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!
Dressed in suspenders and a silver tie clip, it was only fitting that the most important man in the office was also the best dressed. No doubt about it, Jonathan Porter knew the business, knew the people, and knew how to run this place.
It was nearly lunch when Jonathan called Natalie, his assistant, into his office.
“Shut the door,” he ordered, not looking up from his laptop. Natalie abided.
He looked up and looked her over, “I think it’s time we address the elephant in the room—”
“Sir, I’ve been trying to diet—“
“No, it’s not that; relax, kid,” Jonathan said, his magic words flowing like they did during that regrettable magician phase that he had all but repressed with painkillers now.
“No, the elephant I’m talking about is trickier; you’ve been here, what, ten months, now?” He said, standing up now and moseying towards Natalie.
She slowly nodded, “What’s this about; you’ve never said anything about my body of work.”
“Well, that’s mostly because I’ve had so many objections about your physical body. , However, I must say, there are some qualities I find less-objectionable—“ and in a swift, hostile takeover Jonathan used his position to leverage Natalie into position underneath him on top of the desk.
Puzzled, but not resisting, Natalie was flooded with confliction. After all, Jonathan was her boss, and, despite his remarks about her weight and odor, she didn’t mind working here and didn’t want to jeopardize that. On the other hand, it had been awhile since she had a man make a direct deposit in her, as she had grown accustom to using the proverbial “Easy Button” and saving herself a disappointing evening at the bar.
“Sir, I’m not so sure. This isn’t so cut and dry, like the business.”
“I agree,” Jonathan suavely whispered, taking her hand. “I mean, I’m pretty cut,” he continued, moving her hand across his toned stomach and back. “But,” he breathed while discretely finding his way up her skirt, “You’re anything but dry.”
Natalie let out a low moan; it was clear she had a weakness for the sensual combination of his dry, clammy fingers and stupid wordplay. There was no turning back; Natalie had drank the Kool-Aid, and not even the threat of awkward encounters or a boring trip to HR was going to stop here from going after that sweet, throbbing company pen in Jonathan’s slacks.
It’s anyone’s guess if it was merely Natalie’s enthusiasm for lunch or was it just because she was a former hot-dog eating champion, but she wasted no time flipping around on the desk and horizontally aligning herself to better take his hot product out of it’s wrapper and into her mouth. As she hung there, upside down, between two pillars of the industry with a third pillar in her loading dock, she couldn’t help but compare this to that iconic kiss in Spiderman. Yeah, it was weird; and in this objective author’s opinion that’s a odd thing for her to think now, but what was even stranger was the fact that Jonathan was picturing the same thing in his mind.
“Did you get lost?” Natalie asked Jonathan between heavy breaths. “This is a business transaction, not a charitable contribution.”
“I’m still going to write off the damages as business expenses. And don’t worry about this—you should know I’m a team player around here.” He shot back as he ripped her stockings off and plunged his face into her grubby thicket.
“Good, she’s definitely looking forward to some quality face-time with the boss,” Natalie played back between lick after lick of Jonathan’s low-hanging fruits.
She always knew Jonathan knew the service industry, but it wasn’t until now that she realized he knew a thing or two about servicing. Truly, thinking outside of the box, Jonathan propped her legs up on the desk and dug his face due south into the scruffier and swampier regions of her rainforest. He raised his right hand, like a snorkeler requesting air, and brought it down repeatedly in a SWOT analysis of Natalie’s dumpy, fat asset until said asset was it was so far in the red that bankruptcy would be the only way out.
Natalie couldn’t move, her muscles were paralyzed with the pleasure coming from Porter’s Five or More Forces of tonguing swabbing he was unleashing on her. It wasn’t long now and Natalie knew it—her books were cooking in a hot, frothy stew.
Moments later, through a lot of moving parts and synergizing, Natalie belted out a wail, while Jonathan erupted everywhere, flowing like a perfect supply chain with no bottlenecks.
The office was in shambles; all varieties of company ink coated the desk and carpet.
Catching his breath while assessing the damage, Jonathon exclaimed, “Well, looks like the Children’s Hospital just spent their annual donation.”
Dial, phone, come on and dial. No time to look at the road; Mark and The Shark Morning Show is talking politics right now and I need to get in on that action. Politics, yeah, I know, they’re in my ring now and I’m ready to drop some Stone-Cold Stunnin’ truth on these poor, misinformed knaves. Come on, phone, connect; I know Mark and The Shark are counting on me.
They may just be morning radio hosts, jockin’ away at that disc, but I know deep down they care about me, John From Flint, even though I don’t always get through. And even the times when I do get through they’ll usually act all aloof like they don’t remember me, but that’s just their style—such jokers that Mark and The Shark!
It’s not just Mark and The Shark clamoring for John—it’s this whole goddamn city. People who tune into them want to hear my opinions. Seriously, it’s just a matter of time before I’m getting famous, getting paid, and getting famously paid. I can’t wait; mostly because it will be nice to move out of my house in Flint—it’s currently been pretty cold since the furnace I have is powered by six D-batteries.
Ooof, I’m still on hold. Man, this city is aching for the caking of truth-jaculate that I’m about to unleash upon their ear holes. I’m raw, I’m edgy, I’m not afraid to say what’s on my mind. I don’t have limits (except for time, volume, and all the words and topics that they’ll drop my call for mentioning).
All I have to say is that I hope this city is ready to have their brains blown out of their butts by the volcano of veracity that is my mouth.
I get it now. They see my number and they’re letting me simmer so I’m good and mad when they take my call. Your strategy is working, boys; I mean, right now. I’m pissed. I might just spend my time on the show this time talking about how it’s bush league that they are making me, a regular caller, wait in the queue like I’m a nobody. Come on, I’m John From Flint: long time listener, long time caller, and long time chitchat enthusiast. Please, Mark and The Shark, I am your show. I am the tired. I am the poor. I am the huddled mass in my basement yearning to breathe free, since I have a pretty wicked asbestos problem. I happily tolerate it day-in-and-day-out, because that’s just the price I’ll pay for being a free spirit and because I refuse to work more than fifteen hours a week.
Honestly, only two things in life surprise me right now. The first is that they still have me on hold for this—it’s teetering on inexcusable at this point. The second is that I haven’t gotten any off-air play from all my on-air play with the show. When I’m on I never forget to mention that I’m single and looking for that no-strings-attached type of freaky sex that I assume radio personalities in the Mid-Michigan are perpetually waist deep in.
It’s not like these radio groupies don’t know how to contact me; I always plug my email, TyrannosaursSex69er@hotmale.com, during every appearance. Seriously, I wish that women in these parts weren’t so “Midwest shy” and would actively seek out this handsome lover instead of just developing blistering calluses from vigorously touching themselves during my equally blistering banter. I can’t move out of town though; I’d be giving up this entire no-prisoners style radio aura that I’ve worked so hard to cultivate and maintain in Flint, Michigan.
Anyways, keep that pool of sweet, radio personality floosies warm for me, Mark and The Shark. I’ll be diving in as soon as you pick up your goddamn telephone.
The sun was high in the sky on this bright summer Saturday morning. Fresh from his night of slumber, John opened one eye and took a glance around the room before reading his clock radio.
Eleven-twenty: too late to salvage the morning, yet too early to start any afternoon activities. Rested, John sat up and pulled back his sheets pondering his next course of action. He wasn’t hungry, and his only plans for the day weren’t until five; his options were endless really. He considered setting up a doctor appointment for the rash on his arm, but he decided it maybe just needed a few more days.
John supposed he could go to the bank, not to deposit money or transact—he just liked hanging out at the bank. Nah, he didn’t want to do that, I mean, come on, he already has his pants off. Deliberation set in about a potential trip to the grocery store but John ultimately decided against it; he already had all the provisions he needed for his one-man nacho fiesta that was happening at five o’clock.
He lied back down on his bed and nestled into the groove his crooked spine had established in the mattress over its many moons of use. The groove provided him a small canyon that he allowed himself to cozy into night after night, a canyon that became particularly difficult to scale out of after a restless night. His eyes drooped a little and he let out a small yawn; he supposed he could read.
A stretch across the mattress and John snagged the screenplay he was working on editing the night before. He was at page sixteen, and the last few days have been far from productive, but he figured if he can get some good, hard work done now he can gorge on a trough of nachos later completely guilt free. Guilt-free about being productive at least, after all, there is a considerable amount of self-loathing that goes along with any personal nacho fiesta.
He starts down the page and begins marking with his red pen. Embarrassed, he circles his your-you’re confusion and laments that he can’t remember why he thought Thomas Merriweather Rockefeller was a good name for any character, let alone the main one. Self-Hating Saturday had already started and John hadn’t even binged on nachos, been to church, or spoke to his parents yet.
John’s conscious mind continued editing while his unconscious mind let his left hand wander. His left hand blazed a trail through the maze of skin, blanket, and underwear and popped in at John’s junk as if to say, “Good morning, beautiful; you feel like dancing?”
With just a splinter of morning wood remaining, John’s left hand realized he was going to have to do most of the work rousing this sleeping giant, but hey, you can’t start a fire without a spark—but a lot of wood would certainly help.
John’s conscious mind snapped into it; he knew how he could pass the time—the answer had been literally right in front of him. His attention shifted and he was soon only skimming through his bad symbolism and unnatural dialogue. Suddenly, he realized that he was playing with himself while reading. He now could identify with the way hipster kids feel when they read Catcher in the Rye or how Glen Beck feels when he’s proofreading his own books. Disgusted with either of those groups, John emphatically hurled his first draft across the room.
His eyelids close and his mouth opens ever so slightly; his right hand begins to work his joystick like he’s going for the high score in the video game that is himself. His mind flashed to that girl from senior year of high school. Not her as a person, like her accomplishments and what not, more so just her pink lips sucking on his thing with such force you’d think she had a jet engine for a mouth—John’s strokes sped up and his body tensed. In his mind she smiled quickly and John immediately remembers her missing tooth and shuddered a bit. Immediately, she faded from mind.
Back to the highlight reel and John’s mind jumped to a hazy, post-bar memory. He recalled this sexual encounter being like a slip and slide—it had been a particularly muggy summer and that particular girl’s vagina acted like it. So wet and smooth he recalled, as his hand now was taking the most thorough, caressing touch to his wang. He felt himself begin to lose control, slightly, as he reminisced; his hand bouncing up and down on his throbbing member like it was a piston in some well-oiled flesh engine. Suddenly he stopped, it was only now twenty-five after eleven; John still had a ways to go until five, so he decided to make this last.
John took a few strokes off in order to prevent culmination, but now he realized that he’s got to kick-start the old love machine as the realization set in that his hiatus had been too long and he should never interrupted the diligent work routine he had established. “If only I put this kind of effort and craftsmanship into my screenplays,” he though, but alas, that thought faded away in lieu of a sexual fantasy involving the cashier at the corner gas station.
It’s just an average night, John’s buying his usual pack of cigarettes and three candy bars. John then removes his card from his wallet, preparing to swipe it on the machine. But, when he goes to run it through the machine, John finds the machine has been replaced with a, now naked, cashier girl. He swipes his Red Lobster Visa down her ass crack as she peeks over at him and whispers, “credit or debit, big boy?” She turns to face him and grabs all she can of him. John, now paralyzed by his own erotic pleasure, clenches every muscle in his body as he tries to hit his figurative brakes.
Just like the guy who shows up drunk to an AA meeting—John can’t stop and he knows it. No use trying to derail this train. John tightens his grip—his hot rod turning that deep fuchsia color indicating the pleasure express was right on time. He mind drifts back to the gas station and he’s thrusting into cashier girl. He’s loving every bit of this as he looks into the mirror behind the counter to fully appreciate this moment, but right then he realizes that it isn’t a reflection of him having his way with the cashier girl in the mirror, why it’s just him having his way with a very sweaty Louie Anderson. John begins to climax as he feels the white-hot man yogurt drip down the back of his hand. His mind is racing with a lot of confused feelings about his sexuality and Louie Anderson. He wipes his hand on the sheets and curls up in a ball—looks like Self-Hating Saturday is off to a great start!
We can all agree high school kids are idiots. We always make comments about them like, “Oh, she’s so smart for her age,” and never, “Oh, she’s so smart”. We, rightfully, handicap the field to pay them a compliment; it’s like saying, “He walks pretty well for having Gout,” or, “She has a pretty good appetite for just watching them pull the plug on Grandma.” Now, dead-grandma-Old-Country-Buffet-trip or no dead-grandma-Old-Country-Buffet-trip, high school kids still remain pretty dumb on the whole and incredibly easy to trick into anything.
Now, the chucklehead who sat behind me in tenth-grade English was no exception. He wasn’t illiterate, but you sure couldn’t tell. I remember convincing him that Hemmingway’s A Farewell to Arms was titled as such because the main character’s arms are blown off in an explosion at the end. Like an old woman slipping on a banana peel and breaking her hip as she lands in a pile of wet garbage and cats, it was hysterical and sad all at the same time.
One day before class this future community college dropout was speculating on how he wants to go out when the world freezes over. Yes, he is convinced that the world is going to end where everyone and everything is suspended in time and completely frozen, because, clearly, he sees the only logical end of the world being a super villain using some sort of doomsday device to freeze us all after the ransom of ten-thousand Asian babies isn’t paid. Climate change, asteroids, nuclear war—all of these theories never crossed his mind or do not hold any credibility in his mind. Refreshing to see that he doesn’t pay attention in his science or social studies classes either.
Chucklehead elaborates further that at the moment of said hyper-freezing of the world he wants to mid-coitus with a lady. This way, in his eyes, when future beings thaw his corpse out there will never be any doubt in their eyes on whether or not this man was able to get pussy. Adamant, he said this was the way he wanted to go out as, apparently, there is nothing else in his life he would want to be remembered by other than his ability to convince this one lucky woman let him wiggle around his stink pickle inside of her this one instance.
It’s shocking to me that this was the only way that he thought he could demonstrate his pussy prowess to future archaeologists. Frankly, he could have just wished to be with his children when the world ended; a touching gesture that confirms that this man had raised children and has had sex in the past. If he didn’t want his kids to be with him he could have just asked to die clutching child support and alimony collection letters, further demonstrating that at least during one point during his life he was able to let his bathing suit area rub up against a lady’s bathing suit area enough to get her pregnant.
Really, this chucklehead is overlooking the most obvious solution which would be just constantly prepare for the end of the world by perpetually wearing a t-shirt that says something like “I Fuck On the First Date”, “Pussy Poacher”, or “I’m RSVP-ing to the Orgy As “Cumming””, as any one of those t-shirts would undoubtedly be worn by an individual who wants to show off how much sex they have had.
To be James Blunt, his solution leaves a lot to be desired. First off, slowly freezing to death with your penis out sounds like horrible way to die. Plus what if the archaeologists interpret it wrong? I mean, honestly, what if they do a future autopsy and reveal that the girl died four hours before the world ended and Chucklehead died?
As for me I’m hoping to die the way I lived—drunk and in a karaoke related mishap.
