There are some so egregious, so foul, so base they drive maddened travelers to post their bumper stickers, despite anything reason or rationality would dictate. "Where the heck is WALL DRUG?" screams from every other fender in America. If you've been there, you know. It lies two blocks south of the seventh circle of Hell, near the Corn Palace and the Oregon Vortex. (I refuse to link to these monstrosities, for good reason: they are monstrous.)
Nearly worth a nomination to the list is The Bridge That Shall Not Be Named, just north of Vancouver, British Columbia. Its charlatan purveyors have mastered the time-honored technique for luring in over 800,000 people per year, and it's brilliance, sheer brilliance. They make you pay for parking first. "Only three dollars--Canadian dollars," you think, and the bait is set. Hooked by the grand entrance, you stumble up closer to the price list. $21.95 per adult. Line. Sinker. Sucker.
It's worth half that. The bridge spans a nifty gorge (although on a cloudy day, it's only so nifty). It sways and gallops. Every lurch has you clutching the cable, until you get the hang of the thing and can march across with drunken confidence. (Do not take that literally; drinking and suspension bridges mix poorly.)
The walk through the treetops is somewhat redemptive. The displays are banal; the tour guides sugar-free. Graffiti covers every available inch--make that centimeter--of wood railing.
But the main attraction is the crowd, the jostling mix of foreigners, Americans figuring prominently in that number. If you listen carefully, you can hear "We were duped" in dozens of languages.