Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Tag Archives: adult humor

Reefer Dad-ness

“Ahem, gentlemen, I stand corrected—there evidently are bad ideas in brainstorming. Why is it that we’re losing ground across the board and yet we’re only pitching conservative strategies that’ll, at best, lose the fight slower? To me that doesn’t make sense. I know it’s an uphill battle, but capitalism and science aren’t sleeping; nope, they’re out there every day, hustling to make drugs stronger, cheaper, and easier to obtain.

 

“Relax, no need for jaw clenching and rabble-rousing; I know I’m just a college sophomore three weeks into my summer internship here at D.A.R.E. America. All I’m saying is that, if we want a game-changer, we’re going to have to do better than commissioning a few police lectures, rinky-dink parades, and videos of drug-addled teens unsuccessfully outrunning trains.

 

“Put your hands down; I already know what you’re going to say. Yes, sob-story eulogies were all the rage back when kids still had feelings. Lay some sad, acoustic riff over it and those jaded sixteen-year-olds would melt into a malleable, whimpering putty. But today’s kids don’t care—they’re too busy sucking down energy drinks and snapping funeral selfies. The Golden Age is gone; the game’s changed and our playbook hasn’t.

 

“Look, before I committed my life to revolutionizing drug awareness propaganda, I was a real bad apple: rotten with poisons on the inside and red with chronic acne on the outside. At seventeen I was self-conscious and no stranger to succumbing to a jibber joint rolled up with that sticky Alaskan Slowfuck, always worried that saying no to such dankitude would mean permanent exile from popularity.

 

“Lost I was. Lost in the wilderness, a hazy, Aeropostale-littered wilderness. It was anxious and humiliating, but pricelessly insightful nonetheless.

 

“Senior Board Members, today I stand before you and assert that we don’t need to un-dorkify sobriety; we only need to make using drugs more un-cool than abstaining. And, for high-schoolers, what’s collectively un-cool? It’s not cops. It’s not Republicans. It’s not even the Christian clique. No, for today’s teens there’s nothing more universally un-cool than their parents.

 

“I say we get the parents involved, but not by self-righteously lecturing. Unless their parents are snack-hawking cartoon cheetahs or disgraced celebrities, teens aren’t listening. Overt dishonesty won’t work either; research shows adolescents won’t start eating healthy or writing thank you notes just because their parents tell them it’s the summer’s hot, new, funky fresh fad.

 

“We need some a-typical guerilla tactics. Namely, we need to get parents to start doing drugs with their kids. To me, there’s no better way to make teens’ stoned experiences awkward while effectively showcasing how un-cool and un-fun drugs can be.

 

“Hear me out. Parents can cultivate an obnoxious stoner persona to shift into who feebly discusses universe interconnectedness, recites awful homespun poetry, and incessantly quotes Austin Powers. Plus, we’ll coach parents to maximize paranoia by peppering in quips like ‘Did I just say that or did you just think that?’ or ‘Premonitions are bullshit; Grandma’s okay though, right, man?’

 

“It won’t happen overnight. Teens aren’t going to be permanently disinclined after just half a family blunt and twenty minutes of their pops donning one of those smell-hoarding ponchos and ineptly noodling around on a guitar. Real change and real resentment take time and expectations need to be managed. It’ll take commitment. We’ll need a country of parents abhorrently high, constantly bothering their children with new conspiracy theories and terrible ideas for rock operas.

 

“Soon enough though, teens nationwide will start associating the one-two punch of utter irritation and festering anxiety with drug use and start saying no whenever they’re peer pressured. It worked for Pavlov. It worked on Little Albert. And I guarantee, with the right guidance, we’ll be able to keep 2014’s teenagers off drugs one embarrassingly uncomfortable Shagadelic at a time!”

 

 

 

 

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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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