Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Category Archives: Grotesque

The Overweight Coalition Plans Recruitment

“Easy, easy, simmer down, there’s plenty of scraps for everyone in this office fridge.

“No one’s actually talking, but if the louder chewers could keep it down that’d be appreciated. We have actual business to discuss—Friday Fridge Cleanout isn’t just grazing this week.

“I don’t need to tell you guys; it’s on the tip of our collective tongue just as much as this still-okay, three-day-old lasagna. It’s the new guy, Alex. Ever since that trim motherfucker first sauntered up this office’s half-flight of stairs without panting or dry heaving two Mondays ago he’s been cramping this workplace’s happily-fat habits with his blatantly healthy lifestyle.

“Okay, slow your rolls. I’m noting a mist of anger and mouth crumbs forming and we don’t need anyone to pull a jowel here. We’ll all have a chance to speak out about Alex; no one needs to risk choking on these mildly-stale macaroons we foraged.

“Alex is the real deal, burley brothers and stout sisters. Restraint, pants in normal sizes, self-respect—this kid’ll be tough to break. In just ten days here I’ve watched him turn down donuts on numerous occasions. I overheard him ask for vegetarian options during Meat Tray Monday. And he smugly declined my offer of drawn butter yesterday. He left me looking like the one asshole in the break room with no self-control who puts drawn butter on his tuna salad sandwich.

“Enough is enough. I’m tired of his passive fat shaming—every time he turns something down it’s like he’s stating he’s too good for our high-calorie, high-fructose, high-flavor lifestyle. I ask you all, how can we be expected to feel comfortable gorging in a den riddled with his unspoken, skinny judgment? Our life-shortening practices deserve support, and this time I don’t just mean from our girdles.

“We’ve been lucky with the apathetically-hefty hirings the company’s made over the last two years; however, I’m afraid we’re going to need to begin active recruitment.  It can be done, people. Henderson here was the last one we converted and look at him now: face-deep in container of four-day-old pasta salad that he’s doused with Thousand Island dressing.  You’re an inspiration to us all, Henderson; glad to have you on board.

“Henderson, you went willingly. Alex might be tougher. But, much like our champion tug-of-war team, if we all pull together I think we can effectively guilt him into gaining through a covert artery-clogging assault.

“We’ll start each morning.  I’ll get here early with cream-heavy donuts or cream-heavy bagels and leave one at his desk on a napkin with his name on it. The draw will be too great. Only a diabetic sociopath would be able throw anything that sweet away. Soon he’ll be hooked and it’ll be part of his routine.  I’ll dispense the butter misters, too. All of us can stealthily tack on calories whenever he leaves his food unattended.

“Further, we’ll begin holding a ‘raffle’ each week and of course we’ll fix it so that Alex always wins the gift cards to T.G.I.Friday’s.  That place will be perfect—even just a side salad and a glass of water will run him north of 1,000 calories at Total-Gravy Indulgence Friday’s.

“Last, and I think this should go without saying, we’ll start up the perpetual birthday racket.  I’ll run point, but I want everyone here claiming a ‘birthday’ within the next three weeks. With this we’ll be able to peddle heaping mounds of cake and ice cream on him daily and justify it all with ‘inclusiveness’.

“Of course, if our scheme to fatten him up doesn’t take, we’ll just do things the old-fashioned way and send him an anonymous series of menacingly sexual threats before setting his car on fire.”

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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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