Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Monthly Archives: October 2012

Career Fair

22 Comments Posted by on October 26, 2012

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.

 

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Bathroom Vacation

16 Comments Posted by on October 19, 2012

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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Masturbation Etiquette: A Sticky Situation

57 Comments Posted by on October 12, 2012

Humans are a superficial species; a species who are quick to judge one another on how they handle themselves in public with the biggest red flag being if you are actually “handling yourself” in public.   It’s a double standard in our society where we celebrate a man’s success when he creates a company that profits off of the donations sent to starving children, but, as soon as that charity-mogul-villain whips our his flesh spout to pour himself a fresh, steamy shot of man-yogurt at the local petting zoo, well, that’s when we all finally see him as the abhorrent monster.

 

Masturbating can be great fun, but we need to recognize that with great power comes great responsibility.   On the plus side though masturbating isn’t like standup comedy, circus performing, or selling nerve tonics where you’d need to be on the road in order to really turn pro.  Take it from me, an old veteran that’s a sure bet for the hall of fame, I went pro right at home around the ripe old age of twelve or thirteen and never looked back, unless I thought someone was walking up behind me when I was in “game-mode”.

 

When your able to put the time in and be as thorough as you need to be masturbating is a beautiful, like a flower blossoming into a swan at sunrise.  However, when interrupted or done through anxiety, masturbation can turn into a dismal, bleak affair—on par with a black and white documentary about cholera in Latvia.

 

The caveat comes with sharing your living quarters; you’re roommates are likely not always going to be able to give you the time to light a butterscotch candle or two, draw the shades, and cue up the cassette tape of Danny DeVito reading 50 Shades of Grey.  So maybe you can go all out and fully (trick or) treat yourself each session, but if you can be open with your roommates you can ensure that you’ll at least have the privacy to get your money’s worth from that Kama Sutra For One you bought off Amazon.

 

As with any relationship, a successful relationship with your roomies about your jerk-off stints is built on the foundation of boundaries, communication, and trust.  It begins with everyone acknowledging that they all masturbate and recognizing that it’s just a natural, relaxing thing to do that there should be absolutely no guilt attached to.  Masturbating is simply more effective when you’re doing it than when a stranger doing it to you—you know what you like.  Think of Pandora Radio. Pandora Radio is like a handjob to me; I can make a better playlist myself, but sometimes I’m lazy and it’s nice to have someone else do it for me.

 

If the mutual trust is there between you and your roommates you’ll be able to revel in the fact that if you’re in the middle of crank yankin’ or flickin’ the Skittle and your roommate knocks on your door you can quickly communicate something like, “Hold on, broski, I’m in the middle of a fat-beat-off sesh.”  It’s as easy as relaying those thirteen simple words to your roommate mysteriously hairy ears.  You trust your roommate to respect your boundaries and give you the serenity needed to Miracle Whip up a frothy helping of your Hellman’s Original man-nnaise (or the woman-nnaise equivalent) and, in turn, your roommate trusts you that you are actually masturbating and not reading his diary or burning his clothes again.  Unless he knows your sexual aroused by reading diaries written by adult men or by the sweet, sweet, amours aroma of smoldering polyester; then he’d probably be suspicious.

 

There you have it: trust, communication, and boundaries; be honest and effectively inform your housemates of your actions if they get close to breaking through your comfort threshold and they’ll be sure to reciprocate the action.

 

Also, just be cool and use discretion if during Spring Cleaning you find a really crusty sock next to a picture of Jake Gyllenhaal in my room.

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Cool Story, Bro

34 Comments Posted by on October 3, 2012

Oh poopers, he saw me. He saw me and, accidentally, we made eye contact.  Like clockwork every Monday; like blonde, obnoxious twenty-something with Chiclet teeth clockwork.  Great, Darren, let’s try to get this over as quick as possible, because I know if I tell you I’m busy you’ll badger me for the rest of the day until I give in even though I’ve said “no” more times than a speaker at a D.A.R.E. assembly.  You’re some sort of non-sexual and non-carnivorous predator, Darren—preying on the common courtesy of the other people in the office who have to listen to your god-awful weekend recaps.

 

Nope, Darren, don’t even act like you think this conversation is a two-way street.  You know I don’t have anything to say to you. Just get on with it so I can go back to processing data and eating chicken potpies while I wait, trying to build up the courage to quit this job.

 

Come on, Darren; even by the low standards you have set for yourself the beginning of this story is horrible. Seriously, please, keep elaborating on how fast you were driving your Nissan X-Terra.  Do you really think a tale about you going eighty on the freeway while blasting Papa Roach is interesting to anyone?  Anne Frankly, I don’t care, Darren, and I don’t care how many “hilarious” vanity plates you saw or how “totally Death Race” you think you are.    Honestly, Darren, you should consider stealing a page out of Hemmingway’s book, so to speak; not on how to improve your storytelling, mind you, but rather for tips for how to commit suicide effectively.

 

Introspectively, I really hope I wasn’t this desperate for attention when I was his age.  If I was like Darren then I suppose it’s poetically just how depressed I am now.  Is this Hell; is Hell just hearing the same boring story over and over again?  Apologies, world, if that was me twenty years ago, but at least I didn’t have that untrustworthy blonde hair Darren does.

 

Finally, this narrative is moving on from just being in Darren’s car.  Now he’ at some party and talking about drinking, nicknames, and arguments over who should get what nickname.  This is just pathetic, even by Darren standards.  I really can’t imagine why he thought I would be interested in this; in a sad way this is quite reminiscent to every Christmas present my wife has ever given me.  No, wife, I don’t want, yet another, Garfield calendar.

 

Now trouble is breaking out at this party, apparently someone thinks Darren hit a girl.  I’ve never been one to jump to conclusions, but based on his blonde hair and puka shell necklace I’d say he’s guilty.  I’ve said it before and I say it again, I’d let one thousand guilty men go free before I locked up an innocent man—provided none of the guilty or innocent men in the scenario were wearing puka shell necklaces.

 

Dammit, it looks like Darren was able to explain the situation to these people.  Every week I always identify with the antagonists in Darren’s lack-of adventures.  Predictably, this yawn of a yarn is heading in the direction of Darren telling me about some mildly sexual exploits.  Here it goes, Darren lowers his voice and leans in as if the information he is telling me could destroy the company if it got into the wrong hands.

 

Nope, although his tale could destroy the company’s morale and put everyone into a deep depression it could do nothing to damage the company’s financial holdings.  You see it was just an anecdote about how he got a squeezer from a girl after he told her he was Jude Law’s younger brother.  Darren further illustrated the duped girl as “looking like Mandy Moore, but, like, if Mandy had a droopy lip from being hit in the face.” A depressing account, but far from the fiscally disruptive bombshell his body language tried to sell it as, however, he description reveals he knows what battered girls women look like which further supports my theory that he punches women.

 

Darren, you make me think workplace violence could be justifiable.

 

Finally, after three and a half torturous minutes I think he’s wrapping it up.  You’re almost there; focus and just take a step towards the door to let him know you’re leaving.  You’re almost at the best part of the week: the longest possible time before you’ll have to listen to Darren again.

 

“Cool story, bro; now I gotta go do work.”

 

 

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