Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Monthly Archives: September 2011

Fat America

1 Comment Posted by on September 26, 2011

These colors don’t run.

 

Because America’s obese population can’t physically run.

 

I love America. Don’t get me wrong; if I had to live in any other country I would not be as happy.  For instance, if I lived in Thailand I couldn’t call my leader a fart-faced thunder-cunt without spending time in prison.  If I lived in Italy I’d have to get used to riding mopeds everywhere and losing every military conflict.  Even if I lived in Canada I’m pretty sure I would forfeit half of my brain cells the second I traded my American citizenship for a Canadian one. For you see, Canada is America’s slow little brother.  And by slow I of course mean retarded.  Although, if this were a race Canada would have skated across the finish line while slow America was still licking Cheeto residue off their fingers.

 

We lead the world in military advancements, quality of life, and the highest percentage of citizens being mistaken for beached whales.  Why, in a modern-day Moby Dick, Captain Ahab could just take a bus ride to Wisconsin and have his choice of white whales!   God bless America, a deep-fried chicken in every pot and a Rascal Scooter in every home.

 

We have created an entire network on basic cable devoted to food twenty-four delicious hours a day. Needless to say, I love it because I’m American and not a terrorist.  I like to use it like foreplay and pop on the Food Network about thirty minutes before I eat dinner.   After watching that Bobby Flay sear and simmer some tasty delights and his competition on Iron Chef I get very hungry, and by the time dinner is on the table I’m sporting a throbbing, rock-hard appetite.

 

Food Network baffles me at times.  Nearly everything on their shows is delicious, so why are the critics so tough on the contestants?  I don’t think most of the viewers would care that the presentation of steak and potatoes is “a little sloppy” according to the critics’ analysis.  The audience doesn’t care; they’d still gladly cram that piece of meat in their food hole if given the chance.

 

As the fattest country America has by far the best Food Network.  The Ethiopian Food Network for instance is just a streaming webcam of a guy boiling iodine tablets into water.   It successfully quenches my appetite for depression and fills my sadness quota thoroughly.  Their countries strong suit in television would undoubtedly be Ethiopia’s Next Top Model, as they were able to recruit way skinnier girls than the ones that were on America’s Next Top Model.

 

I’m fine with us being the most obese country.  Didn’t you know it’s way better than being the most malnourished country?  At the buffets in malnourished countries all they serve is dirt, famine, and genocide.  Granted, it’s all you can eat of those and there is no charge, but hey, I’m glad I live in America where I can still shell out nine dollars for all-you-can-eat chicken wings and gorge myself until I fall asleep.  You’ve go to love those sweet, succulent, patriotic chicken wings.  And crown thy good with brotherhood, from fatty to fatty!

 

It’s the freedom to be as festively plump as we want.  That’s what America means to me.  You want extra butter on that deep-fried lard cake?  Go ahead, this is America after all.   You just want to eat a tube of frosting and a plate of fried chicken skin for lunch?  Go for it.  If I start telling you how to eat or live your life I’m no better than Hitler.   I love this country, as I am happy, even proud to be the fat loudmouth of the world.

 

For America is the original big fat party animal.

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Fitness, Grotesque, Rave

You Can Never Show Weakness

Leave a Comment Posted by on September 19, 2011

I don’t get it.  Some people call it therapy. I call it exposing your weaknesses to a complete stranger.   I don’t know their angle; this could easily be a set up.  It was almost too easy for me to overlook the non-legally binding confidentially agreement therapists enter into.  So while in complete concordance with the law my therapist could blackmail me, manipulate me, or exploit my deepest fears until he exploits my weakness into me giving him a handjob to prove I’m not gay.  Umm, thanks, but no thanks, I’ll just repress my problems down like an adult and not give out any handjobs today.

 

When I hear a friend say something like, “Stop making fun of my eyebrows,” or “I really find jokes about eating disorders offensive.” I think to myself, “You shouldn’t have shown me how much that upsets you.”  Now, the next time I’m feeling saucy and looking for some excitement, I’ll just throw an offhand comment towards this person about how they shouldn’t be so quick to use the plural of eyebrows, since there is clearly just one giant unibrow on their face.  I’ll say this even if this individual clearly has two perfectly groomed eyebrows.  Then I would go on to inquire if they have heard of this new diet fad I heard of called “anorexia”, because I think it could really help with that spare tire they’re getting, even if they are rail skinny.  Then I just sit back and enjoy the fireworks.  Sometimes you’ve just gotta make your own fun, you know?

 

The flip side of this is that when someone gives you some attitude or guff about whatever they think you’re sensitive about you’ve gotta just sit there and take it.  I get through it by thinking about how infuriating it must be to them that they are not getting the reaction they so sorely desire out of me while they are putting so much effort into their rant of insults.  Just hang in there and take it.  Sooner or later they will either get tired or die and you can claim victory over your opposition.    If it helps, while this badgerer is badgering you, you can calmly let them know how ridiculous they look complaining that you ate the last bit of peanut butter or framed them as a human trafficking kingpin as a joke.  Let them know that they’re being a little fun-burglar about the situation.  You need to be careful that your comments are genuinely trying to point out how ridiculous your insulter looks and are not construed as an attempt to get them to stop making fun of you.  After all, you don’t want to expose anything that you might be sensitive about.

 

*It is shocking to me how some celebrities do not embrace this tactic when dealing with their feuds.  If 50 Cent says something about Kanye West, Kanye should not give a response, as by giving a response just has him stooping to the level of someone who likely could not pass a high school equivalency test.  If Kanye replies, he plays right into 50’s hands, but if he stays silent he shows that he is above the criticism or 50’s taunts that he is a “fake-ass-punk-ass”**.  In the mature public’s eye (not to be confused with fans of Kanye or 50 Cent) Kanye will have won by showing how little the remarks have affected him.

 

Emotions will always be our downfall, that’s why so many jobs are being replaced with robots.  Cool, fearless, someday will take over the world, fucking robots.  Most humans are just too sensitive and tie emotion into decisions that should be made practically.  Just remember, it’s the person with too big a heart that ends up adopting half the puppies at the Humane Society and ends up with a house full of shit a week later.

 

*The names 50 Cent and Kanye West are interchangeable in this paragraph.

 

**Or something equally stupid

Advice, Rave

The Fancy Boy’s Guide to Fisticuffs and Roughhousing

Leave a Comment Posted by on September 12, 2011

Fancy boys: fancy in nature and a perfect gentleman to all.  That is a perfect gentleman until one of the local neighborhood toughs has one too many mint juleps and bumps into you at the speakeasy and effectively spills your Tom Collins all over your suspenders and boutonniere.  Times like this call for the stuffy to take a back seat to the gruffy as you shoot back at your assailant, “Hey, you little ruffian, you.  If you want to get rowdy and throw some jib-jabs around I’d be more than obliged to engage in a scraping-festival of sorts.”

 

Put up your dukes and square off with the lad.  Spit in his general area.  Question his sexuality and claim that he is in fact a homosexual.  Bring the general hygiene of his mother as well as the promiscuity of his sister into question.  If all else fails, explain that his father huffs other men’s butt fumes for sport.  Further ridicule the hapless chap by proclaiming that he smells as if his dingleberry crop is ripe for harvest.  This is sure to get a chortle out of the masses surrounding you two.  Surely, your taunts will enrage him to the point of swinging at you; giving you a chance to artfully dodge this blows, you artful dodger, you.

 

Now’s the time to shoot him a look in his face that says, “Hey, you hooligan, let’s get down to some good ol’ tussling right now.”

 

Let the oaf bulrush you, stand ground, and then trip him.  A dirty trick for a fancy boy, but effective nevertheless.  Pounce on the brute now.  Rain down on him with your fists of fury.  A frenzy of destruction that’s sure to leave him with a few how-do-you-do’s, some rag-tumblers, and maybe a cauliflower ear to boot.

 

Be sure to prance around while he’s down.  Let the crowd know that you’re still a fancy boy despite your physical prowess.  As the fool rises, be sure to promenade whimsically to properly insult his injury. Ask the drunkard if he’d like another swig of fancy boy punch and when he replies he doesn’t (since he’s likely to see this joke coming) punch him anyways and sashay away.

 

Expectedly at this point he’s down for the count.  But if you’re up against a hefty, burly gentleman of sorts a few more socks to the mouth hole might be necessary to really get your business across.  Be sure he’s taking a boxer’s nap before you retreat.  Clobber him with the strength of one thousand gorillas if you must!  In a last ditch effort; be inclined to use surrounding items.  Nothing says “This fancy boy knows how to roughhouse” quite like a chair to the ol’ coconut!

 

Once victory is assured, play up to the crowd.  All crowds love to watch fancy boys win.  Swing your fists around proclaiming,  “Ahh, you not so tough, I ripped ya ta shreds like an old sandwich, yah hear?”  Ideally, this will further the myth of fancy boy’s fists and arms being machines designed to thrash sandwiches and/or human flesh.

 

Yet another victim now knows that if you tussle with a fancy boy prepare to be bested.

Absurd, Advice

Moo Moo Farm

Leave a Comment Posted by on September 6, 2011

It may only be the second race of the Mushroom Cup Series, but Moo Moo Farm will always have a place in the things I cherish.  It’s right above the sound of fat people arguing at Denny’s and right below my dead aunt and Pizzalicious Pringles (it’s a toss up with those two!).  Moo Moo Farm is a deceptively innocent name for a treacherous virtual raceway that merges gophers, cows, and backstabbing, in a high-octane excitement.  For those unfamiliar with this course allow be to walk you through a typical race at Moo Moo Farm.  It’ll be tough, as if any race on in this danger zone could ever be considered “typical”.

 

The race is set. I’m starting the race in first after easily taming Luigi Raceway: a joke of a fucking course.   Almost always I choose to race as Peach and inevitably I take unwelcome guff from my opponents.  I’ll just say it; out of all the computer-generated characters in this game Peach is the most attractive to me.  Sexually, that is.  Plus, when I win with Peach I like to think I’m providing a role model for all those young girls out there who want to grow up to be NASCAR drivers, since, clearly that bitch Danica Patrick isn’t going to win anything ever (way to pick a hero, women).

 

The countdown is on and with the timing of a Swiss watch I jam onto the gas at precisely the right instant and am handsomely rewarded with a vigorous boost of speed.  Side Note: That trick only works in video games.  I tried it once with my 2000 Neon at a stoplight and ended up in the hospital.  First place for Peach so far, if only the rest of the race were that easy.

 

Rounding the third turn of the first lap we recognize that this track becomes massively wide to allow for maximum carnage to pile up while still allowing the race to continue.  It should be noted that ‘Da Farm’ was due to be the set for the movie Death Race due to its proclivity for danger and mayhem, but at the last minute Jason Statham threatened to walk out saying it “wouldn’t be believable”.  Thus, the Death Race we all know was filmed, much to the delight of Statham.

 

Now at this point of the race my beloved Peach becomes subjected to a cleverly concealed banana that in accordance with the laws of physics causes her cart to spin out uncontrollably and slam into one of the walls like she’s Dale Earnhardt at Daytona.  Unlike that pussy Dale, Peach shakes this one off and keeps racing like the warrior she is.  So long, first place. Hello, fourth place and lap two.

 

Even on Moo Moo Farm, lap two is the lull of any contest.  A green shell here, a banana peel there and I am holding my position.  Yet, in a huge twist of fate, the last item bank of this lap provides a star for me while I’m in fourth place!   The Mario Kart gods are smiling down on Justin this afternoon.

 

Immediately the star is activated and Peach and I begin to milk (pun!) our racing cart for all she’s worth as we fly into first place again.  This gopher colony is no match for our star as we send them flying in all directions.  I’m like that very intoxicated lawnmower driver, traumatizing my first grade class all over again.

 

Boom.  Catastrophe.  In an ironic reversal of fortunes our star dies just a gopher emerges sending us flying into the infield of the racetrack!  The twinkle in my eye is gone now as the little man in the cloud slowly lifts our cart back onto the course.

 

Sixth place with less than a lap to go.  For once I can now realize how Hitler felt after he lost Berlin.  Life is bleak now, as my once prosperous beginning has fallen into mediocrity once again.   I pick up an item out of novelty, feeling that nothing can scoop me from this darkness.  I continue to race, for sport now that the thrill is gone. I watch my potential item randomizing and suddenly, my heart skips a beat; it is literally lightning in a bottle literally at my fingertips.

 

Thunderstuck.  Lightning is activated.  The other racers are shrunk to tiny beings as Peach and I plow past them, pancaking the ones that dare to impede our path.  We manage to make it all the way to second place with only a short bit of racing left.    The final item bank yields us three mushrooms that we instantly activate as we burn by a baffled Luigi en route to the finish line and the everlasting glory that is first place on Moo Moo Farm.

 

The gods smiled on me that one auspicious day and without their assistance it would have just been another failed attempt in the saga of my life that is Moo Moo Farm.

Rave

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