Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Category Archives: Advice

Fun and Failure Both Start With Creative Liberties [Part 2/2]

Thank you, everyone, for tuning in last week. Now enjoy Part Two of another countless chapter in my saga of disappointing employers.

Second Rejected Article: Homemade Bidet—All Systems Flow

Years of itching, designing, and dreaming have finally paid off. Figuratively, I’ve shat and will get off the pot, but, literally, it’s now because I have a bidet.

I’ll admit, it was a tough road littered with plenty of failure and “unforgiveable” messes.  Now, though, I’ve scaled the impossible precipice and have crafted the world’s first affordable, portable bidet. Models and operating systems have been tweaked and twerked. I’ve stumbled onto a couple, what I like to call, bi-dos and, frankly, I’ve committed more than my share of bi-don’ts. Yet, looking out from this mountain’s summit, I can tell you that this destination was well worth the journey.

Flashback: several crusty years earlier, a despondently irritated Justin Gawel and his equally ill-tempered brown eye simmer in a Ramada hot tub. I can’t spell out my epiphany exactly, but it resulted from a combination of genuine curiosity, a soothing Jacuzzi jet, and a healthy disregard for the pool area’s posted rules. I’d found a remedy to my dump hole’s perpetual prickliness and I would stop at nothing to harness such power within my own domicile. A veil had been truly lifted and my life would never be the same.

Buying a hot tub was too expensive, as was buying a Ramada. I found a place specializing in installing bidets, but, alas, that too was outside my budget of forty American dollars.

Laboring under my fiscal constraints, I tested out several early ideas. The cheapest was merely a series of purposeful aiming with strategic body positioning while in my shower. City water, gravity, and hope joined forces to deliver, well, subpar results. This technique grazed the surface of my problem, but it didn’t have the concentration I sought. I wanted a scout sniper and the showerhead was only a firing squad.

Next I purchased an old water pick at a garage sale. At only six dollars, it was well within my price range and expectations were high. Sadly, in practice, it was a dismal disaster. Weak and frail, the pick had the precision but not the power. I didn’t need a soloist—what I needed was the entire orchestra playing measure after measure with accuracy, passion, and poise. I was young and sloppy then; I wanted the results without putting in the effort.

Stagnancy set in. The next half-decade was filled with nothing but apathy, tears, and bouts with Itchy Butthole Syndrome.  There was no end in sight. But then one Saturday near Christmas, while listlessly wandering through the mall, an overloaded obese woman in a dress dropped a mirror onto the polished tile and it shattered. Shattered in a way that one of its fragments gave me a truly vomit-inducing view of her entire undercarriage. I was suddenly inspired. Not by her grubby overgrowth, but by the previously-overlooked notion of utilizing mirrors.

In this fated-frenzy she’d also dropped a SuperSoaker that I immediately snapped up. I bolted out of the mall, my new water gun in hand and my solution in mind. Once home, I attached a small mirror to the front of said aquatic novelty and, at long last, I was able to wield a device that could be forceful while being as exact as I needed it to be.

Today, I live a charmed life. Now with my SuperSoaker-mirror apparatus, I wield the power and tact necessary to splinter away any and all crap-nel left clinging to my backdoor. My life had changed for the better and I can now best my IBS any day.

Thank you, Ramada!

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A Lesson From Middle-School Sex Ed

It was seventh grade—a time for boys when masturbation is no longer a secret hobby but more a secret lifestyle. Sexuality was no mystery, still, we looked forward to sex education; mainly, because it meant we didn’t have science class for two weeks and it gave us terms like heavy flow and scrotal wrinklage to giggle at. We were still thirteen and boys after all.

 

Every class began with lecture and ended with an anonymous question-and-answer session. Everyone was expected to write something on a scrap of paper that would be mixed up in a box for the instructor to randomly draw from and answer. This way kids could ask anything without suffering any embarrassment over what they did or didn’t know. Always reading them all aloud, our instructor would promptly respond to the serious inquiries and swiftly disregard the less-than-serious inquiries of “vaginas are just menstruating buttholes, right?” or “I think I have an erection right now but I’m not sure. Help?”

 

Only a few minutes remained in class one day when he stopped on a question before reading it. His eyes squinted, his lips meticulously recanting the writing back to himself in silence. It had caught him off guard. He showed some poise, but he seemed completely lost in this apparently-abstract query, like as if he was mentally calculating his tax return or trying to solve a pun-heavy riddle for a scavenger hunt.

 

For once the room was quiet. Had we finally stumped him; did he really have no advice on hiding erections? Would we get that long-awaited answer on his virginity status and porn habits? Was this the question so disgustingly vile the anonymity of the box would be sacrificed so the question’s author could be identified and sent to the school’s social worker? He looked up from the slip of paper and no one flinched.  Everyone knew this was different; every question every other day had been met with a quick answer or a ready “Oh, come on, let’s show some maturity, guys.”

 

No one knew where this was going, but we hung on every errant sigh escaping his mouth. I felt he had answer, but wasn’t convinced we could handle it.  It’s like he knew it had the potential to change our lives forever and he wasn’t sure he wanted that responsibility.

 

Closure was in sight when at long last he cleared his throat. “This question asks,” he said, suppressing a grin, “if you’re having sex with a girl.” Our eagerness intensified with his pause. “If you’re having sex with a girl and you pee inside of her, what happens?”

 

The laugh was caught in our collective throats as we anxiously waited for the other shoe to drop. With a tilt of his head and a brief, ah-fuck-it shrug he matter-of-factly said, “Eh, if you pee in a girl while you’re having sex with her,” he smiled, “well, you probably won’t be having sex with her again, so I guess, really, it kind of all works itself out.”

 

Stunned and unsure if to laugh or inquire further, we could only sit and stare.

 

“Okay,” he said, reaching back into the box, “next question.”

 

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