Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Monthly Archives: June 2011

I’ve Decided To Sell My Nokia 5110

Treasure, swag, booty, plunder, spoils, call it whatever you like, but today its name is my old Nokia 5110 cell phone.  A blast into my past (and one of my hording piles) this morning had me furiously sifting for laundry money and my ongoing search for whatever smells like blood in my apartment led me to discover the ancient artifact that I once called (pun!) my cell phone.

Nokia 5110

This ancient artifact could be yours!

A few calls to museums yielded that they were not interested in purchasing this piece of American history and, at best, were only willing to part with a few of Jasper John’s lesser works in exchange for my antique phone.  I now open the bidding to the public.  As I can only expect the person who cares the most about history will also have the most money willing to spend on this.

A few key features of this cellular device:

  • I have no idea how cell phones work, so I have to assume that this phone runs on magic.  If you like magic this should be a big selling point for you.
  • The “goes-with-anything” black that the phone’s exterior is made has quite the storied past.   If I can find the owner’s manual, I think I remember Nokia stating that the exterior casing was fashioned from ninja cloaks from seven generations of the Tang dynasty, and thus swallowing the phone is considered an honorable way to commit Seppuku.
  • The buttons are made from softened teeth of famous whales that were ex-SeaWorld performers (or possibly a material of a similar density).
  • If you don’t really like playing games on phones, then you’ll love that this phone only comes with three games.  No fancy, extra add-ons here!
  • Adjustable volume levels.  Your risk for “First-Degree Sound Surprise” should be minimized greatly.
  • Without a GPS this phone will force you to learn how to read maps.  You’ll be quite the little Magellan, you!
  • With a built in alarm feature you can finally make that energy sucking alarm clock a thing of the past.  Reducing your carbon footprint just became a whole lot easier and sexier.
  • No need to spend money on apps ever again! And forget about costly subscriptions to app stores or app newsletters.  This phone literally comes with everything possible for it right out of the box!
  • With this phone you’ll never have to sift through more than eight dialed, five received, and five missed calls because that’s all the memory holds!  Talk about simplifying your life.
  • Aren’t you tired of your friends bitching that the cameras on their cell phones aren’t high enough resolution?  Now you can thumb your nose at them and show how petty they are for caring about something so trivial as you show them your camera-less phone.
  • A real, handheld device that is capable of making AND receiving calls.
  • I would venture as far to say that this phone is near indestructible, a fact proven to me during the 5110’s chance encounter with one very large puddle on one very drunk Columbus Day morning.
  • *BONUS* The phone also comes with a charger that with that patented “Can’t Misplace Technology” since said charger appears to be stuck into the base of the phone with something very, very sticky, that I, frankly, don’t want to touch.  This is also a UNIVERSAL charger, in that; it is compatible with any normal outlet in North America.

Count ‘em, thirteen selling points.  That’s nearly sixteen selling points!  If this item has piqued antique-bug inside you who wishes to be trendy as well as practica, then act now.   The quantity is limited to this one that I found!  Have a slice of Americana that my uncle (who is a real wiz at appraising, I might add) claims could be worth a few hundred dollars.  Don’t like dollars, you say? Have it converted to gold!  Presto, this phone could be your ticket to being covered in gold in the most elegant of golden showers imaginable.

Please send an application fee of twenty dollars, a copy of your driver’s license, your social security number, and an essay that describes all of your repressed fears to:

Justin Gawel, 12 Ol’ Huckleberry Hill Road, Detroit, MI 48201

I’ll select from the most qualified applicants one lucky winner that will get to purchase my Nokia 5110 for the bargain price of three hundred dollars.

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My Love Letter to Al Roker

Dear Albert Roker,

Let me begin by stating that you are a national treasure and I want to cherish you. You dance through my thoughts day and night, consistently revving the engine of my psyche.  That pair of slutty secretary glasses you wear makes me think of you and me during a late night at the office where work and inhibitions take a backseat to passion.  That non-regional dialect of yours casts mystery and intrigue on your past; making me think that your history needs protecting, and that drives the part of me that loves bad boys absolutely wild.  I think of you as my big chocolate panther, and I want you to stalk me, chase me, and eventually, pounce on me.

Lady Gaga may have a poker face, but only Justin Gawel has an “Al Roker Face”.  To be frank, it is basically a mixture of wonder and ecstasy.  This expression sneaks its way across my face any time I watch you on the Today Show, read any bit of your magnetic novel, or anytime I hear the phrase, “That’s what’s going around the country.”  Once, when watching Good Burger, the “Al Roker Face” made a brief cameo, but then I realized I was watching that fat fuck Keenan Thompson on screen.  A Roker Face denied; I spent the rest of my day broken-hearted, fearing that you somehow knew I confused you with a portly All-That alum.

The word fan does not do justice to my obsession with you, Albert.  My entire studio apartment is dedicated to your life.  Every picture of you that’s has ever been in print is posted there.  My Roker costume is there (past four Halloweens and counting!) and a jar for my sweets, dubbed with a signature catch phrase of yours (Man Candy!).  I even have a homemade cardboard cutout of you that I position over my bed.  Now, whenever night terrors of cobras and Nazis wake me up in the middle of the night, I can shoot one glance to your smiling face and immediately I feel the security that comes with being protected by the watchful eye of Roker.  I’ve even positioned my bed and the cutout so that every year on your birthday the sun shines through the window and hits the cutout right in the eye, making it twinkle just as my alarm clock goes off.  However, last year it was overcast during the morning of August 20th and it did not work. That day I ended up spending over nine hours on the phone with the suicide hotline.

Picture this: it’s the Macy’s Parade on Thanksgiving.  A simpleton from the Midwest, me, is making his maiden voyage to the Big Apple.  Overwhelmed by the amount of people, I seek refuge with my favorite TV personality, as I literally could not name anyone else living in New York City.  A more than accommodating Roker brings me in and is more than delighted to spend his Thanksgiving dinner with this chuckle-head from Michigan.  A complementary all-you-can-listen buffet from Roker would have me swooning with delight; the Roke’s cleverly crafted witticism would have my heart all a flutter.  Then, before I can say, “more mashed potatoes, please” the big bear has got his paw in my honey pot and I don’t know where my body stops and his begins anymore.  Daybreaks, he leans over to me and delicately massages my shoulder.  My fingers are trembling now, as I can’t wait another second for his advances.  Then, right before he plunders my goodies, he whispers softly into my ear, “Let’s see what’s happening in your neck of the woods.”  Happy Fantasy Thanksgiving, Justin.

I hope I’m not being too forward, Al.  Can I call you Al now?  I feel like we’ve become so much closer even after just writing this letter.

Thinking Of You,

Justin P. Gawel

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