From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag
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.
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.
Oh, God, what the fuck, she hasn’t responded since I sent my last text three-and-a-half minutes ago. Something’s up and this isn’t sitting right. Where is she that she wouldn’t have service, or does she just not care? This just doesn’t add up. I thought we had a good time last week and now this? Three-and-a-half, four minutes now? Jesus, do you think? I mean, she’s could be with some other dude and is just now finishing up banging him. If he’s anything like me, four minutes is more than enough time.
Four-and-a-half minutes and she still hasn’t texted me back. This guy is clearly better at sex than I am. Should I call her? Maybe I should call her. What would I even say? Uh, hey, you hadn’t texted me back yet, so yeah, about that. What’s even the point, I’m sure she won’t be able to hear her cell phone ring over the clatter of her breasts and her screams of ecstasy.
Five minutes, okay he’s beyond satisfying her; he’s going for the high score at this point. This pleasure-bot she’s with is undoubtedly a contemporary John Henry: seemingly part machine, an expert at driving hard steel, and of course, clearly black and packing something like thirteen inches of ferocity in his pants. There’s no way I can compete with that. Everything was going so well and now it’s all being washed away in what I can only imagine is a fast and furious display that has everything on the Paul Walls of her apartment shaking as she orgasms over and over at a Ludacris level of volume from the penetration of his (The) Rock-hard dick.
Six-almost-seven minutes now, I’m sure time is standing still as her life is flashing before her eyes. Her brain literally overloaded with endorphins that an aneurysm is a possibility. She is going to be pleasured to death. It will make national news and bored housewives everywhere will touch themselves to it. Honestly, she’s going to be a different person after this. Winning the lottery, writing the next great American novel, eating a piece of bacon wrapped in cheese and dipped in ranch dressing, it doesn’t matter, they will all pale in comparison to this voyage she’s taking on the bang bus to Climax City.
She’s literally going to need to smoke a carton of cigarettes after this onslaught is over.
Eight minutes, okay, this makes sense now, of course she hasn’t texted me back; she probably can’t even remember her own name, let alone what a phone is or how to text someone on one. She’s going to have to acclimate to real life again. This could be the premise for The Miracle Worker 2. I’m sure her vocal chords are strained beyond belief and the police have been summoned to investigate what the neighbors are figuring is a murder. Boy, will that guy’s hand be sore from all the high-fives he gets from cops and neighbors after they sort all of this out!
Nearly ten minutes now, this is unbearable. Let me just look at my phone and try to pick up the pieces of my emasculated existence. I’ll try information and see if they have a therapist I can get a hold of. If that doesn’t work it’ll be on to the suicide hotlines until they all eventually block my number.
Wait; hold on, my last message to her didn’t send! Oh, that means she’s probably just been waiting for me to text her back. Let me find service and try again. Sorry for freaking out, everybody!
She had joined the army to prove herself. She had joined the army to serve her country after her dad had died in combat twelve years ago. She had joined the army because she had expected to find a challenge, but what she never expected was to find an Adonis sleeping in just the next barracks over.
Private Sullivan was a man’s man by any sense of the word. He was loud, brash, handsome, and cocky, and the only interaction she seemed to have with him usually took the form of coy comments about her figure in passing. She had always shown a disdain for these comments, but in reality, she secretly loved them and let each phrase linger in her mind as if they were sandcastles in the surf, waiting to be washed out by the rising tide.
Late one night she was just finishing cleaning up the kitchen of the mess hall with her company. Alone in the back of the kitchen she began to toy with the idea of taking the initiative and making a move on Private Sullivan. However, after a few minutes of fantasizing, she dismissed the idea as foolish and unlikely to ever happen.
As she retreated into the walk-in storage closet she found Private Sullivan, standing in the back taking inventory. Overcome with sensation and the notion of fate, she seized her opportunity and approached him as she flirtatiously whispered, “Here’s something I bet you weren’t counting on,” while she spun him around and began massaging he crotch. In no time at all he was hard, standing at attention.
She pulled his fatigues down as she continued to stroked Private Sullivan’s private. She had already raised his Iwo Jima and as she felt his body quiver and she worried that he might accidentally have a pre-emptive strike. To counter-attack this she immediately wriggled out of her government-issued pants and guided his heat-seeking missile into her bunker.
She didn’t want a Détente; she wanted action. She wanted Private Sullivan to conquer her like she was the beaches of Normandy. She was basically looking for an all out Blitzkrieg on her lady parts.
Suddenly, in a Guerilla warfare-esque surprise, Private Sullivan let out a sickening fart. It reeked of rancid Caesar salad, clearly worse than any chemical weapon could ever hope to be.
After a few minutes of charging and retreating into her Vietnamese jungle, Private Sullivan asked if she could “kamikaze” him for a bit, which was understood by all military personnel to mean going down on someone. She obliged and knelt on the floor in front of him.
“Alright, I’ll do this for you, but I want to keep having sex so I don’t want you to finish,” she stated. ”And I most certainly don’t want to end up with any of your shrapnel in my hair or mouth,” she giggled to him as she began.
After a minute or so, Private Sullivan emitted a low rebel yell. Startled, she took his soldier out of her mouth just in time to end up with ‘friendly-fire’ all over her face.
Laughing, Private Sullivan pulled up his fatigues and returned to the mess hall, no doubt to inform his comrades of his conquest, while she was left there to clean her face off with nothing but the hard sponges and the steel wool found the storage closet.
Overall, she had to admit that it was a pretty dishonorable discharge.
