Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Monthly Archives: May 2012

Throbbing, Swabbing, and Sobbing: The Prelude to Any Job Interview

Why can’t I be the one that judges people for my job interview; why do they have to judge me?  It’s become so easy for me to criticize and point out other’s flaws—and not just basic bald spot spotting or the ol’ Gout pointing out, but really identifying defects in people’s mannerisms and logic as well.  Just watch, watch as I pounce like an opinionated puma as soon as an idiot moans that they don’t understand why they were once again rejected for a Macy’s credit card, since, as they reason, “Come on, man, I spend all my money at Macy’s!”

 

Seriously, why didn’t I ask the recruiter more questions when he called me?  Does he want me to be relaxed or pumped up for this?  Which boils down to the age old question: should I go all Jerky Boys on my wiggle-snake while I’m in the parking lot for the serenity factor? Or, do I go at it on the freeway for the pure ecstasy and adrenaline that accompanies trying to control a two-ton behemoth at eighty-miles per hour while still trying to drive my car?

 

What if I get too pumped up?  The last time I was too pumped up was on my eighth-birthday and I ended up whipping a pinecone at my dad’s cornea and he bellowed, “If that’s how you’re going to treat your family then you can forget about going to the water park this year!”  It wasn’t until years later that I found out Dad had lost his job earlier in the week when he showed up drunk to the go-kart track. He only freaked out at me because he wanted someone else to shoulder the blame for him being forced to cancel the family trip.

 

So, needless to say, I’m worried about showing up too pumped up.

 

Not being pumped up though makes me think I’m going to freeze.  Everyone has been there where your mind goes blank and a cold sweat trickles down your back and find it’s way into the seat of your trousers just like Mark, that overly handsy attendant at Men’s Warehouse that keeps inviting me to go to Red Lobster with him.

 

My God, Mark, give it a rest.  We both know there aren’t enough biscuits in all of Cheddar Bay to get me to go on that outing!

 

I’m finally in the building. I’m a little post pump-up sticky, but mostly puzzled.  No, seriously, this facility doesn’t use room or floor numbers and clearly this is the wing that was designed by the overzealous architect the day after the MC Escher exhibit and Ancient Egypt exhibit were both sponsoring the annual monster truck show.  Either way, tomato-potato, Darth Vader-Ralph Nader: it is real confusing.  I’m becoming wary of going around the tight corners of the corridors, as I’m certain a temple guard is sure to lunge out at any minute.  Hopefully, the temple guard isn’t a stickler will accepted resumes printed on ripped up cereal boxes instead of Pendants of Life for passage at this point.

 

Goddammit, I’m lost.  I don’t know my way out.  Why didn’t I leave a trail of breadcrumbs, or, at the very least, a hearty dusting of eczema flakes to find my way back out.

 

Through three bathroom lobbies plus a janitor’s barracks and I’m miraculously in the waiting room for my interview. The recruiter-guy said there were going to be five people interviewing me, but I’ve seen no less than eight people walk into the room marked for interviews.  Why couldn’t there have been just one nice old man interviewing me?  He could get sidetracked on stores about baseball, segregation, or just about how all his foreplay now is comprised of a little game called “Find the Werther’s Original”; I wouldn’t care.  I could just sit there and nod; he would eventually comment on how good I am at listening and that I remind him of a nice boy he chats with on the suicide hotline on those lonely days when his family doesn’t call.

 

Five or more people interviewing me is intimidating; they could conspire to do any number of things to me.  They could beat me up.  They could throw a pizza party for me.   They could cook a pizza, throw it in my face, and then steal my face skin. They could take a DNA sample to prove I’m the father of someone, but, in that case, they would be better off scrapping the whole interview scheme and just swabbing out my car’s ashtray.  Five or more people make me think of something sinister akin to Julius Caesar, Murder on the Orient Express, or some sinister ploy in which they pin one of their rancid, rich-boy farts on me.  I realize some of these revelations are good things, but, come one, it’s much more common for a stranger to have a fart blamed on them than to have a pizza party thrown for them.

 

All right, they’re calling me in.   I really hope they all get a kick out of the new Bill Cosby voice I programmed into the radio for my joke-stoma.

 

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Classy and Gassy: The Tale of an Upstart Fart

Another humdrum hour of college lecture drips by; literally dripping by, as mine armpits and mine ass crevasse art overfloweth with droplets of sweat in this archaic, yet steamy, university building.

The pupils that remain art drained of vigor, moisture, and vitality.   Yet, the precipice is nearing; just fifteen more clock-laps for the second-hand until permitted escape is imminent.  I alter my posture in an erroneous attempt to free my pasty, moon-soaked thigh from the overly conducive vinyl.  This haphazard gaff yields a ripping noise that draws grimaces from the nearby learners.  I wished it hadn’t, but, unfortunately, my maneuver also jars something loose in my south-most intestine.  A something much more sinister that will undoubtedly draw much more unwanted attention.

One baritone pitched bowel-growl later and I know something odious is concocting itself in my boiler room.  Although, I’m not sure of its state of matter yet, be it solid, liquid, or gaseous, I can already guarantee the magnitude of the dank stink from this homebrew will be overpowering to us all.

Attempts to hold back this possibly fecal-fury are growing futile.  This booty-hole behemoth is analogues to the Hurricane Katrina of yore, whilst my balloon knot is cast as the hopeless levee: fated to eventually give way.  I pray, for the sake of my family honor, that whatever this stench storm has in store is more akin to Katrina’s winds and not so much the waxing sewage erupting though Bourbon Street.

I’m no weather-sorcerer, but I’d foretell of a slim chance of today turning swampy in lieu of breezy.  Certainly, not the majority, but an ominous figure nevertheless.

My efforts fall short; the lowest of my back-sweat acts as goose-grease and the fart that I am ever-so-thankful-that-it’s-a-fart absconds out my backdoor.  Like a common prisoner covering himself in butter to squeeze through the tight meaty hole in a prison wall – my fart steals away and out of me all the same.  I gaze as my musk oozes through the classroom, penetrating my fellow students’ nostrils with the pungent, yet hushed, force akin to a band of frisky samurais.

The naturally humid Cherokee air of the lecture hall permits my sassy gas long overstay its welcome; actually occupying the area for longer than the Cherokees did.   The students grow restless with this occupation and an epidemic of Crucible-esque accusations breaks out whilst I follow suit to avoid taking my rightful place as scapegoat.    A girl begins coughing to the point of an asthma attack and I try to stifle the laughter and pride I feel bubbling inside me.   As with my windbreak, however, I am unable to hold my delight in as I blurt out while gathering my books to leave:

“Hey, girl, why don’t your nasty ass hit up that local energy company?  See if y’all can trace this here natural gas leak back to my ass-hoe.”

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