove to three different Walmarts.

Bought nothing.

Just... walked the aisles.

Seething.

When I finally came down—

hours later—

I was in my car.

In a Sonic parking lot.

Holding a bag of mozzarella sticks I didn't remember ordering.

And I made a vow:

Never again.

From that day forward, I would always test.

One small sip.

Just to verify.

Before committing to the full beverage.

Because sugar—regular, uncut, full-strength sugar—

cannot be trusted.

THE PHILOSOPHY

You might ask: "Orson, why does this matter so much?"

"It's just a drink."

"Just carbonated water and artificial sweetener."

And you'd be right.

Technically.

But you'd also be missing the point.

The quest isn't about the soda.

It's about the pursuit.

It's about having something to search for.

Something that keeps you driving.

Keeps you exploring.

Keeps you walking into gas stations you've never seen before—

in towns you don't know—

hoping that maybe—

maybe—

this one will be different.

This one will be the one.

It's about the journey.

The documentation.

The small moments of perfection.

And yes—

it's about the soda.

Because when you finally find it—

when you take that first sip and everything is right—

the carbonation perfect—

the ratio divine—

the ice crushed just so—

It's transcendent.

For three glorious minutes, the world makes sense.

And then you finish.

And you're left with:

A cup of ice.

A wet straw.

And the knowledge that you have to find it again.

THE GRAIL

I haven't found it yet.

The perfect fountain soda.

The Grail.

Oh, I've found good ones.

Great ones, even.

But perfect?

That remains elusive.

Maybe it doesn't exist.

Maybe it's the searching that matters.

Maybe the Grail isn't meant to be found—

only pursued.

But I'll keep looking.

Because what else am I going to do?

Drive past gas stations without stopping?

Never.

I am Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld.

And this is my quest.

My burden.

My calling.

So if you see me—

standing at a fountain machine at 11 PM—

sampling every diet option—

taking notes—

Don't interrupt.

Don't judge.

Just know:

I'm doing important work.

Holy work.

And someday—

maybe not today—

maybe not tomorrow—

but someday—

I will find it.

The perfect gas station fountain diet soda.

And when I do?

I'll have exactly three minutes to enjoy it.

Before I have to start all over again.

End Transmission.

(Orson exits, carrying a large fountain soda, crushed ice visible through the translucent cup. He takes a sip. Pauses. Considers. Nods approvingly. Then drives to the next gas station. The quest continues.)