Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Monthly Archives: January 2012

Do It Yourself High School Love Letter

Just circle the word or set of words that makes the most sense for you and presto, you’ll have a customized love letter to give to your special friend!

(Babe/ Dear/ My Sweet, Sweet Pootie Tang),

My (God / Allah / Mormon God), I can’t believe I’m with you!  You’re so (gorgeous / hairy / thick) that my (palms/nipples/pubes) (sweat/ tremble/ get extra itchy) every time I merely think of you.

Everything about you (infatuates me/ is adorable / makes my step dad hot and bothered).  From your (creamy/ hairy/ raw) (skin/ legs/ butthole) to your personality that’s filled with (compassion/ sass/ racism). I really can’t get enough of it all!    You may have started as just a simple (acquaintance/ pen-pal/ casual-fuck-stick), but now I can see that we have truly become (two-souls intertwined in this thing called life/ the envy of our celibate friends/ adept at adapting to each other’s fear, foot, and food fetishes)

People may have their doubts, but I think we can really (make this Facebook official/ eat an entire pizza while fucking/ claim our math teacher molested us so he passes us).  I know it won’t be totally easy, but I think in the end it will bring us closer together and we’ll be able to be more free about our (communication/ drug use/ handjob policy).

Right here I want to apologize for the other night.  It wasn’t right of me to (rub/ film/ pee on) you without your consent.  Then I spilled all my (Capri-Sun/ Anti-Semitic feelings/ blood) all over everything and I could see that the night was becoming disaster.  After I left I went home and felt (disappointed/ hungry for your love/ my genitals until they erupted in a tsunami of pleasure).  I hope we can put this mishap behind us and look forward to a life dedicated to (you/ our Cat-Nip business dream/ the Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch reunion).

You are truly a (treasure/ pleasure robot/ fart-machine) and I love you for it!  You are the (salt/ Batman/ peanut butter) to my (salt shaker/ Batman fetish/ dog that licks peanut butter off dudes’ balls).

My (heart /boner/ brain aneurysm) is always throbbing for you.

(Love/ Longing/ Firmly Errect),

[sign your name here]

P.S.  I ran out of glitter so this letter should be just filled with just the usual (strong feelings/ sequins/ pube trimmings) when you receive it.

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Justin Gawel: Animal Control Officer

Tenacity, toughness, the will to never back down or listen when someone says you can’t.  All skills that make Ben Roethisberger a successful quarterback (and a rapist), and all traits that would make me the greatest animal control officer this world has ever seen.

I’m not your granddaddy’s dogcatcher, I’m Justin Fucking Gawel: Animal Control Officer 2K13.  I’ve got a high-school education and a gun and I don’t have to take sass from anybody.  Fair warning: sass will acknowledged as an invitation to me to hunt you.  So you tell me, do you want to whip our dicks out and turn this boring Tuesday morning into the most dangerous game?

My strategy is simple, I charge and attack.  I’m proactive, and not because I use a lot of Proactiv; I wait for no man, so why would I wait for an animal?  Let me tell you, I didn’t wait when Rob Schneider’s The Animal came out.  Nope, I rushed right out to the theater.  I rushed right out to the theater so that I could burn it down.  I was subsequently awarded a Purple Heart for such a heroic act of urgency.

Traps, shocks, nets, and guns that shoot any of the aforementioned things, yup they’re all strapped to my back as I ride my Moped Of Protection™ while I patrol the suburban jungle.  A call comes over the intercom, and by that I mean my pager goes off and I have to pull over and turn off the Moped Of Protection™.  Then I need to find a business or some sort, lie to them and tell them my wife is in the hospital and I need to use their phone.  Next I’ll have to persuade the hostess or receptionist that I’m not lying and that I’m not wearing a wedding ring because I lost in during a night of passionate consensual sex with my wife or while defending my wife from her book club.  Finally, they’ll lose interest and let me use their phone to call my boss back.  Boss informs me that there is a job about a mile from where I am.  A badger has made a nest in a shed and needs some “convincing” to leave.  It’s go time. To infinity and beyond.  Let’s get retarded in here; whichever way you want to slice it, we’re about to get biz-zay.

I arrive at the house and there’s a damsel in distress waiting in the yard and pointing at her shed.  I keep communications short. I’m not here to hunt for pussy.  I mean, I suppose the person could need like a cat shot out of a tree, or a cat shot out from under their house or something, but as far as human vaginas go they’re only a distracter in this line of work.

I enter the shed with a flashlight and spy the vermin.  Snarling and snapping from the corner I detect about a twenty-pound badger.  “Easy, girl” I mutter as I reach for my animal-paralysis stick (don’t let the name fool you, it’s more of a club than a stick).  The badger lunges at me and with the hand-eye coordination of a professional baseball player I swat the badger out of mid-air and into the side of the shed.

“Talk about a home-run,” I say coolly to myself as I flick my cigarette into the distance as I holster my weapon and put my sunglasses on.   Then I strut out of the shed while Ronnie James Dio’s “Holy Diver” blares in the background.  Fade out.

Now, I might take some guff from some liberals who demand that we share the planet with all animals, regardless of how many picnics or child’s faces that raccoon at 2306 Mason Avenue destroys.   But to these wacky tree-huggers I will say that I am all for recycling.  Of course by that I mean recycling of the animals I “control” or make un-alive into inexpensive lunches for inner city schools!  See, this way every non-animal in the situation is happy.  Especially the non-animal of me that gets to enjoy his sporty new tracksuit with all the money he’s making off of these schools.

It’s as easy as reduce, reuse, recycle.

-Reduce the number of animals alive.

-Reuse them by making them into food.

-Recycle those lunches through the digestive tracks of a bunch of elementary tards and rake in the profits.

And to answer any final questions, yes, there is not an animal out there that I wouldn’t be able to take down.  I don’t care how nasty-ass any honey badgers out there are; this honey badger doesn’t give a shit. I take what I want.

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