Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Category Archives: Rave

Everyone is Awesome-3

5 Comments Posted by on June 7, 2013

Gee golly gosh, you beautiful readers always make me blush like I’m the nerd who took off his glasses only to reveal to everyone he’s the homecoming queen they’ve long been searching for.  Seriously though, you guys are amazing and I can’t thank you enough for reading.  You are all attractive sweethearts and will always have the rights of full citizenship in Adult-Baby Nation.

 

I love reading your comments; they are these charming, little nuggets of fun that I am always excited to read every week. WordPress is truly filled with incredibly talented and wonderfully delightful individuals who share a passion for writing and creating.  People on here thrive on the pleasure that comes with writing a personal anecdote, an interesting thought, or, in my case, disgusting stories and pun-laden erotica.

 

They say in Heaven love comes first, well, I think WordPress has made Heaven a place on Earth, or at least the Internet.

 

Anyways, I just wanted to say thanks to everyone who reads this and who comments on my stuff.  Further, I know I am terrible at responding to awards—it has been my curse since the days of soccer “participation” trophies.   However, and I know this is a Tracy Morgan-esque cop out, I would just like to plug all of the kind bloggers who have nominated me for such honors since my last one of these.

 

Mama’s Been Drinkin’: A mostly travel blog that still finds time to rant about coffee addictions and berate Debbie Downers. Further, it turned me on to the notion that “get laid or find Jesus” could be the new the new “carpe diem.”

 

Jenny Mac: By the title, I originally assumed this was the elusive website where Jenny McCarthy shares her recipes for macaroni and cheese, but, actually, it’s a great blog full of sneak peaks of bits of her novels.

 

Musings&Rants: A site that appreciates the ridiculousness and hilarity that falls into all scopes of life.

 

IChalkIt: A couch-potato-turned-crossfitter who will be happy to discuss the finer points and contours of banana hammocks.  What more could you possibly want when it comes to fitness advice?

 

BinkyBecky: I couldn’t find a link to her stuff, but I assure you she is a sweetheart who loves David Sedaris: truly two of the best traits to have.

 

Fate’s Janitors: A site about yet another good book that I have yet to read.  It’s a book written by a psychotherapist who is trying to life the veil and expose the realities about what truly occurs at a mental health clinic—consider my interest piqued!

 

Honey, Did You See That?: A blog devoted to the adventure that is life and the adventure that is marriage.  Funny stuff and I can’t thank her enough for her constant support of my site.

 

Two Rights Trying to Make a Left: Incredibly sweet and uplifting blog that chronicles a married couple, who seem to be a perfect match, dealing with the complications resulting from the husband’s life threatening illness.

 

I Have No Opinion I’d Like to Share:  A refreshingly honest take on opinions about anything and everything in her life.  You don’t agree with her?  She doesn’t care.

 

Amaranthis Paradisus:  A cultured approach to the arts and philosophy with commentary on capital punishment and reasons why Interview with a Vampire is a great flick.

 

Whims: A mom who isn’t afraid to tell it like it or say the word fuck. The hilarity of family life is alive and well on this blog.

 

And That’s All She Wrote: Some seriously delicious food porn on this site.  It truly sparks my appetite, and the part of my libido that conditioned with appetizing dishes.

 

Write in the Wrong Way: Hilariously cynical posts from a mom who discloses the awkward moments in her life and what upsets her about them in funny ways.

 

This Typing Makes Me Look Busy:  She’s hilarious, she gives away mustache awards, and she’s self-deprecating in her humor—yes, she may be new at this, but she’s already great blogger.

 

That’s about it for now, my attempts at writing humorously will resume next Friday—I’ll give the muscles you use to cringe or vomit the week off.

 

Love,

Justin

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Nice, Rave , , , , , ,

Everyday Hero

19 Comments Posted by on May 31, 2013

Color me impressed. Maybe it’s his apathetic demeanor or maybe it’s his apparent philosophy that blends self-confidence with a desire for perpetual comfort.  Regardless, this man has me in awe. Truly a modern-day Paunch De Leon, his portly self traverses the globe on his own terms without regard to the impression he leaves.  He’s a throwback to a time when we weren’t concerned about what designer clothes we wore, what makeup we put on, or what our friends were gossiping about.  He embodies the spirit of a tribe of hunters and gathers during an era when the only criteria for mating was that both parties were currently alive—a criteria shared in contemporary society by only sex addicts and unpopular, obese, fifteen-year-old boys with skin rashes and orthodontic headgear.

I’ve never been formally introduced to my idol—I’ve only longingly gazed at him while in the locker room at my gym.  He’s a paradigm of indifference, abiding by a single directive to be completely comfortable with himself at all times.  It’s never been more apparent than when he will casually saunter out of the communal showers with his single towel slung over his hairy, chubby shoulder as if proclaiming to the room through his body language, “Take a good look if you want; it always goes down smooth and I could care less.”

Always one to air dry, he relishes in his naked freedom. I’ve witnessed his pasty, nude body pace about the locker rows while taking a conference call.  I’ve watched while he crouched, his bulges and ripples fomenting and subsiding like tectonic plates, as he spent twenty minutes re-lacing his sneakers before putting clothes on.  He will rush is he is in the mood; the man will round a corner with astonishing speed and no concern for what or whom his appendages crash into on the other side.  Stoic and unfazed, he’s unconcerned if said collision sparks any awkwardness, confusion, or awakening of sexual desires on the part of the other party.

On occasion I’ll catch him dipping the filtered end of a cigarette into a cup of nacho cheese before placing it in his mouth and sucking it down.  It’s a move that violates the gym’s rules of no smoking, no open flame, and no nacho cheese, but he doesn’t mind—this is his world, we just all live in it.

His baldhead, his gut, his shag rug of back hair—none concern him.  He is a man comfortable in his own, albeit kind of rashy, skin.

I wish he held a seminar, but I realize this is a lifestyle than cannot be simply taught but needs to be lived out everyday to be truly grasped.  Once you’ve accepted that one does not need to impress everyone, and, in reality, one doesn’t need to impress most people, you can perpetually exist in a serene, self-consciousness-free state, even while unleashing a thundering, grout-rattling blast from your single-barrel, 1.25-caliber fudgy shotgun into a toilet in a crowded lavatory.  Embarrassment, remorse, shame: you won’t feel any of it.  All you’ll feel is relief and maybe pride as you stroll out of the bathroom after not washing your hands or tipping the bathroom attendant trying to stifle his vomit.

My hero has set the standard high, but it is attainable if we take it one hour, or one step, or one unconscientious act at a time.

Oh, we too can be heroes, even just for one day.

Advice, Fitness, Rave , , , , , , ,

Give Me My Check Now

17 Comments Posted by on May 24, 2013

This experience has been highly objectionable and I want it to end as soon as possible.  I’ve watched this waitress saunter about the restaurant, feigning laughter and genuine interest in customers’ stories while permitting that smallest of small talk to gush out of her dolled-up face socket.  Yes, Toots, that’s right, your overly-projected conversation about it raining two days in a row is not fascinating to anyone.  It’s odd to make a point of something being unremarkable, but that quip was not conversation-worthy in the slightest.  You’ve exhibited a blatantly offensive lack of self-awareness when you didn’t even hesitate before launching into that monotonous monologue.  Initially, I thought it might be an isolated incident, but not three minutes later you started in on a tirade about your mild dislike of lentils. Honestly, everyone’s life’s too short to listen to that.

 

Release me from this tediously droning waking terror and bring me my check.  I know I don’t like you, but you can be my angel and set me free.

 

My high-school guidance counselor explicitly explained that I was not a people person.  He advised a “career” in becoming mildly injured and collecting government disability checks while I frittered away sixty years alone through microwavable cheese-based foods and daytime TV.   Young and idealistic, I was convinced he was wrong, but as I sit here today, fantasizing about this waitress contracting a severe case of lockjaw, I’m recognizing the accuracy of my guidance counselor’s diagnosis.

 

Whenever a waitress starts in with a personal story or anecdote, my appetite becomes forcefully suppressed. Impulsively, I’m flooded with a desire to bolt to the nearest gas station and eat a cold hot pocket in my car in lieu of continuing this unfortunate exchange.  Sadly, this restaurant is in one of those neighborhoods where the convenience stores only sell malt liquor, lottery tickets, and other non-hot-pocket remedies to sadness.

 

I think this waitress knows exactly what she’s doing; it’s this passive-aggressive demeanor that she knows rips me up inside like a misguided owl just going hard and fierce on the face and scalp of kid with a filthy rattail.  Look, she’s just taking another lap of her tables then pretending she can’t figure out the computer. If I wasn’t such a devout capitalist on my way from my weekly worship at the First Objectivistic Room of Ayn Rand I would walk out.  I would strap up my summer slippers, light a cigarette to instantly put out in my coffee, and bid a good day to this time-squandering emporium of griddlecakes and pig meat.

 

Holy taco night, this waitress is awful.  Think of what would happen to the glove, ring, and nail polish industries if every carpenter, slaughterhouse worker, or sawmill foremen were this terrible and inattentive at their jobs.  I’m considering dumping this coffee on the floor, intentionally slipping in it, and bleeding profusely in order to get her to bring me the check and in order to start another frivolous legal battle.

 

This notion started as a conspiracy theory, but I’m now suspecting this hussie is on a power trip.  She must know my predicament, but who tipped her off?  Trust no one, everyone is a suspect.  This is why I never tell anybody anything.

 

I’m done.  I’m not playing into her game.  She can come over her and tell me all the excuses in the world about busy tables, about her irrational fear of computers, or about her perpetual bout with gout—I won’t care.  Nope, I’m going to do the adult thing: call into work, tie up this table all morning gingerly sipping my coffee out of spite, and top it all off by leaving a frowny face in the tip line of the bill.  While fighting fire with fire is not recommended strategy for putting out house fires, fighting passive aggression with passive aggression is always the way to go.

Complaints, Fiscally Savvy, Rave , , , , , , ,

Burger Review

16 Comments Posted by on April 5, 2013

I’m disappointed and heartbroken.  I’m baffled and tired of crying.  Fancy James’ Fancy House of Burgers, you’ve hustled this nomadic meat cowboy and your transgression will not soon be forgotten.  My taste buds, my only true friends in this world, have been scorned by your rancid flavors and the bond between my buddies and I has been weakened significantly.  Frankly, Fancy James’ Fancy House of Burgers, these bleak, hopelessness emotions haven’t been conjured up since CBS announced their mid-season lineup and for that I will be writing a most unfavorable Zagat review.

 

It’s disgraceful that one can’t get a quality burger anymore.  Honestly, I see this as a blatant lack of respect for a man who has created countless war heroes for this country—seriously I slave over those sandwiches that I send off to the troops working at the recruitment office.

 

There’s no repressing this anger—no, I’m way too upset to push it down, maintain my composure, and wait until I get home to punch my mailman in the throat again.  I was screeching, squealing, and demanding retribution of the offenses suffered on my behalf, but no, I was merely escorted from the premises without apology for the culinary injustice.

 

Everything about the entrée was unacceptable; this is America, we know how to cook meats and craft them into tasty sandwiches, but Fancy James is clearly unaware of ethos.  Even the presentation was wrong—if you’re going to operate a fancy house of burgers, you should shoot for extravagance, not minimalism.  It was as if Werner Herzog had plated the food to remind me that there is nothing in this universe except sustenance, disappointment, and fear.

 

For a fleeting second, I considered that the presentation was designed to be emphatic.  One burger and nothing more—it didn’t require garnish, respect, or love, no, as long as we have meat sandwiches we can perpetuate the species.  However, I soon realized this was not the case.

 

The first bite extinguished all notion of this burger serving as a beacon of humanity.  The bun was dry and moist all at the same time, like it had been under a heat lamp for too long before being set on a damp dishrag.  My jaw ached and my mouth tasted like sandy, gritty regret.

 

A pungent, buttery taste grabbed my attention and I assumed I had bit into a pickle slice.  You’d have thought being immersed in brine would preserve them, but these pickles tasted more like they were just drifting aimlessly in a bathtub filled with salt and hot tub water for months before they found their way into this technically-edible horror.   Truly, they were like old men at an Obama campaign stop—withered, sour, and, I’m speculating, racially insensitive.

 

This ketchup wasn’t helping distract me from the cacophony of distaste in my mouth.  It was too runny and tasted like iron, so, it’s possible that it was actually not ketchup and was just extra blood from the cow, a slaughterhouse worker who was the victim of a goof gone wrong, or maybe just from a line chef in the back who kept sneezing while he had a bloody nose.  Oh, I’ve been there, buddy; those days were always wacky!  Regardless of your line chef’s comical pratfalls, this burger is far from fancy, James.  Why use blood for a “fancy” burger when you could just use fancy ketchup?

 

The meat was by far the worst.  Overpowering, it was as if the burger was cooked on a grill that was filled with menthol cigarettes instead of propane or charcoal.  It didn’t taste like beef; it was gamy, like a woodland creature, a possum, a muskrat, or like several field mice ground up.  Truly horrendous though, but at least I knew my gag reflex still worked.

 

Fancy James, I will never return to this fancy house of burgers’ location.  Zagat.com and anyone else who is willing to listen will be privy to the injustices I have suffered.  Yes, it was a free, no, it wasn’t cooked to my liking, and, true, I did find it in the dumpster in the back of your parking lot because I didn’t want to pay for food, but I still found it objectionably detestable and will inform the Internet to prevent them from being subjected to such atrocities.

Grotesque, Rave, Recipe , , , , ,

Dinner Party

53 Comments Posted by on February 15, 2013

An extra threatening letter from the gas company, an envelope speckled with blood addressed to a senator, a third subscription to Bathtub Gin Aficionado: seriously, anything would be better to receive in the mail than an invite to this dinner party.

 

Ugh, and it’s from the Mayfields.  I know they’re going to badger me into going; I can’t just cease contact, take the credit hit, and use the oven to heat the apartment until spring like I do with the gas company.

 

Dinner parties, junk coupons, and Ted Kaczynski—this is why people are no longer excited to receive anything in the mail.

 

The Mayfields are the overbearing pseudo-friends who insist on throwing these things.  Yes, the Mayfields are truly the worst.  Their friendship is like that rash I have from losing that McNugget in my long johns—too easy to acquire, but nearly impossible to get rid of.

 

My laissez-faire approach to distancing myself clearly hasn’t been working.  The Mayfields interpret my immature mannerisms as a “cry for help” instead of being non-confrontational ways to get them to stop inviting me.  Why do they want a guest who shows up an hour late, brings only half a bottle of fortified wine for dinner, and then eats all of their children’s gummy vitamins before falling asleep in their dog’s bed?

 

You’d think the three far-from-PG stories I perpetually trod out about the same day in that Sizzler bathroom would scare them off, but they just keep inviting me.  It’s like they’re trying to break me and mold me into a fanciful and respectable person—it’s like my first semester at the Attractive Man Magic Academy all over again.

 

Excuses fail me, I’ve used everything in the book from my dog is sick to Grandma needs to go to the pound to be put down.  The Mayfields see right through my attempted ploy, insist they won’t take no for an answer, and assert that I be by at five tomorrow.

 

I show up at quarter-to-seven and I’m surprised that they’re just sitting down for appetizers.  Well played, Mayfields, give me an earlier time knowing I’ll show up apathetically late.  I give them the now-two-thirds-empty bottle of a very oaky 2012 drifter wine that only tastes like oak because I accidentally got bark in it on the way over.  I let their slave-child take my bathrobe turned overcoat and slump into a chair

 

This weird root for an appetizer is absolutely abhorrent.  I don’t care if you brought it back from your trip to Ecuador, Mayfields; every bite still tastes like a gritty family of un-delicious mice died in my mouth. Fantastic, someone had to ask about their trip—now we’re going to be launched into a twenty-minute story with only minimal explosions, predictable plot twists, and only partial nudity.

 

We sit down for dinner and placed in front of me is some sort of bowl filled with nothing but ruffage and boiled chicken.  Blechh, I can already feel my taste buds drafting a collective suicide manifesto.

 

Call me old-fashioned, but, instead of chicken, how about hot pocket slices in the salad?  And you know what could make that dish even better?  Just a hot pocket in its crisping sleeve that I’m eating in a bubble bath as I’m alone in my apartment reading Heaven’s Gate fan fiction while I’m not at this shitty dinner party.

 

I’m just going to use this bowl as an ironic ashtray, because this salad couldn’t be farther from Flavor Country.

 

Casserole for dinner lets me know that Mrs. Mayfield is capable of combining measurements together and following minimal instructions to create something that tastes like molten garbage.  I promptly empty my plate into the dog’s bowl because if I wanted to eat a bunch of food mixed up with a bunch of other food that together smells like low tide I would have just licked that pool of vomit off the bathroom floor at Red Lobster when I had the chance.

 

I’m just going see what they have in the fridge—oh, good, they have ingredients for nachos.  Seriously, how hard would it have been to just make me nachos, or just not pester me into coming at all?

 

Eating my nachos with the other guests in uncomfortable silence was the highlight of the evening.  Things got much worse when Mr. Mayfield brought out a tray of fruit for dessert.  Fruit is not an acceptable dessert.  We’re talking about dessert in 2013, not a Christmas present during the Great Depression.  God, this fresh watermelon is awful; it doesn’t taste like the Starburst flavor at all.  Thankfully, I’ll just have another cigarette for my after dinner treat.

 

Finally, dinner is technically over and I’m ready to leave.  On the way out the Mayfields said, “Thank you for making it, Justin.” To which I replied, “Yeah, I’m going to be honest because you’re clearly not getting my passive aggressive message, but let’s never do this again.”

 

Mrs. Mayfield weeps; Mr. Mayfield escorts me out before consoling her.

 

That’s why they call me Bad Company, I can’t deny.  Bad, Bad Company, till the day I die.

Complaints, Rave , , , , , ,

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