Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Category Archives: Complaints

Guess What, Grandpa is Dead: A Phone Call From U.S. State Department in Jamaica

22 Comments Posted by on May 10, 2013

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!

 

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Absurd, Complaints, Erotic Fiction, Politics, World Events , , , , , ,

I’m Not Going to Save Your Life if You Aren’t Going to Learn Anything

30 Comments Posted by on May 4, 2013

I could have done nothing.  I could have feigned an excessively violent sneezing attack.  I could have just sat at my desk, idle, pretending to be in the midst of a dream about a thrilling McNugget caper.  It was a moment of weakness, and I’m now having trouble looking at myself in the mirror and being able to see that beautiful, selfish narcissist who I’ve become infatuated with over the years.

 

Disgusting, I couldn’t muster a single excuse; I’m disappointed that I didn’t even try.  Fabricated spells of non-sleep apnea, late-onset debilitating depression over the cancellation of Charles in Charge, my no-prisoners style bout with gout—none came to mind as I counter-intuitively rushed to assist an obese coworker who could have died and would not have been missed.  My inner utilitarian balked; that unlikeable, bitter, non-festively plump, Rascal-riding fuck could have been put out of his miserable, mouth-breathing existence. I would have been lauded as a hero, truly the man who did everything by doing nothing and effectively cleansed the office from his foul, cheese breath, his audible eating habits, and the residue of sweat mixed with Cheeto dust he leaves on every doorknob he touches.

 

There I was, quietly sitting at my desk, when that bulging butterball shoots me a look from across the room.  He may have been looking for a spotter, he may have just wanted an audience, but gripped within those kielbasa-like fingers of his was an entire pork chop.  He shot me a little wink, a gesture I found revolting and offensive, then proceeded to exclaim, “shotgun,” before then attempting to devour the entire meat brick in a single bite.

 

Stoically, I remained in my seat gaping, essentially frozen in a state of fear, disgust, and repulsion.

 

His overly-toned jowels churned at the torrid pace like a prized piece of livestock. He was a flesh machine engineered for consumption.  A surge of sweat flooded his brow in a display I had only before witnessed when we were at a sub sandwich shop and he watched in great anticipation as they filled one of the au jus containers with mayonnaise for him to dip his meat wrap in.  A rush of blood to his neck-less head alerted me that his brain was straining to process the immense amounts of pleasure he was experiencing; honestly, I think there was a part of him that wanted to go out this way.

 

His eyes bulged with a furious passion, reminiscent of a protective mother grizzly or Edward Norton.  Petrified and rapt with abhorrence, I oddly sprung to my feet when he began to choke.  I never help people; it’s much easier not to generally.

 

My wiry arms, weak from years of apathy and movie marathons, wrapped nearly all the way around the pasty, land whale.  His white dress shirt was uncomfortably moist, as if he had just been on a log ride at an amusement park or had participated in the most nauseating of wet t-shirt contests. I was finally able to part enough of his rolls to find a middle passage and get my arms completely around him.

 

The first squeeze did nothing except saturate my shirt with more sweat from this behemoth.  A more forceful second squeeze resulted in only freeing a disgusting noise from somewhere within his body.  I’m not sure if it was a toot or just a pocket of stale air being released from within his many folds.  I’m also not sure if I ever want to know the truth.  On the third attempt he finally coughed up the entire pork chop onto a stack of papers on his desk.  Gasping heavily, he reached for the meat, which was now covered in this gravy-like coat of saliva that resembled a foul kind of coconut sauce.  There was a bit of blood on it too, not sure if it was just undercooked or the result of his overly aggressive eating habits.  Either way, I shuddered when he tore the piece in half, held one out to me, and asked, “splitsies?”

 

Confused and shocked, I shook my head.  He gave a quick shrug and then ate both halves with a minimal amount of chewing.  Knowing full well that he had learned nothing from the ordeal, I grabbed him by the shoulders, looked him straight in his beady eyes and announced, “That was your one time,” before retreating to my desk.

 

Complaints, Grotesque , , , , , , ,

Monday Morning Marta

25 Comments Posted by on April 19, 2013

Monday mornings, taxes, and Garfield movies: truly three universally despised entities.  Perpetually looming, we exist in a state of dread, waiting for them to strike so that we can try to persevere and return to our lives with only minimal post-traumatic stress and consequences from composing and delivering threats against people’s lives.

 

We all realize Monday mornings are rough, but I believe that some people are blessed with either a degree of narcissism or adult autism that compels them to share the most mundane personal anecdotes from their weekend every week.  All of us feign interest and empathize with their ramblings about they were upset that the car wash didn’t honor their expired coupon, but on the inside we’re all realizing how precious life is and that we’re now three wasted minutes closer to death.  Frankly, it’s a sweet release when their jowls and tongue tire from spouting such inane stories and I can return to punching data into a machine

 

Marta, we get it; you’re your own biggest fan, but you don’t seem to realize that your gusto isn’t shared, and is genuinely abhorred, by everyone else in the office.  We sit, disinterested, because social norms dictate that we don’t tell you to “kindly shut your pasty food chute before anymore of that linguistic garbage gets in my ears.”  No, we are all cowards and have been tolerating Marta for too long to change anything now.  It’s become like the constant threat of terrorism, rising gas prices, or Ellen DeGeneres—truly an annoyance we perpetually deal with now.

 

Strategically, I came in late this Monday and Marta was already into your tirade about an evening out.  Three long faces of coworkers surrounded the overly excited Marta, faces like when they open one of those shipping containers filled with starved illegal immigrants trying to come to America.  She sees me come in and says that she’ll start the story over so I can hear it all.  Fantastic, now there’s blood on my hands.  I’m now at fault in these coworkers’ eyes for subjecting them to a second hearing of a story that did not merit a first hearing.

 

Now Marta does her work on time and, judging by her personal photos, is well-loved by her friends and family, but I’ll be damned if every day her coworkers don’t fantasize about her being punched in the throat and never being able to speak again.

 

This story has started to drag before it’s even begun.  She’s backpedaling with the details of setting the scene.  She’s no Quintin Tarantino when it comes to non-linear storytelling, no, she’s just fucking awful at telling the story. Literally describing your routine to get dolled up to go to Chili’s are details that do not need to be included.  Also, Chili’s does not warrant looking fancy—I’ve witnessed a man eat there wearing a shirt made from a burlap sack with a child wearing no shoes and nothing but an oversized t-shirt.  You don’t need five-inch heels or a dinner jacket to go stuff loaded potato skins into your craw that’s already brimming with ranch dressing, Marta.

 

 

Why is she describing the weather and traffic patterns on her drive to Chili’s?  This lack of narrative economy is infuriating and I’m just going to mentally check out and think about the effigy of Marta that I’m planning on running over with my car and burning later.

 

I check back in and she’s ranting about how nice the waitress was being to her husband.  Ooof, now she had to bring her weight into it and turn this into a tirade about the unrealistic standards the media sets for women.  Stop, just stop talking about your weight like it’s a disability your can’t control, and, please, stop comparing yourself to a civil rights leader again for speaking out on this topic—truthfully, I’m becoming embarrassed to even be associated with you.

 

I don’t think she realizes how a restaurant or flirting works.  When the waitress gives your husband suggestions for salad dressing it’s generally not because she is trying to show him that she is the only one who knows how to satisfy him. And it’s not that she is trying to impose on your relationship built on “action movies, waffles, and quick sex in the dark,” as you so eloquently divulged.

 

Marta’s becoming animated now, she’s really trying to sell her rage at this “eighteen-year-old hussie who’s trying to turn my beloved neighborhood Chili’s into her personal sex brothel for married men.”  I’m not buying Marta’s accusations that the waitress was trying to get her nipple to fall out, or that she was trying to give Marta food poisoning, or had any intent other than describing a specific entrée when she dropped the words “big meat.”

 

I knew I couldn’t keep listening; I was beginning to fear for the safety of myself and the others in the room.  Naturally, I did what any rational person would do and just succumbed to the stress hemorrhage in my stomach before spitting up some blood, excusing myself, and retreating to my car to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes.

Complaints, Grotesque , , , , ,

Swindled Again By AAA

39 Comments Posted by on March 15, 2013

I don’t blame you, AAA, no; I blame myself for trusting you.  You’re a charlatan, a snake-oil salesman, or that magician in Ohio who stole my identity for six months. Scarring, grotesque, reeking of eggs and mayonnaise, all words and phrases I would use to describe my hotel experience at Big Rudy’s Feed N’ Sleep along I-80—a place you gave one diamond rating to and wrote a review that made generous use of phrases “up to all building codes”, “open”, and “technically satisfactory”.

 

I arrived mid-afternoon, eager to see what my $26.75 plus sheet deposit bought me for the night.  In the past, nearly twenty-seven dollars has been proven to buy a lot of fun, be it in the form of a twenty-seven-dollar case of breakfast meats covered in yolks, one-hundred-and-eleven gumballs, or one photo of me dressed up like a cowboy—truly Big Rudy had his work cut out for him.

 

AAA had described the lobby as having a “Mediterranean” style to it, but from the missing plaster, concrete floor, and chain-smoking clerk missing an arm I’m going to assume AAA was referring to the Syrian part of the Mediterranean.  Technically correct, I suppose, AAA.  However, being correct doesn’t stop it from being disgusted while watching that tiny child repetitively lick a pink stain on the counter after being told not to several times from the clerk.

 

With his one good hand the clerk gives me a slip of paper with “41-7-22” scribbled on it.  Expecting a key and confused, I round the corner into the single corridor with about eight rooms on either side each with a combination padlock affixed to their door.  Swanky, AAA.

 

On my third try the rusted lock pops off and I start speculating they aren’t going to have complementary tetanus shots.  The room itself is decorated in a classic Russian decor, meaning that there’s a single bed, nothing on the walls, and a desk with a phone and toaster nailed to it—perfect for a family of seven to share during a cold Moscow winter during the 1950’s while they sat sipping their last jug of potato water and picking at the carcass of their pet crow.

 

The bathroom is nothing more than a single toilet-sink fixture like you’d find in a prison accompanied by a tub consisting of more hair than porcelain.  I close the door hastily knowing I’ll never be able to return to a point in my life where I didn’t know that tub entity existed.

 

Okay, so I’m not here to spend time in the room anyways, and AAA did say this place has a pool, a restaurant, and an entertainment center.  I’m going to explore, and, ideally, I’ll just fall asleep once I’m back in the room after I barricade the door with the desk-toaster-phone.

 

I take my book and make my way to the pool in the back.  I survey the above-ground monstrosity, complete with broken chairs and old stumps strewn about the area.  I approach the pool wall and discover there’s only about six inches of brown, filth swill at the bottom of the pool.  My eyes pan up and at the deeper end and I immediately shudder—it’s an overweight Italian man with a gold chain, thinning, yet greasy, hair on his head, and pseudo-rug of midnight black strands covering the rest of his body.  He’s in the water up to his shins and he’s making passionate love to an equally overweight woman whose pasty thighs resemble stained-glass works made of varicose veins.

 

The woman notices my embarrassment and as I’m scampering away with my head down I hear the man bellow, “Lighten up; we just renewed our vows!”

 

Truly, there is so much beauty in this world.  However, none of it can be found at Big Rudy’s Feed N’ Sleep.

 

I make my way back into the building, hoping the entertainment center will have a bar where I can repress this memory with a mason jar filled with whiskey and bleach.  Sadly, when I ask the clerk which way to the entertainment center he merely points to the pinball machine and cigarette machine sitting in the corner of the room.

 

When I inquire about the restaurant he gestures to the heat lamps at the other end of the room that are currently warming a bowl of dirty muffins and a trough of something curdled.  I wasn’t hungry, just curious, but I doubt I’ll ever be hungry again.

 

Out of sheer anger, I’m able to sleep for a few hours.  I wake up cold and disturbingly clammy.  In a silent, yet frantic, rage I grab my backpack and walk out to the lobby where I give the clerk the sheet of paper with the combination scribbled on it.  With his hand he grasps it and says, “checking out?” in a way that implies this is a legitimate hotel.  I respond with a grunt and he asks, “breakfast?” and again points to the heat lamps at the end of the lobby.

 

There’s the couple from yesterday, piling paper plates with a yellow sustenance and a white paste that I’m guessing is the eggs and mayonnaise I smelled when I walked in.  The fat Italian man gives me a nod and a wave.  I storm out of the building.

 

You really hustled me, AAA.

Complaints, Fiscally Savvy, Grotesque , , , , , ,

Today My Name is Triumph

72 Comments Posted by on March 1, 2013

Denial, anger, bargaining, and, finally, depression—yes, I’ve been through it all this morning.  The tears have started coming and I don’t think they’re going to stop.  Not now, not today, why did it have to be today of all days?  It’s awful, I’m a wreck, and I can’t stop shaking.  No, this isn’t the day Fox cancelled the Glutton Bowl, it’s not the day McDonald’s discontinued the McPizza, and it isn’t even the day my cousin debunked pro wrestling for me.

 

No, today is the day of the 5K I had agreed to do eight months ago.

 

“It’s so far in the future, I’ll just agree to get them off my back, and, by the time it rolls around, I’ll have gotten new friends, or they’ll have forgotten about it, or, maybe, I’ll have succumbed to the sweet, warm blanket of death by then.”

 

Yeah, there’s no chance I thought I’d actually have to participate.

 

Trudging up to the crowds of happy, fit people was rough enough.  So I don’t own one of those fancy one-piece workout suits that aerodynamically shapes the contours of my penis.  No, I have a pair of pajama pant cutoffs and an old shirt that says, “I hate Mondays, but not as much as I hate Garfield.”

 

I’m getting a lot of stares; clearly, I look out of place, or everyone here has a penchant for workweek beginnings and comics drawn by Jim Davis.

 

I don’t want to run, but, fortunately, and much to the chagrin of my friends, Clipboard Guy says I can sign be one of the walkers competing.  I keep hearing that the only people who walk are the perpetually preggers, the robustly obese children, and the geriatric polio survivors.  Perfect, I have successfully identified my athletic equivalents.

 

The herd of people migrates to the starting line and  I’m realizing how much I don’t want to get sweaty.   I know if I start trying too hard my thighs are going to start rubbing together in some seriously extreme chub rub.  Eh, that’s pretty redundant; I’ve never had chub rub that wasn’t seriously extreme.

 

The gun goes off and I’m terrified.  Why couldn’t they just say go or use a whistle to start the race instead of that sawed-off shotgun?  People whoosh by me—their already-sweaty arms flailing and their bodily fluids just rubbing off all over my pasty skin and face.

 

Two hundred boring steps later and my brow is sweatier than John Goodman’s at a mayonnaise-eating contest—I must have gone at least 2K by now.

 

The realization is settling in: I really should have dropped my morning dumpage out my fun hole earlier.   I don’t really want to tempt this life-or-mess situation, so I’ll just walk nice and easy.  It’s like an old car—you don’t want to give it too much gas and risk something coming loose.

 

Many boring, television-less minutes later and I see spectators handing out cups from the sideline.  I mosey myself over there, hoping that at least one of those cups has Dr. Pepper in it, however, if they not down with DP I guess I’ll just ask the bartender, or whomever’s giving them out, for a triple whiskey.

 

The first cup I grab just has water in it and I immediately throw it away. Okay, I don’t want to waste anymore cups incase some tasteless freak actually prefers water, so now I’m going to start poking around through all these cups to find Dr. Pepper.  No, nada, nope, all water so far.  What do I have to do; I’d even settle for a Pibb Extra at this point, but no, it’s all goddamn water!

 

Clearly irritated, the runners keep brushing up against me with their sweaty slick bodies and it’s disgusting.  This is just like Family Day at the water park: constant violations of personal space, utterly unbearable, and notably free of Dr. Pepper and whiskey.

 

I think I’m close to the end, but my doody chute feels wetter and deeper than the Mariana Trench.  It’s simply become an abyss of cavernous, dark, unexplored depths from which I’m trying to hold back a faceless monstrosity.  In agony, I let out this abhorrent screech—seriously, the sound is insufferable; it’s like a cacophony of screeching cats, or screeching cars, or a young Dustin Diamond.

 

My dogs are really barking at this point, and by that I mean I don’t think these Hush Puppies were the ideal walking shoe.

 

The finish line is near and a crowd has gathered.  Surely, they are likely through most of the official awards and paper-plate awards by now, as I think I am the only one still on the course.  I cross the finish line and am immediately dissatisfied with the shameful lack of applause and pomp.  Clipboard Guy grabs me and my head begins to spin.  Did they know I was using performance enhancers?  How could they even know about those Jell-O energy suppositories I bought before the race?  I’m going to have plead ignorance or insanity on this one.

 

Instead, Clipboard Guy throws me on the top of the podium, likely for some public shaming.  I look to my left and right and there aren’t any contestant standing on second place or third place pedestals.  The announcer’s voice booms into a megaphone as he announces that I, Justin Gawel, have won first place for walking men aged twenty to thirty by default, as I was the only one who signed up.

 

The crowd sighs; clearly disgusted that part of their life was wasted looking at me received a medal.

 

Complaints, Fitness, Grotesque , , , , , , ,

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