I have oft thought that the measure of a good bar was how late in the day they served brunch. It’s a good way to tell how hard their patrons party on a given night. If folks are sitting bleary eyed in front of an omelet and a mimosa at four pm the next day (which I may or may not have done twice this weekend) trying to push past the hangover wall, then that bar is good. I recently found another factor by which an establishment can be measured.

Their hand dryers.

Until I met the Xlerator, I was just another hater of hand dryers, searching for something made of paper that would actually remove the moisture from my hands. Push the greasy silver button and a warmish flow of air would cascade gently over your soaking hands for twelve seconds. A mere seventeen more pushes of the button and your hands seem even wetter than they were when you started. I actually stopped going to places that didn’t at least offer paper towels as an option for my hand drying needs. For the longest time I blamed the hippies…

I remember thinking (as I do when I see anything that requires power and makes noise) that if properly wired and accessorized, a hand dryer could be functional in actually drying hands and no longer just a big stupid joke hanging on the wall.

The folks at Excel Dryer thought the same thing, so they invented a hand dryer that sounds like an aircraft carrier flight deck and could blow the extra chromosome right out of Britney Spears.

Behold, a crappy picture of the Xlerator model XL-B. In case anyone is wondering, the camera on a Treo 600 sucks, but it’s all I had.

This thing can dry some goddamn hands, people. It is so good that it should have the word “fuck” in its name, flames painted down the sides, and straight pipes. The Xlerfuckinator, bitches. *insert electric guitar riff*

Artist’s Conception

I checked the specs and am not ashamed to say that I got a little aroused. Moisture destroying air screaming forth from a 5/8 horsepower series commutated through flow discharge vacuum motor/blower at a muzzle velocity of 16,000 feet per minute, also known as 181 miles per hour. That’s scientific talk for “Military Surplus Jet Engine”. Not just air, either. Hot air. 135 degrees Fahrenheit, courtesy of a 900 Watt Nichrome heating element.

I saw it when I walked into the bathroom and (ignorant of its power) instantly based my hand-washing decision on the prospect of towels being nearby. As I was standing at the urinal I heard the symphonic wail of true hand drying power. If I hadn’t already been peeing, it would have made me pee. I was so eager to try it out I almost stopped the flow early, but I knew it would sting so I didn’t.

When it was finally my turn, I noticed that there was no greasy, disease-ridden silver button to push. It just knows its job and the turbines spin up as soon as your hands are close enough. Swear to god, ten seconds later my hands were bone dry. So naturally I got them wet again. Sure, my girlfriend was waiting at the bar, probably getting hit on by richer, better looking guys, but I was doing important research. Luckily I had my camera with me. Any time I come back from the bathroom with a huge grin on my face and my hair all messed up, it’s probably not at all what you think.

If you look closely, you can see that my eyelids were turned inside out.

By the way, when someone walks in the bathroom and sees you doing this, there is no way to recover, so just keep on doing it and scream “SWEET BABY JESUS YOU GOTTA’ TRY THIS! IT’S LIKE BEING HIT BY THE AWESOME BUS!”

You’ll understand when you Xperience it for yourself.

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