From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag
Yes, is a Wilma Pennybuckle available?
Oh, terribly sorry, you’re already on the line. Although, I probably should have saved my “terribly sorry” for what I’m about to tell you because, honestly, it’s just going to seem like I’m marginalizing bad news now.
No, please, I insist, Mrs. Pennybuckle, stop guessing. To the best of my knowledge, no conspiracy exists that causes your grandchildren to keep putting on weight, I don’t think your pharmacist is trying to poison you, and I don’t think because your new mailman being black is an omen that a “tribe” of Nigerians moving in to the unsold house down the street. Further, I’d assume should they existed they would use the “family” and not don’t use the word “tribe” to describe themselves.
Honestly, I’m calling you today to inform you that your husband, Bucky Pennybuckle, has died in Jamaica. Now I didn’t know him personally, but it seems like he was a man with a fun name to say and I am terribly sorry for your loss.
Interesting, you were unaware he was in Jamaica?
Hmmm, he said Omaha on business for the annual shower cap convention.
Ah ha, if by “Omaha” he meant “Montego Bay, Jamaica,” and by “annual shower cap convention” he meant “sex tourism extravaganza,” and by “business” he meant “three nights of sensual pleasure spent with various women before being robbed, bound, and having his face beaten to a pulp with a piano leg before being dumped in a sugar cane plantation,” then, yes, he was being very transparent and honest.
No, there was no trace of any actual business happening on this trip, unless by “business” you mean—
I see, I see.
Yes, I really am getting some mileage out of that gag.
Now, I realize this is a little personal, but did your late husband every show a proclivity for any specific fetishes? We’re just trying to figure out if the ropes, bondage hood, and nipple clamps were put on him to make him easier to bludgeon, or if that was just what he was into.
I’m sorry, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I’m sure Mr. Pennybuckle would vomit with anger as well if he had, as you so eloquently put it, “had known he was going to die in a country run by drug-addicted, dark gypsies.” Now I must interject, Mrs. Pennybuckle, because the population here genuinely does prefer to be called “Jamaicans.”
How much infidelity occurred?
I mean, it’s difficult to say, but the authorities did recover an oddly descriptive erotic itinerary in his hotel room with very strange crudely drawn pictures drawn in it. If those figures were correct, he had been with three call girls his first night that he had in a position he referred to as “The Devil’s Baccarat Table” and then on the second night it appears he met a very frumpy night receptionist and utilized a move he dubbed “Jonah and the Whale.”
I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that that reference on the Sabbath would nearly give you a stress migraine. I’ll give you a second.
Anyways, it appears he was killed on the third night of his excursion. Make no mistake, it appears that infidelity definitely occurred, as the black light investigation revealed stains on nearly every surface of his hotel room. However, that may have just resulted from the housekeepers half-assing it these days.
No, no, please, please, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I do not want to hear about your exploits while he’s away; this isn’t a time for one-upping.
That’s really not helpful either, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I’m not going to discuss the ethnicity of the housekeepers just so you can comment on their apparent lack of work ethic.
Honestly, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I really just needed to break the news and have you tell me where I can send the body.
No, leaving the corpse with one of his mistresses is not an option; in fact, the women are actually leading suspects in this investigation.
No, we can’t just fly him coach back home; that’s completely out of the question
I assure you, Mrs. Pennybuckle, people would notice a dead passenger on the plane.
Okay, I’ll be sure to ship it out as quickly as possible and the funeral home will notify you when it arrives.
Yes, I’m sure his friends and family will be surprised.
I mean, there’s no reason you can’t lie or not give specifics about his demise. I’d be sure to have a closed-casket ceremony because no one is going to believe he died from a heart attack or stroke if they see his disfigured, battered face and that regrettable Jamaican braid he had put in his hair.
Frankly, I don’t think the mortician is going to be fix it. Mr. Pennybuckle’s face is completely busted—like it’s a cross between an old, melted candle and a Salvador Dali painting.
No, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I honestly don’t think this is Obama’s fault.
Okay, okay, enough, really! This is a phone call with a stranger about your logistics with your late husband’s death not a chance for you to get on your soapbox and rant about minorities.
Well, yes, there’s no denying that Richard Dawson was the best host of Family Feud, but could you please save your “gravy faced” discussion and banter about Steve Harvey for another time? I’m finding it offensive and I’m a little embarrassed to even be listening to your tirade!
I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have scolded you; I didn’t realize that was how you deal with grief.
Okay, I’ll let you grieve. I’ll send his body out as soon as possible. They’ll keep investigating here, but his bloodstained Tommy Bahama shirt has not yielded any leads or given us any names.
Yeah, seriously, you’re right, that’s totally like something out of Burn Notice.
Shut up, no way! I’m a huge Burn Notice fan too!
Idioms: delightful bits of speech intended to confuse non-native speakers and prompt said individuals to inquire about your collections of felines in burlap sacks or your apprehensions on scuffling with local bureaucrats. Way to be, English, even people who’ve studied your obscure, contradicting, and arbitrary rules for years can still appear inept when they ask as to why one would commit such brutal atrocities against an equine’s corpse.
Generally dealing with obscurely specific situations, idioms can be quips in our rhetoric that innocently offend people from time. For instance, be very careful about your phrasing when it comes to discussing prices or affection towards strangers if you’re trying to converse with your self-hating, paraplegic neighbor. Idioms report that misery loves company, but, shockingly, your neighbor probably doesn’t.
The true icing on the cake of non-English speakers familiarizing themselves with idioms is watching them trot them out for the first time—truly the literal icing because it is so delicious to witness that it just has to be fattening. Once the idiom is explained to them they become like a kid who just opened the handgun gifted to them on their seventh birthday—yes, they’ll eventually be competent with their new toy but there’s going to be a lot of casualties and embarrassment before that. Don’t be surprised if one of his or her early conversations ends with someone screaming, “I don’t know about you, but I don’t see the world through that lens. So, yeah, you and your figurative, racially-obsessed kettle can just leave!”
Like anything really, idiom etiquette relies heavily on timing. It’s curt to remark on the frivolous nature of idiots’ finances if you’re chatting with someone who lost significant wealth in the Bernie Madoff scandal. Plus, idioms are fairly inflexible, so if you find yourself halfway into remarking how you’re stuck between two unyielding forces when you realize you’re speaking with the man 127 Hours is based off of the best solution for you is to probably just walk away midsentence and commence a session of self-hating in the privacy of a bathroom stall. And really, you should really know which saying to avoid if you find yourself in a room with a Middle-Eastern straw baron who recently had to shoot his prized transport in the head after it was horrifically crippled during an extensive haul.
Idioms, you’re truly a lot of fun, but no matter how familiar I become with you I’ll always find it bizarre when people say, “Speak of the devil,” even when they’re not currently discussing Marv Albert.
A clang rattles somewhere in the distance and I’m suddenly awake and sweating more than I am usually. This perspiration, like a gooey afterbirth, covers me fresh from my slumber, as I realize I am in a world I do not remember existing in.
The fluorescent lights flicker and my temples throb with pain and incomprehension; my mouth’s desiccation reminds me that I have no idea how long I have been here. I’m truly parched, my mouth tastes dry and filthy all at once, as if an obese individual filed their sloppy craw with a handful of rancid sand and spent the entire time I was asleep open-mouth kissing me while their sweaty rolls scrubbed across every one of my surfaces, like brushes in an ineffective and disgusting car wash.
Fate has begun to torture me; I’m covered in moisture, that I’m beginning to suspect may not all be entirely mine, but my mouth is bone dry. It’s become a smelly, little desert full of the taste of rancid yawns, congealed chunks of unidentified meat, and a wicked sinus infection that makes my voice sound like a clinically-depressed John C. Reilly—all symptoms I had only experienced two years ago during my most recent exclusively-bologna cleanse.
With my hot, little mouth aching for sweet relief, a remark I knew I should have phrased better, even if only for my inner monologue, I suddenly stop and I’m frozen in fear. My blood runs cold, even though my confines are excessively humid; I look at a hanger with my shirt and jeans dangling from it—I don’t remember changing clothes, but it appears that someone else may. I’m terrified and feeling the potential embarrassment already, like if someone puts this on TV and America become privy to my ever-apparent penchant for self itching and my tendency of killing boredom by describing overly-erotic fictitious adventures of Henry Winkler and a promiscuous body pillow who just always seems to be begging for it.
How did my clothes get changed? My captors must have motivation; maybe human trafficking, maybe they’re preparing for an annual organ harvesting festival, maybe it’s mere disdain for my now-apparent lack of style—it’s anyone’s guess truly. Also, why did they leave the new pants at my ankles; is this how this sicko gets his or her kicks and yuks?
The odor of my confines has become overwhelming. It’s like peppery mold crossed with a pig farm, just enough that my dehydrated tongue can taste it with every breath. It’s a thick, stale almost fog that lingers, however, suddenly a fan kicks on and my focus becomes sharper.
The fan roars and the cell becomes more bearable. I change back into my clothes, thinking this will irritate my captor into explaining these cramped quarters, as no explanation or escape is clear. I’m scouring for clues, hints, anything that could give some insight to the purpose of this. Suddenly, one wall starts to rattle and muffled screams start coming from the outside. The light flickers again before shutting off for good and leaving me in pure darkness.
Unrestrained terror rushes through my body, I’m desperately trying to snap out of this nightmare, but the authenticity sets in—I’m conscious and far too powerless for this to be a dream. The reality is setting in and I’m immersed in fear and uncertainty.
The banging intensifies and the dampened shrieks build. I’m freezing on the inside and sweating on the outside but neither has my attention. This is my fate; whatever is on the other side of that wall, one way or another, will be my escape from this purgatory. My stomach flips like I’m on a carnival ride gone haywire, I reach for the mysterious clothes that I had shed and cough up bile out of nervousness.
Memories flood back, little, petty items I wish I could take back, now fully appreciating the brevity of delicate nature of an individual’s existence. I’m breaking down, suddenly filled with the thought that I’ve contributed nothing to my former world except troves of Who’s The Boss fan fiction, more than my share of sewage, and hundreds of discarded chicken buckets.
A second voice joins and the thundering clamor is broken by a shrill, piercing sound of metal on metal. Unexpectedly, a calm washes over me and I feel ready to accept my fate. With a low crank the wall breaks away and the small cell becomes flooded with a blinding light.
My pupils contract and soon I realize I’m staring down a large man holding a staff or some sort and a smaller man with a name tag that reads “Dennis.”
“Are you kidding me; why the crap were you in there for so long? Are you that selfish? Jeez, are you telling me we broke the door down for nothing?” starts an irate Dennis in a whiny voice, “You’re going to have to pay for those clothes you know.”
The larger man, now disinterested, take his what appears to be a crowbar and shuffles away. I stand up and Dennis continues his diatribe, but I couldn’t care less. I’m not dead or dreaming, I just fell asleep on the toilet after dropping some seriously wicked dump-dump at J.C. Penney’s again and they had to break down the bathroom door out of concern for me not being dead and the potential lawsuit.
What, I don’t see anything wrong with my actions. Doody calls and I’m now recalling that I was wondering what I would look like wearing the Hawaiian shirt and tuxedo pants I took in there—I’m now remembering that look isn’t as hilarious as I had initially thought.
Dennis is still going at it—something about how I’m going to have pay for the door and the clothes now because the garments have been “irrecoverably and detestably sullied” from my aggressive bathroom habits.
Yeah, you’d think this experience would change me for the better, but, really, I’m just going to hide these puke-riddled clothes, avoid paying J.C. Penney’s, and the flee to go eat a family-sized bucket of chicken by myself in the food court.
Did someone say that, did I just think that, or did I pick this up through some sort of Morse Code military vibration in my teeth left over from my stint in Korea? Sorry, I should note I don’t mean Korea and the hullabaloo-kerfuffle-nonsense way back in the fifties, no, sir, I’m talking about my Korean Town dentist with whom I have a mutual “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” policy when it come to asking for insurance and for asking for extra nitrous oxide to take home.
Give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a night; give a man a complimentary garbage bag full of euphoric gas and he’ll come back to your office of dentistry and fireworks for years to come. I may only have a degree from a discredited institution, although some people will tell you it was fake and just an outdated CPR certificate I found in the trash. However, if I had needed to take an economics class for my degree I’m sure Adam Smith’s “The Wealth of Nations” would more than cover the stability and attractiveness of a business founded on cavities, cleanings, and complimentary drugs and explosives.
I may have underestimated the strength of this gas. I know, it sounds like a line I’ve undoubtedly poured on before in times of failed chemistry tests and instances of excessive funeral flatulence. But Randy had warned me this time; he said I would freak out and here I am, mercy me, having me a spell of the crazies with a touch of the vapors.
Is it possible Randy is some sort of sayer of sooth? Nah, if he were any good at that then his living quarters would resemble more of a house rather than his van full of sea spiders and pigeons.
Alas, Randy, I should have heeded your prophecy more seriously. Twas foolish of me, similar to that time you sold me that Malcolm Ecstasy and I stored it in the Motrin bottle. Seriously, who knew hallucinogens cured hangover so well? You were right about that that time, Randy; that stuff did get me messed up by any means necessary, and was, overall, much more of an aggressive trip than that Dr. Molly Luther Chronic Jr. stuff.
How long have I been home holding this garbage bag full of nitrous? It’s gotta be somewhere between twenty minutes and all of time, but I can’t remember and, sadly, I neglected to buy a watch with a decade readout, or any watch, or wrist-sized sundial, at all, for that matter.
Has Randy been sleeping here the whole time? What is that piece of paper he’s clutching—he doesn’t have any valuable papers in his life. Christ on a cracker, he smells like shanty-van if I’ve ever smelled it. Why does this paper have my name and signature on it? Here’s to hoping this isn’t a repeat of when I traded him my power of attorney for gas money.
Major crisis averted, looks like this document just give Randy permission to crash in my place until his Van of Man makes it through monsoon season at the quarry. Pretty sure Randy doesn’t know how quarry water levels work, shockingly though this document is proof that he is reaping the benefit of hiring that personal notary.
Well, let’s make the best of this and ride out New Roommate Randy through monsoon season. Today could be the beginning of something great, but right now the trash bag is emptying and things are returning to normal, as in I’m consciously eating a pack of raw hotdogs in my bathtub.
This day would truly make a fantastic movie, wait, no, not fantastic—what’s that other thing—oh yeah, horribly unwatchable.
Fellow graduates in the class of 2012, I stand before you today to look back while we look forward toward tomorrow. From science fairs, to homecoming pregnancy scandals and resulting cover-ups, to the annual tontine, boy, we’ve seen it all and I don’t think I could have asked for a better chucklehort of chuckleheads to be there with me each step of the way.
I know it’s cliché, and I’m as cliché an adult baby as they come, but I can’t believe it’s Graduation Day. Here we are, the Class of 2012, in our gowns and mortarboards ready to walk across that stage in all of our pompous circumstance. We’ve become so close and I feel like I know some of you as well as I know my own siblings. It’s hard to believe that six weeks ago when this court-appointed alcohol class started that I said I didn’t deserve to be lumped in with you degenerate problem drinkers.
Whew, I am on pins and needles! No, it’s not just because I’m giving a speech. No, it’s not because I ran out of underwear this morning and am wearing a diaper made out of newspaper now. And, no, it’s not even because I had my first beer yesterday since my arrest and then couldn’t stop drinking, no, right now I’m worried about tripping when I walk across the stage, right, guys, right?
Today’s also bittersweet. We’re at the end of a golden age and as soon as Marcy P., the substance abuse coordinator here, tells us to move our tassels from right to left we’ll no longer be classmates, we’ll no longer be brothers in booze, we’ll just be adults in silly outfits complying with the terms of our respective probations.
Now, as you should know, you’re all invited to my open house tomorrow. Yeah, I know, Erickson; you scheduled yours on the same day. I’m sorry, but here goes: Erickson, you’re a poseur and I know I’m more popular than you. I’m not as popular as Chad or the Moose, but come on; I know I’m more popular than the weiner who tries too hard to make friends. In fact, Erickson, I think we’re all beginning to suspect you didn’t actually get a drunk-and-disorderly for vomiting in a magician’s hat at Sea World like you said, but rather that you just signed up for this class in a failed attempt to meet people and network.
Really, guys, I know I’m taking up the middle of my commencement speech talking about how you should come to my party and not Erickson’s. Seriously though, come to mine; we’re going to have the barbecue going, we might rent a cotton candy machine. It’s going to be awesome, everyone’s going to get their genitals touched and we’re seriously going to get so drunk, har har, just kidding—or maybe I’m not, wink! Anywho, you all should come out, it’ll be fun. Plus, I still need a couple of you to sign my yearbook. Sensitive Sally Simpson, I’m looking at you!
Now that we’ve all got our suspended licenses back, we’ve all really started to live again. It didn’t matter if it was a school night, we were always going to the movies, the twenty-four hour shoe repair shop, Make-Out Creek, you name it and we can be there; living it up as only the Class of 2012 could.
Jocks, geeks, foreigners with weird socks, we never let cliques get in the way of being friends. The camaraderie between all of us was amazing; we all would come out to cheer for our beloved football team, we all pitched in to help with the homecoming dance, and we all came together to put on Oklahoma! for a group of Mothers Against Drunk Driving. Boy, that evening was a hoot to say the least!
I’m proud so say I’m part of this cohesive bunch; a cohesive bunch that includes everyone except Erickson. I know we’ll be able to stay in touch as we return to our lives as alcoholic mailmen, alcoholic snake charmers, and alcoholic students, like Buglesson, who is applying to further his education right now, mostly because the court thinks he needs more education about learning about how it’s not cool to get drunk and threaten to throw your wife down the stairs just because the Giants lost.
I’ll miss you all. You all are amazing people and I can’t want for our camping trip in a few weeks!
And I’m flattered that you all voted for me for “Best Sense of Humor” in the mock elections, solely based on that one time when I farted real loud during that movie about car accidents.
Once again, graduates, congrats; I’m proud to be a part Class of 2012!
