Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Category Archives: Fiscally Savvy

Almost Strangers Almost on an Almost Train

“Honey, we’ve gone over this; Jane and I are just catching up today.

 

“No, no, no, I’d never do anything like that; it’d be like eating Jif when you’ve got Skippy waiting at home. Look, you and I have been married eleven wonderful years. I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—throw all this away for some choosy, opinionated mom in a railcar-style diner.

 

“Don’t worry about a thing. Jane and I were together for, maybe, three weeks back when were fresh out of college. She’s essentially a stranger at this point, a boring, weak-tea-and-water-flavored-oatmeal-ordering stranger. You’re the keeper. Fun, a little daring, you’re the one I chose to share my life with. Jane’s no keeper; she’s more like taupe wallpaper: static, particular, and painfully bland.

 

“I couldn’t tell you specifics; it’s been close to twenty years since I’ve seen her. Really, I’m remembering across-the-board average: not pretty enough or freakish enough to turn heads. Made-for-TV-movie forgettable. You’re much more attractive, okay? Is that the ego boost you’re looking for? Fine, yes, if we must, we can rehash that everyone I ever dated before you was a filthy tramp crafted out of nothing more than wickedness and cellulite.

 

“Wait, honey, that’s brilliant. Jane would be perfect; she’s oozing with pure nondescript unremarkableness! I can see it now, ‘Be on the lookout for an ordinary, possibly Caucasian, bipedal, carbon-based maybe-woman wearing muted tones and being likely some number of years old.’ The police would be stumped; Jane’d never be caught, let alone ever linked back to us.

 

“No, stop, no more second guessing; it was a good idea and it’s the right thing to do. Uncle Rich has been squandering away his fortune, our owed inheritance, in that assisted-care facility long enough. Sponge baths, cable, electricity for his breathing machine, glamor enemas, he’s become unbearably frivolous! We get Plain Jane in there, she inadvertently pulls his plug, I’ll yank out a life-sustaining plug or two in her life or maybe, like, clean her gutters or something, and we’re good. A little guilt-riddled, but financially set. Crisscross.

 

“It just makes sense; the numbers don’t lie. Neither of our parents will give us the money to support our lifestyle. Neither of us can get the hours at work. We’re already on our second mortgage and creditors are calling every day. At this point we just need to do what’s right for us. It’s the best option. Family comes first, and immediate family comes before nearly-dead, flush-with-cash uncle.

 

“We can’t waver. This could solve everything. It’s our Hail Mary but desperate times call for desperate measures and if we’re going to have the funds in place to buy a new speedboat in time for summer we need him to die ASAP. I just can’t wait to see our so-called friends, green with envy, as the two of us zip around the lake on our new forty-footer, no longer the laughingstock of the club. This will be our summer, baby; an uncle murder is a small price to pay to finally achieve affluence and social status.

 

“Now don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’ll press Jane to get this done quick; I think the boat show’s in town next weekend.”

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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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