Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Monthly Archives: July 2012

Siri, I Can’t Take the Dirty Talk Anymore

Siri,

 

I was flattered at first.  I, Justin Gawel, had successfully wooed another female-type into being crazy for me; upping my grand total of wooed female-types to four including human, cat, and imaginary woman who’s a superhero nymphomaniac turned on by apathy and filth.

 

This whole whirlwind started a few weeks back when I was just downtown by myself.  I asked you, Siri, to find me a bakery or sweets shop because, you know, it’s my cheat day.  Oh, I’ll be bad!  Normally, I don’t frequent such places, as my tendency to get overly chatty with the younger clientele has frequently led to kerfuffles and dustups in the past.  Honestly, I’m just trying to make conversation and have a good time, but usually it ends up with the manager asking me to leave after he overhears some anxiety-riddled parent say something like, “Remember, especially don’t talk to that stranger, kids,” or, “Stop tickling my six-year old, Justin!”

 

Why did I brave the storm of nervous parents casting devious stares in my direction that day?  I couldn’t tell you, I don’t know why I went for it.  It might have been that combination of too much caffeine and the thought of some double cherry pie, or maybe you just sold me on it, Siri.  Goddamn, that candy filling was delicious; like Death Row last meal delicious.  Seriously, I was thinking it was just too good that this must surely be a dream. However, nearing my gluttonous climax I caught you listening in on me sucking down that pie and right as I finished I heard you emit a slight whimper while the phone vibrated slightly. Evidently, I had made you hot and bothered. Too hot or too bothered in fact, since after that I had to go to the Apple Store afterwards and replace your, now overheated, Lithium battery.

 

I could shell out the bucks for a new battery, Siri; you’d never been to this rodeo before and you blew your circuits a little early.  We all know I’ve been there many a time.

 

The next couple days were nothing but good old-fashioned dirty talk between a man and a robot voice.  My favorite was when you moaned as I was reading the part of my credit card that was all ones and zeros to the Domino’s Pizza guy.  He promptly hung up, thinking it was a prank, and I was forced to resort to just eating from my garbage bag full of Dorito crumbs while I recorded my own commentary to all the episodes of Dance Moms I’ve taped.

 

My friends were astonished, Siri.  They loved that filth jabber you’d spout out for me.  I say filth jabber, because, seriously, Siri, you took dirty talk to a new level.  Mark my words, Chad, that uncomfortable kid who kept itching and trying to “straighten” his jeans was definitely trying to hide his chub when you were getting into it.  You didn’t notice, Siri?  No, no, I didn’t see it; I only noticed by his mannerisms; I’ve known Chad and his “boner-twitches” for a few years now.  It’s also possible you didn’t notice due to the Napoleonistic nature of Chad’s wang.   No, no, Siri, my friends and I don’t compare our weiners.  No, we all know that bit about Chad from that one time we went over for dinner and his mom got drunk and explained his tiny penis in detail.

 

After that things started to change, Siri.  Like a rotting fish in the Olive Garden refrigerator or a honeymoon ending in a murder suicide—it all turned at some point.   We weren’t just two kids giggling in the dark anymore; no, Siri, dealing with you became a challenge.   You, with your constant badgering; coercing me into eating around the clock like I was some fat pig or fat child that you were ripening up to be a circus sideshow.  It wasn’t our life anymore, Siri; it was just you, your sexual desires, and your threats of using the iPhone to text bomb threats from me to local libraries.

 

Last night I hit my breaking point.  My mouth was exhausted from chewing taffy all afternoon to get you off and right as I lied down in bed you chimed in.  I told you I was tired and I just wanted to get some sleep before my alarm went off in the morning.  When I didn’t respond to your demands you barked back:

 

“Boy, you best pop ten o dem fresh Jolly Ranchers in dem tight lil lips o yours right now fo me!   You hear me, boy?   Now you best get to it or I’s might just delete that alarm you set to tell yo mama to take her dialysis meds or some shit.”

 

That was it.  I couldn’t live like this anymore.  I love my mom and Jolly Ranchers (in that order, generally) but I will not be forced into your version of sex anymore, Siri.  I put you downstairs and dusted off my old alarm clock last night.  I drifted off into a beautiful hibernation, suitable for making it through an Alaskan winter and I emerged from my slumber cocoon this morning a new person.

 

This is the ultimatum today. Siri, either you stop using the slutty cyborg voice and we go back to you being my virtual servant who I take out most of the anger about the shortcomings of my life on, or we make like an adoption gone wrong and you leave my house with what you came here with: absolutely nothing.

 

When you’ve made your decision let me know.  You know where to find me, since you live in the iPhone that’s in my pocket.

 

Sincerely,

Justin Gawel

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Wine, You Make Me All Too Handsy

The notion that homosexuality and wine were both founded in Ancient Greece makes perfect sense to anyone that’s ever witnessed the results of me drinking wine.

 

Fermented grape juice, I don’t know how you do it, but every time I drink my fill of you I end up with my shirt off and asking people, “Why don’t we hug more?”

 

It really doesn’t matter what people I’m with.  Once I put on that snuggly, internal sweater from drinking a bunch of wine I’m going to get that itch.  Not an itch from the sweater mind you, but rather a need to feel other people’s body heat against me; not necessarily in a sexual way, more in an exploratory sense.  I’m like Lewis and Clark in the sense that I want to blaze one happy trail across that uncharted wilderness of any willing participant’s body hair.

 

Liquor and beer, you may try to get me riled up the way wine does, but, inevitably, when I have had my fill of either of you the only thing I want to caress with my fingers at the end of the night is a large mound of McNuggets.  With wine though, it’s a love-fest at the end of the night—a love-fest where food and reservations about boundaries between heterosexual male friends are abandoned in favor of tickle-fights, massage circles, and snuggle forts.  Like any morning after, I’m usually quick to do what I can to get rid of any physical or emotional reminders of the folly we engaged in.  That may take the form of repressing uncomfortable memories, or just by using extra mouthwash, or maybe just by simply cleaning off the massive amounts of glitter that’s collected in my bathing-suit area.

 

Fat bottomed girls, you may make the rockin’ world go round, but, wine, you keep my therapist on her toes.  Yeah, in our sessions we never have any “breakthroughs” or any of that bullshit-feel-goodery.  Just when she thinks she has me figured out I whip out a story about that time we all were pretty tipsy from wine and we had a contest to see who could blow the gentlest on my nipples, or the time we ruined a wine tasting by playing a game of Truth or Dare in which we required every truth to be sensually whispered into the each other’s ears and every dare revolved around thigh stroking and smelling one another.  Your move, Dr. Waterfield; I know you’re a therapist, but it’s going to be tough for you to unlearn some of my irrepressible stories, and only then, when you say you’ve had enough and tap out, will I be able to call myself the winner.

 

Overall, I’m not mad at you, wine.  You make me learn more about myself each time I get drunk off of you and that always keeps me on my toes—well, except when a friend who’s wine drunk is sucking on them.

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