Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

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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Fun and Failure Both Start With Creative Liberties [Part 1/2]

“It’s a new website,” she said. “You can write about pretty much anything you want,” she said. “Fast cars, hot girls, and world traveling are some of our favorite things,” she said before asking if I would want to be a contributor to her site dedicated to living the life of luxury.

“Sure,” I said, sensing the impending rift between her Bentley-heavy, mansion-obsessed concept of materialistic lavishness and my self-proclaimed “charmed existence” filled with public-bathroom excursions and Double Coupon Tuesdays at the taco cart. Yet, I did not address this. Instead I told her I’d have two pieces ready in time for site’s launch. No need for trivial questions; she had already stated that I could write pretty much anything I wanted.

At this point I think anyone reading this can see exactly where this filth train is heading. Yes, I wrote about portions of my fabulous life that may have differed from her notions of luxury. Yes, they chose not to use either of them. Yes, both pieces did involve me being naked.

Heartbroken I was not. Like anyone responsibly active in the dating scene, I had a Plan B in my back pocket. So today, and at some point next week, enjoy these two rejects that highlight some choice cuts of my charmed existence.

First Rejected Article: I Ate a Block of Cheese in the Bathtub and I’ve Never Felt Better

The intoxicating, narcissistic pleasure that accompanies fibbing your way out of all of your responsibilities courses through my body, effectively boosting my mid-morning gin buzz. The world will have to manage without me for now. Today, you see, is exclusively about me and my ravenous appetite for unadulterated hedonism.

The tub slowly fills and I disrobe. By that I mean I take off my pair of tattered, food-stained underpants. I shut the faucet off and the flow curbs to a metronome-like drip. Facing my second-biggest fear, I step barefoot into the soothing bathwater, careful to grip the towel bar so I don’t end up slipping, self-concussing, and toilet-drowning before inevitably being found naked and dead weeks later by the maintenance guy. Meticulously, I coax my awful body, my paunchy catastrophe, into the hot water. It takes a few seconds, but I comfortably adjust and relinquish the reins of all bodily functions to the tub.

Lounging against the white porcelain, I delight in the contrast the tub walls strike with my skin. I may be a pasty, eczema-riddled gumdrop, but against the sterile, white surroundings I’m feeling tan and sassy, like I’m a dangerous Caribbean knife-fighter. The hot water caresses every inch of my body. I’m a human bouillon cube, except I’m flavored more along the lines of steamy garbage and assorted filth than either beef or chicken.

A deep breath surfaces from my lungs and I reach for my game changer. No, this time I don’t mean my penis, but rather the block of Colby-Jack cheese methodically perched on the back of my toilet tank.

My hands tremble while I unwrap the tasty delight. The sixteen-ounces of pure marbled joy stare back at me. We’re two soul mates who at long last can finally indulge in one another. Quivering, my pruned fingers bring the pleasure inducer to my sopping-wet, now-gaping lips and I jam as much as I can in while emitting a soft, involuntary moan. Time slows. My jaws churn and my eyes roll back while every ounce of stress, strain, or apartheid guilt melts away in this perfect moment.

Soon I’m adrift in a waking fantasy and I’ve lost track of where the cheese ends and my mouth begins. The semi-hardness of the Colby-Jack renders me semi-hard as well. I begin having trouble remembering anything about myself or any space outside of this bathroom. A warm, white light floods the small room briefly, but it disappears as I realize that the entire cheese block has, too, vanished.

Exhausted but relaxed, I promptly spark a post-gorge cigarette before ashing it in the adjacent toilet. Thickets of body hair swirl in the ebbs and flows of the tub, like seaweed in a riverbed. A satisfied smile creeps across my face; I know I’ve effectively decompressed years of stress without even setting foot in a spa

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