Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Monthly Archives: June 2012

Uncle Ralph: Majorly Drunk at Major Magic’s

Uncle Ralph, was it me or was it you?  Wait, now I’m remembering; it was definitely you.

 

It was definitely you since I was just six and you were thirty-seven when you ruined my birthday party at Major Magic’s.  I recall sobbing a tad when I received a shirt from Grandma instead of the Creepy Crawlers accessories I asked for, but that was nothing compared to the meltdown you had when you realized that Major Magic’s did not serve alcohol.  You claimed to remember drinking at this Major Magic’s, but later I heard my dad clarify that statement as, “No, Ralph, the police found you here one morning badgering the terrified janitor if they had made the pizzas yet.”  Six in one hand, a half dozen in the other. Regardless, the lack of adult beverages at this child-themed restaurant meant that you had to trudge across the parking lot to the liquor store just to be able to tolerate being at your six-year-old nephew’s birthday for a few hours.

 

You staggered back from the liquor store a bit later and tried, unsuccessfully, to buy cigarettes from the prize counter.  Out of either pity or hilarity the attendant behind the counter agreed to trade you a pack of candy cigarettes for your watch.  Upon opening the box you immediately put the attendant on the defensive and ever so eloquently inquired if he thought you were “sum cocksuckin’ sum’a bitch” for trading you what you claimed were Virginia Slims.  Speechless, the attendant offered to trade you back to which you retorted with a snort and a grunt before turning away and trying to spark your first cigarette in the corner next to the Skee Ball machine.  Predictably, candy didn’t ignite and you demanded that the attendant let you speak to his manager for “hustling” you.  Noting your state, the attendant pulled another such “hustle” and pointed you in the direction of the animatronic Major Magic robot performing on stage.

 

There was fire in your eyes at this point.  I wish that the most intimidating individual I ever witnessed was doing something epic, like defeating a dragon or eating a gigantic sandwich to win a t-shirt, but no, sadly, the most intimidating game-face I have observed was on you: a sloppy and staggering bowling alley technician looking to yell at a giant singing robot in front of children.

 

A beeline right to the forefront of the performance area and you launch into a tirade.  You’d forgotten about the candy cigarettes, your watch, or the (in your words) “fascist” anti-drinking policy of this Major Magic’s.  The robot, oblivious to your inquiries, continued with the show.  This set you off.  You launched into a full-fledged rant about how you despised Mr. Magic for leering at your pretty wife and that you doubted that he could ever rise to the rank of Major in the U.S. Army the way you had.  In reality, you had been divorced for five years at this point and had never actually served in the army.

In fact, I’m almost certain your delusion of being in the army stems from that time when you had punched the Arabic guy at the gas station and accused him of being a sleeper cell.  I don’t know what was the saddest part of that story: your notion that all Arabic people were America’s enemies, thinking that you are helping the troops win a war that has been over since 1993, or demanding that the police award you a Purple Heart before they arrested you.  Either way, the whole incident screamed prejudice, delusion, and restraining order.

 

Your argument petered out at that point and after what appeared to be a brief epiphany you decided to throw your arm about the mechanical major and unite in song with him.  After ten minutes you told the robot that he was your best friend and that you wouldn’t hesitate to take a bullet or shrapnel for him.  At this point the manager, the actual human manager, asked our family to take our party elsewhere.  Ipso facto, I blew out the candles on my sixth birthday cake in the parking lot of a grocery store.

 

So, yeah, when you asked why there was a rift between us, I assure you, Uncle Ralph, it not me; it’s definitely you.

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Why Didn’t I Lose Six Pounds After Running For Twenty Minutes?

I just don’t get it; I’ve been exercising, I’ve been eating right, I’ve even stopped rubbing lard and salt on all of my pores in order to get that “crispy” look.  Come on, I want results, I want them now, and, personally, I think I’ve earned the right to drop the twenty pounds necessary to squeeze into that leotard I bought to perform my tribute to America for the troupes tomorrow.   No, it’s not soldiers returning from war, it’s actually a bunch of theater troupes I know that are meeting up with me after they go out for pancakes and I just want them to know how much I love America.

 

How long do I have to keep at this to see results?  Seriously, body, I’ve been working really hard and sticking to my regiment; tomorrow will be already be Day Two!

 

Started with a run this morning—there were nearly no survivors.  It was a blessing and a curse that my pigeon toes did not live up to their name, as, unfortunately, I was not flying down the sidewalk; however, I did not feel my usual pigeon-like attraction towards eating food out of everyone’s trash.  Overall, I guess the pigeon toes were pretty neutral if you’re discounting the chaffed ankles and the running like a very drunk tyrannosaurs.

 

Nearing the end of the first block my physical and emotional baggage began to flap in the breeze; by the end of the second block my thighs and jowels (yes, I carry weight weird) began to flutter like a couple of pasty windsocks.  Something triggers a dusty, old synapse in my brain and I start reliving the infamous failing of my third grade Presidential Physical Fitness Test all over again.  It’s then that I realize I have come full circle; as the day I failed that Presidential Physical Fitness Test I tried to make it up to America by dancing with sparklers on my front lawn in, yet another, grossly undersized leotard.

 

It’s not just the exercise regiment, oh no, I’m starting to eat better too.  When I returned from my run I jumped in my car and drove to the KFC at the end of my block where I made healthy choices by opting to NOT get my usual extra side of gravy with my family bucket for one.   I decided to eat my chicken in my car, as I do not have the self-control to resist the siren song of fried food for the entire drive home and, further, I didn’t want any of my KFC regulars on the inside to witness me in this fragile, dieting state.

 

Upon arriving back home I go into a tizzy.  I’m serious, an absolute fucking tizzy! Are you there, results? It’s me, Justin.  I thought I was on the verge of a stress-induced peptic ulcer when I discovered I couldn’t fit into my smaller clothes yet.  It’s like everything is against me.  I mean, my bathroom scale and waistline both refuse to acknowledge any of sacrifices and snackrifices I’ve made in my new routine!

 

I’m second-guessing my tactics now; perhaps diet and exercise isn’t the best way to lose weight.  Maybe I should move onto plan B.   Similar to how Plan B helps women pass their potential not-yet-born babies quickly, my plan B is also essentially a ploy to pass my, although already matured, food baby as quickly as possible.  Long story short, I’m going to induce labor on this fetus of food by eating the house special at that filthy Ethiopian restaurant and then simply pooing myself thin.

 

Looking forward, this plan makes much more sense than diet and exercise.  Think about it; look at how skinny the average Ethiopian is.  It’s probably because none of their traditional cuisine can stay in anyone’s system for more than twenty minutes.

 

Boom, I’m on to you diet secrets, Ethiopia!

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