Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Monthly Archives: October 2012

Career Fair

Joy, another college co-ed trying to convince me to hire her. She’s all zipped up in her fancy shirts and eager-pants while doing her best impression of someone who wants to commit fifty hours a week for the next twenty-five years to analyzing rat poison supply chain schematics.  I know, pinch me; my job is just so fucking fantastic I must be dreaming instead of abusing painkillers each night in my studio apartment in Bumblepoo, Ohio.


Holy Type II Diabetes, Batman, this one is way too enthusiastic.  She found our mission statement, “We Good, Rats Bad”, and is giving an introspective reflection on what that means to her and how it’s shaped her outlook on life.  Actually, that mission was from our, near illiterate, savant founder.  Yes, our Public Relations department has done a great job covering up such revealing aspects of his life, like his numerous financial contributions to the American Nazi party and that he celebrates the fact that we are the preferred rat poison for cults committing mass suicide.  His idea to run a marketing campaign on that last tenant would have been, well, suicide.


Wow, she’s still going on how these four monosyllabic words have explained the universe to her.  With one word I could stop this torrent of embarrassment gushing out of her mouth, but, then what would I do for entertainment?


Hard worker, team player, tolerator of the diverse, mhmm, yeah, I’ve heard those generic lines from everyone, sweetie, yet I’m still left with a lazy, selfish, workforce who continues to insist on contributing significant portions of their paychecks to the American Nazi party, so why should I believe you? Oh, here’s why you think that—it’s because you listed it on your resume, a resume that, tragically, you wrote in Comic Sans for some misguided reason.   That’s adorable; you’re talking about why you put it in Comic Sans, as if you could ever justify it or as if I would ever care.  No, sweet cheeks, it doesn’t come across as kitschy, creative, or “showcasing your fun side”.  Honestly, both our lives have been set on darker courses for having listened to you or even being here today.


This is getting pathetic; Comic Sans just asked a question about our third quarter earnings versus our expected annual growth.  Let’s have some fun with this.


Man, giving overly complicated sounding answers that are really just saying buzzwords and jargon nonsensically strung together is becoming addicting, not as addicting as painkillers, but addicting nevertheless.  “Glocal economies are what we anticipate synergizing once our Six Sigma black belts can conquer some new Asian territory versus the Federal Reserve’s self-corrections”.  Yeah, that sounded like Bjork read a Wall Street Journal and then tried to write lyrics for a new album no one wants.  Yet Comic Sans over here is frantically scribbling down every bit of it like it’s the cure for cancer or the Colonel’s secret blend of herbs and spices.


She’s just trying too hard to get this interview; I think she might pull a muscle in her face from giggling at literally everything I said.  I can tell you right now that we’re not going to interview her.  She has no experience; she gave generic, plain-flavored-Quaker-oatmeal-esque answers to everything; and she has blonde hair and blue eyes that are only going to enforce the prevalent Nazi stereotype of our company. Overall, she strikes me as really dumb, like the type who would be perplexed if her new toaster didn’t come with a manual.


Although she’s a terrible candidate for a supply chain position but as a candidate I could flex into a sexual position?  Yeah, let’s go for it—I’m down to stick my pen in some non-company stink.



“Hey, would you want to discuss this opportunity over a drink with me later?”



Joy, I think this business prick is trying to hit on me.  I just came to this career fair wanting a job—and not a job that’s prefaced with “suck”, “rim”, or “manual labor”, mind you.  This short, corporate-rat-poison prick with his lazy-ish, well, just not as hard-working, eye will be in for a rude awakening if sex is what’s in his poison-riddled mind right now.  Here he goes into his best impression of the guy he thinks I’d want to be with for the next twenty-five years or so when in reality he’s just another guy in a fancy shirt and eager-pants looking get off the clock and subsequently get off all over me.


Holy shot of penicillin, Batman, I think he just leaned in and tried to make a joke.  I couldn’t discern a punch line from his monosyllabic stammer, but all of a sudden he stopped the surge of anti-charm coming out of his mouth and looked for a reaction out of me before he started uncontrollably sweating and clicking his jaw.  I just tried to force a little laugh.  Not too much though, we wouldn’t want him to think he’s actually funny or have him, god-forbid, attempt another joke.  We just need to force enough laughter for him to save face so that he doesn’t go home and kick a dog or take a bunch of painkillers to ease his sexual frustration; I wouldn’t want a dog hurt out of my lack of amusement, and, seriously, guys who look like short business Nazis have done worse for less.


Oof, he’s still going with this, generously named, “comedy” part of his flirting.  I don’t know why he keeps going with this; honestly, I think Michael Richards could get more laughs at an Al Sharpton’s birthday party.  With one word I could stop this speeding locomotive of humiliation he’s riding, but, then what would I do for entertainment?


Open minded, free spirit, thorough, mhmm, yeah, I’ve hear those generic lines before, guy.  Is that why you wore your puka shell necklace under your tie?  Does that really stick it to those one-percent, corporate fat cats?  Never mind,  He’s too busy explaining the tattoo sleeve of civil rights figures he wants to get.  No, that tattoo doesn’t make you “deep” and it certainly doesn’t “heel the scars of slavery” as he put; that tattoo makes you the idiot who’s trying too hard to seem not racist.


Wow, he just segued from speaking about his civil rights sleeve to asking me about my ancestry.  I swear if he brings up the universe or Burning Man next I’m going to barf angrily.


It should be illegal to have as much fun as that answer was to give.  He’s absorbed by my non-sequiturs and my fabrications about “the old country traditions,” “my real birthday versus my German birthday”, and “waltzes during eclipses of the harvest moon under Sagittarius at the gord festival”.   Hilarious, he’s eating it up every word like it’s some fair-trade oats that he claims to give a shit about.


This is even better, he’s trying to analyze it and make sense of it.  I think I just heard him misquote Aristotle, Descartes, and Savage Garden all in an attempt at an explanation for the concept of “culture”.  Jesus, this is getting painful.  I really wish one of us could just die right now to put me out of the misery of this conversation—where is a D.C. Sniper when you need one?


Okay, he’s still trying to convince me; this is beyond human politeness.  He would be a terrible coworker and I’m guessing a horrible sexual partner, since, based on his vanity, I think his life is too empty and he’s too sad to achieve orgasm.  I’m don’t want to deal with all this; I just want money from a job.


I’ve seen enough; I don’t really give a shit about my chances at a rat poison company anyways. I’m just going to cough in his face and walk away.


About these ads

Bathroom Vacation

Mild-mannered Justin Gawel’s perched, motionless, on the handicapabel toilet in the back of the tiny, downstairs bathroom at work.  Justin’s a simple man who enjoys the handicap stall and the space it affords him. Space Justin uses to sprawl out and just let his bathroom experience “happen”.


Unrestrained bathroom habits are, and have always been, a simple pleasure in his life.  A pleasure that may delay a lame man from a making bowel “lack of” movement for a few minutes, but it’s worth it Justin rationalizes; their legs shouldn’t get too exhausted waiting for Justin to download a stink file of his into the toilet.


With no impatient handicapabel friends or Autobots rolling up on him, Justin begins to revel in the luxury of his toilet time.  He’s not forcing anything today.


This is his vacation.


“Why be on a beach,” Justin thinks, “when you could be on a toilet?  Sure, if you’re on a beach you can let the riptide take care of your back door oil slick; that’s easy enough, but what happens when the tide’s coming in?  What happens if I’m boogie boarding when the waves “assist” me with my ocean dumpage?  And what if, and I’m just spitballing, but what if I can’t find a lifeguard willing to pee on my winking brown-eye after an unfortunate encounter with a jellyfish?”


Too many questions, not enough answers for this handsome lover to keep contemplating the beach now; after all, this is his vacation.


Roosting on his proverbial nest, Justin feels his eyelids droop and his heart rate slow as he nears the precipice of this trip to the bathroom.  It’s a nirvana-esque state where his mind and his bowels are completely open.  The weight of his body fades from thought while his mind seamlessly sifts through the philosophies of Plato, Descartes, and Federline simultaneously.


With his spirit and psyche finally unchained, he’s able to come to terms with the ending of The Sopranos and he finally understands why they chose to name that movie Sophie’s Choice.  Further drifting down the river of tranquility he begins mentally engineering a cigarette that tastes like chicken wings: a product designed to prey on the fat smokers of the country so that America can finally finish the job Katrina started on all those corpulent pre-corpses inhabiting New Orleans.


On the brink of a revelation, Justin’s serenity is shattered by the pitter-patter of urgent feet.  After a few choice grunts Justin identifies the panicked pre-pooper as Greg: the not-so-lovable temp.


Although annoyed with the forced hiatus of his vacation, Justin realizes he brought this on himself because Greg is likely sick from the tainted mayonnaise on the sandwich Justin planted.  Tainted mayonnaise that Justin rubbed all over his taint before spreading it on his sandwich to teach Greg a lesson for a previous transgression.  You see, a few days ago, Justin watched Greg lick all the mayonnaise off of his sandwich before reassembling said sandwich and placing it back in Justin’s lunch bag as if it was still totally fine, but, in actuality, was totally disgusting.


The bathroom tension builds; Greg emits a Mel Gibson-eqsue racist rant while fumbling with his, apparently, overly difficult belt buckle.  This is it, Justin thinks; Greg could cut loose right here and justice would be served—especially if his pants are tucked into his socks like there were all day yesterday for some reason.


Listening intently, Justin thinks it can’t be much longer now.  How much more belt fumbling before Greg’s backdoor levee breaks?   A sinister smirk emerges across Justin’s face while he bites his bottom lip in anticipation for the hurricane of humiliation and booty butter about to ravish Greg.


The grin fades from his face when Justin hears a deep exhale from the adjacent stall followed by the sound of a zipper and an emphatic thud onto the toilet.


A deep breath and brief pause in the action is ensued by a cacophony, reminiscent of a school of king salmon being released back into the wild, before the disharmony crescendos into what Justin initially thought to be a car backfiring.  It was no car; it was just the unadorable and disdainful temp, Greg, backfiring.


The discord continued with sounds akin to a lawnmower sputtering to life on the third or fourth pull.  The sounds and smells passing through Greg’s canyon of wet ass fill the confined bathroom.  It was then that Justin grabbed his pants and stood up.  Covering his mouth and holding his breath he hurried out of the bathroom.  The vacation was officially over as Justin thought to himself, “I’m going to need a vacation after this vacation.”


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