I found a site at worstgig.com where bands lament fondly of their worst gig experiences. The following is not the worst gig but was part of a funny week long experience in rural eastern Ontario.
In 1976 around early October, we scored a gig in a town called Carlsbad Springs, Ontario and found ourselves in the middle of nowhere playing a place called Pat and Gord's Hotel; owned by, non other than Pat and Gord.
What we found out about the town of, NO POPULATION, was that the guy named Carl who found the town 100 years before, dug a well, the water was bad and the town was called Carlsbad Springs. Salt water coming out of the taps. Six Hundred Miles inland; salt water... yum.
So, we played for Pat and Gord and almost no one else for the week until, one night, we were sitting at the bar during a break watching television with either Pat or Gord (in my minds eye I can't tell them apart or remember) watching the news and a flash came on about a prison break and the face on the screen was one ugly, mean looking bastard. The bartender said "Holy Shit!" and said, "that facility is just down the road! I know that guy and he'd just as soon cut your throat as say good morning".
I am not paraphrasing, that's what he said. Then, he proceeded to pack up some stuff and left saying, "help yourself to the bar, don't open the door for anyone".
We all went upstairs, after helping ourselves to the bar per the owners instructions and brought with us mic stands to help thwart any visit from crazy-assed jailbreak murderer.