Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

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.

 

About these ads
Complaints, Grotesque , , , , , , ,

Idiots’ Guide to Idiom Etiquette

22 Comments Posted by on April 26, 2013

Idioms: delightful bits of speech intended to confuse non-native speakers and prompt said individuals to inquire about your collections of felines in burlap sacks or your apprehensions on scuffling with local bureaucrats.  Way to be, English, even people who’ve studied your obscure, contradicting, and arbitrary rules for years can still appear inept when they ask as to why one would commit such brutal atrocities against an equine’s corpse.

 

Generally dealing with obscurely specific situations, idioms can be quips in our rhetoric that innocently offend people from time.  For instance, be very careful about your phrasing when it comes to discussing prices or affection towards strangers if you’re trying to converse with your self-hating, paraplegic neighbor.  Idioms report that misery loves company, but, shockingly, your neighbor probably doesn’t.

 

The true icing on the cake of non-English speakers familiarizing themselves with idioms is watching them trot them out for the first time—truly the literal icing because it is so delicious to witness that it just has to be fattening.  Once the idiom is explained to them they become like a kid who just opened the handgun gifted to them on their seventh birthday—yes, they’ll eventually be competent with their new toy but there’s going to be a lot of casualties and embarrassment before that.  Don’t be surprised if one of his or her early conversations ends with someone screaming, “I don’t know about you, but I don’t see the world through that lens.  So, yeah, you and your figurative, racially-obsessed kettle can just leave!”

 

Like anything really, idiom etiquette relies heavily on timing.  It’s curt to remark on the frivolous nature of idiots’ finances if you’re chatting with someone who lost significant wealth in the Bernie Madoff scandal.  Plus, idioms are fairly inflexible, so if you find yourself halfway into remarking how you’re stuck between two unyielding forces when you realize you’re speaking with the man 127 Hours is based off of the best solution for you is to probably just walk away midsentence and commence a session of self-hating in the privacy of a bathroom stall.  And really, you should really know which saying to avoid if you find yourself in a room with a Middle-Eastern straw baron who recently had to shoot his prized transport in the head after it was horrifically crippled during an extensive haul.

 

Idioms, you’re truly a lot of fun, but no matter how familiar I become with you I’ll always find it bizarre when people say, “Speak of the devil,” even when they’re not currently discussing Marv Albert.

Absurd, Nice , , , , , ,

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 , , , , ,

Business Erotica

23 Comments Posted by on April 12, 2013

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.”

Erotic Fiction, Fiscally Savvy , , , , ,

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 , , , , ,

← Older posts

Newer posts →

%d bloggers like this: