Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Tag Archives: adult humor

Guess What, Grandpa is Dead: A Phone Call From U.S. State Department in Jamaica

28 Comments Posted by on May 10, 2013

Yes, is a Wilma Pennybuckle available?

 

Oh, terribly sorry, you’re already on the line.  Although, I probably should have saved my “terribly sorry” for what I’m about to tell you because, honestly, it’s just going to seem like I’m marginalizing bad news now.

 

No, please, I insist, Mrs. Pennybuckle, stop guessing.  To the best of my knowledge, no conspiracy exists that causes your grandchildren to keep putting on weight, I don’t think your pharmacist is trying to poison you, and I don’t think because your new mailman being black is an omen that a “tribe” of Nigerians moving in to the unsold house down the street. Further, I’d assume should they existed they would use the “family” and not don’t use the word “tribe” to describe themselves.

 

Honestly, I’m calling you today to inform you that your husband, Bucky Pennybuckle, has died in Jamaica.  Now I didn’t know him personally, but it seems like he was a man with a fun name to say and I am terribly sorry for your loss.

 

Interesting, you were unaware he was in Jamaica?

 

Hmmm, he said Omaha on business for the annual shower cap convention.

 

Ah ha, if by “Omaha” he meant “Montego Bay, Jamaica,” and by “annual shower cap convention” he meant “sex tourism extravaganza,” and by “business” he meant “three nights of sensual pleasure spent with various women before being robbed, bound, and having his face beaten to a pulp with a piano leg before being dumped in a sugar cane plantation,” then, yes, he was being very transparent and honest.

 

No, there was no trace of any actual business happening on this trip, unless by “business” you mean—

 

I see, I see.

 

Yes, I really am getting some mileage out of that gag.

 

Now, I realize this is a little personal, but did your late husband every show a proclivity for any specific fetishes?  We’re just trying to figure out if the ropes, bondage hood, and nipple clamps were put on him to make him easier to bludgeon, or if that was just what he was into.

 

I’m sorry, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I’m sure Mr. Pennybuckle would vomit with anger as well if he had, as you so eloquently put it, “had known he was going to die in a country run by drug-addicted, dark gypsies.”  Now I must interject, Mrs. Pennybuckle, because the population here genuinely does prefer to be called “Jamaicans.”

 

How much infidelity occurred?

 

I mean, it’s difficult to say, but the authorities did recover an oddly descriptive erotic itinerary in his hotel room with very strange crudely drawn pictures drawn in it.  If those figures were correct, he had been with three call girls his first night that he had in a position he referred to as “The Devil’s Baccarat Table” and then on the second night it appears he met a very frumpy night receptionist and utilized a move he dubbed “Jonah and the Whale.”

 

I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that that reference on the Sabbath would nearly give you a stress migraine.  I’ll give you a second.

 

Anyways, it appears he was killed on the third night of his excursion.  Make no mistake, it appears that infidelity definitely occurred, as the black light investigation revealed stains on nearly every surface of his hotel room.  However, that may have just resulted from the housekeepers half-assing it these days.

 

No, no, please, please, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I do not want to hear about your exploits while he’s away; this isn’t a time for one-upping.

 

That’s really not helpful either, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I’m not going to discuss the ethnicity of the housekeepers just so you can comment on their apparent lack of work ethic.

 

Honestly, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I really just needed to break the news and have you tell me where I can send the body.

 

No, leaving the corpse with one of his mistresses is not an option; in fact, the women are actually leading suspects in this investigation.

 

No, we can’t just fly him coach back home; that’s completely out of the question

 

I assure you, Mrs. Pennybuckle, people would notice a dead passenger on the plane.

 

Okay, I’ll be sure to ship it out as quickly as possible and the funeral home will notify you when it arrives.

 

Yes, I’m sure his friends and family will be surprised.

 

I mean, there’s no reason you can’t lie or not give specifics about his demise.  I’d be sure to have a closed-casket ceremony because no one is going to believe he died from a heart attack or stroke if they see his disfigured, battered face and that regrettable Jamaican braid he had put in his hair.

 

Frankly, I don’t think the mortician is going to be fix it.  Mr. Pennybuckle’s face is completely busted—like it’s a cross between an old, melted candle and a Salvador Dali painting.

 

No, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I honestly don’t think this is Obama’s fault.

 

Okay, okay, enough, really! This is a phone call with a stranger about your logistics with your late husband’s death not a chance for you to get on your soapbox and rant about minorities.

 

Well, yes, there’s no denying that Richard Dawson was the best host of Family Feud, but could you please save your “gravy faced” discussion and banter about Steve Harvey for another time?  I’m finding it offensive and I’m a little embarrassed to even be listening to your tirade!

 

I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have scolded you; I didn’t realize that was how you deal with grief.

 

Okay, I’ll let you grieve.  I’ll send his body out as soon as possible.  They’ll keep investigating here, but his bloodstained Tommy Bahama shirt has not yielded any leads or given us any names.

 

Yeah, seriously, you’re right, that’s totally like something out of Burn Notice.

 

Shut up, no way! I’m a huge Burn Notice ­fan too!

 

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Absurd, Complaints, Erotic Fiction, Politics, World Events , , , , , ,

Please, Let Me In Your Model United Nations

20 Comments Posted by on January 18, 2013
Attn: Kelsey Sanders
Model UN President, Lincoln Middle School Chapter
Lincoln Middle School
1212 Electric Ave.
Locker 371
Lansing, Michigan
48911
 

 

Dear Ms. Sanders,

Eccentric dirbag, handsome lover, cheese and meat sampler: a smattering of terms used to describe me.  Nevertheless, notably absent from the list is “Model United Nations Rascal”, however, with my acceptance into your bunch you, your fellow sixth graders, and myself could really change that.  Please, Kelsey, my life is in a non-Tom Petty freefall; my catnaps are turning into siestas.  Those siestas are stretching into non-cat naps, and those non-cat naps are extending into eighteen hour periods of lethargic hibernation during which my muscles and organs have began to atrophy.

 

Please, toss me the life raft that is middle-school Model UN.  I need to have a reason to stop sleeping my life away.

 

I would be a great addition to your non-magical guild.  You see I’m a student of global conflict.  I’m a avid watcher of news; why, just this week I saw Matt Lauer interview a child with a courageous puppy whose novel, Bow-WOW!, is out this week, Kathie Lee Gifford gave me tips for hosting a Martin Luther King Jr. Day party that your friends and family would dream of, and Willard Scott wished happy birthday to a few old-ass biddies.  Judging by the lack of world events they covered on a national news show, I can safely assume that currently there are no global conflicts occurring anywhere.

 

However, when the global crises do arrive, I’m quick thinking and decisive, usually coming to a conclusion that I’ll obediently stand behind, even before I have all the necessary information and generally before the informant has finished speaking.   I think people respect the swiftness of my verdicts; plus, whenever I make the wrong choice, I can just blame it on not listening to all the information.  See, I’m not stupid; I’m just impatient and like to keep the game moving.

 

Further, I’m overtly boisterous, raucous, and will keep talking even if I have no idea what point I’m trying to make; perfect traits for embodying the rowdy, yet occasionally misguided, nations of Texas or Australia.  My participation grade will be a formality; everyone will know when I’m making a point because all of my points will be yelled and drown out any other voices.  Frankly, I don’t see any other way for my no-nonsense views on tariffs and pro-nonsense views on embargoes to be expressed.

 

Calling caucuses has always been another strength.  I don’t understand what was said during the preamble—boom, caucus.  I have to take an emergency bathroom excursion and then claim things from the Lost and Found—bang, caucus.  I think of a slick pick-up line to get that sexy, Model UN faculty advisor Ms. Whitney into my figurative lederhosen—you guess it, caucus, then, hopefully, a pre-emptive, yet still consensual, blitzkrieg into Ms. Whitney’s sassy advisor’s outfit in the deserted cafeteria kitchen, complete with me eating the war rations of thawed chicken nuggets and Funyuns that I totally found in there.

 

Under your leadership, we can make a great Model UN.  Solving hypothetical world crises, learning about current events, and yelling at middle-schoolers: I’m ready for it all.  We’re going to create an amazing and authentic Model UN, and, personally, I think it should start by assigning a different, more realistic, delegate for the Republic of Congo than the obese kid with blonde hair.

 

Hopefully, I’ll be joining your fun club soon. I’ll even make my famous dish of Kraft American Singles on a paper plate for you guys when I come to my first meeting.

 

Politically Delicious and Deliciously Political,

Justin

Kids, World Events , , , , , ,

Cheese Terrors

41 Comments Posted by on January 11, 2013

I’m dead tired, but I’m not going to fall asleep.  No, this isn’t a repeat of when my butcher was grinding up amphetamines in my meat to get me hooked on his, less legitimate, side business, no, this is actual terror keeping me awake.

 

Dread writhes through my veins, my heart starts beating at the rate of a coke addicted, hummingbird air-traffic controller.  How I wish this panic was just my butcher up to his old tricks again; I’d know how to deal with it and I could get through tonight.  You know that’s not true, Justin, you know you brought this on yourself.

 

You knew you couldn’t resist that cheese plate an hour ago.

 

You knew you couldn’t stop at one kind of cheese, no; you had to have them all.

 

You had to have them all because that’s who you are.

 

You will mix and match your cheeses.

 

You mix and match your cheese, even though you know you’re going to bed soon and that that cheese medley that your stomach has churned into cheese chaos will inevitably result in horrifying night terrors.

 

They’re called “cheese terrors” to the layman or “lactose-inspired horrors of repressed fears” to the layman who wants to sound smarter than he or she really is. Although not yet acknowledged by the DSM-IV-TR, “cheese terrors”, or “CT’s” for people who are too busy to say one more syllable, have been plaguing our society since the milk proteins began coagulating.

 

Sufferers of cheese terrors have been campaigning apathetically to be included in the DSM-V.  Letters have not been written, petitions have not been signed, babies have not been kissed, and parades have not yet been held. Most likely this inactivity is due to confusion on how to get a condition elected into the book and, because the average person suffering from cheese terrors spends most of their day rapt in fear, trying to regain their sanity that was lost the night before.

 

It’s a tough life; I constantly keep buying cheese, thinking that I’ll play it safe and eat it during the day, but then every night it calls to me with it’s siren song of deliciousness.  Like clockwork, I make my way to the refrigerator as it shimmers like a beacon of pleasure amidst the shelves littered with the mold and sticky patches of leftovers from years past.  I tell myself to just eat one piece and leave it at that, full knowing that the more pieces and varieties I ingest the exponentially worse my ensuing nightmares will be.

 

Tonight I couldn’t help myself.  I gorged on hard cheese hard.  I gorged like I wasn’t going into surgery tomorrow. I gorged like I was on a gorge-centric vacation in the American Southwest.

 

I gorged like I really wanted to hate myself afterwards.

 

My self-loathing was strong post-cheese binge.  During the bender my mind had only been focused on the delicious mouth delight cheese affords one, but now, and with my eyelids beginning to droop, I recognized the folly of my gluttony and lust in the cold light of the refrigerator.

 

You ignorant ignoramus, you bumbling bumblefuck, you doody-headed dunce; my god, Justin; you’ve set yourself up to panic all night.

 

What did you do it for, Justin?

 

A few seconds of sweet cheesy release in your mouth?

 

Justin, you filthy cheese-whore, you don’t care where you get it from or what it does to you; you just eat it because it gets you off and that drives you fucking wild.

 

So here I sit, four hours, six cups of coffee, and one chocolate enema later and I’m struggling to stay awake.  Hopefully, that laxative-based chocolate the enema was dipped in will get to work soon and I can pass this cheese and get to sleep with it out of my system.  I don’t have the courage tonight to face the Muenster inspired monsters and the Gouda infused ghouls.  How many times am I going to be able to fit the pieces of my shattered psyche back together only to have it smashed by cheese terrors the following night?  Why didn’t I just remember the rhyme my sponsor made up?

 

Cheese before bed?  I’d rather be dead.  Cheese through the day?  Everything’s okay!

 

This is no way to live.  If I make it through the night, I’m going cold turkey tomorrow, and by that I mean I’ll be stocking my mini-fridge with cold turkey to eat before bed, so, in theory, the tryptophan will take hold and put me to bed before I can do anymore damage to myself or my mind.

Advice, Complaints , , , , , , , , ,

A Tribute To You: The Quiet, Polite 7-11 Cashier

63 Comments Posted by on January 4, 2013

Thank you, kind shopkeeper, for not verbalizing your judgments with me.  You, me, and the security footage can all attest that I’m not the “catch”, the “philanthropist”, or the “mature adult” my online dating profile makes me out to be.   Like my diary, you are sweet to hold your tongue when it comes to my, well, less than stellar habits involving your marketplace.

 

You’ve supported me unconditionally and have been there at my highest highs, like when I found that loose Sour Patch Kid on the floor and gobbled the little tasty morsel right up.  And you’ve been there at my lowest lows, like right after I ate said Sour Patch Kid off the floor and I still had part of a spider web in my mustache which led to me being mocked by a pack of loose children.

 

You’ve been nothing but kind to me and even helped me with my scratch-off ticket addiction.  By helped, of course, I mean that you’ve helped keep this delightful dependence going; always offering them and reassuring me that the one that I didn’t buy would be the winner.  You’ve let me take countless dollars out of the Humane Society donation jar in exchange for IOU’s to keep my compulsion afloat.  Plus, you never call me out on the blatant lie I tell every time when I say that I’m going to give half my winnings to the Humane Society.  Now that’s truly the mark of an excellent 7-11 clerk.

 

Now, your customer service track record was always flawless, but you’ve taken your lack of oral outrage to the next level when it comes to my behavior with the grill items.  It’s like clockwork; every time I come in, I insist I need a closer inspection of the hot dogs and the other pre-diarrhea, culinary travesties that twirl themselves for hours atop those shiny rollers.  Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice, well, I had a gift card.  Fool me the eleventh time, well, sorry, body, I knew exactly what I was getting into, but I had a punch card that gave me my eleventh hot dog for free.

 

After the eleventh such meat-train passed through my mouth tunnel, I was born again over the course of a sleepless night in which I spent nine hours of labor on the commode.  Now, through my humanistic compulsion, I find it necessary to thoroughly inspect all grill items whenever I come into the store.  Hopefully, through my informal research, we can all get to the bottom of what really went down on September 11th  (said sleepless, but stink filled, night coincidentally occurred this past September 11th).

 

Needless to say, I’m glad you haven’t impeded my research or drew attention to my eccentric and my less than sanitary habits involving the hot dogs and taquitos.

 

Your resume is stellar already.  You are truly a living saint in a red vest and nametag.  Why, it was just last Friday, near the beginning of your shift I’m guessing, and I came in and bought one Digiorno frozen pizza, a pack of cigarettes, and one large bag of Twizzlers.  Later in your shift, I would return yet again and make the exact same purchase.  Disgusting, yes, yet you didn’t lash our linguistically toward me at any point.  I felt safe.  I felt I was in a judgment-free zone.  You may have thought said judgments, you may have tweeted them, you may have even cried about my life to your therapist later in the week, but you held your tongue while I was there and that’s what counts

 

Now, to the untrained eye, it looks just like two isolated incidents.  However, I think most can tell my the necessity of the second trip, just a few short hours after the first, that this was more indicative of a lethargically depressive day during which I underestimated how much damage I wanted to do to my body over reruns of Maury rather than some pizza-cigarette-licorice-fiesta day that I was hosting in which I underestimated what supplies I’d need for my guests.

 

If the two trips didn’t give it away, I’m sure my lack of eye contact and apathetically broken posture denoted the nature of said visits.  Still, you were nothing but delightful to me and, for that, I tip my hat to you.

 

You truly are the yin to my yang.

Fiscally Savvy, Nice, Rave , , , , , , , , , ,

The Minivan Backseat: A Filthy Frontier

31 Comments Posted by on December 28, 2012

Great empires fall, the brightest stars burn out, masterpieces fade, and minivan backseats inevitably become sticky, disgusting, and uninhabitable places.  The enfilthment of a backseat is like erosion; a slow process, but, given the time, sediment from all regions will be deposited in the minivan’s backseat usually taking the form of spilled colas, spilled Kool-Aids, and spilled science fair projects.

 

You can’t fight the machine on this one.  Like a moth to light, the backseat of any minivan is going to attract a certain level of nasty, stank trash-doody.  Frankly, you’d be better off trying to get water to boil at sixty degrees Fahrenheit or tying to teach a mentally impaired horse how to read rather than trying to keep a minivan backseat clean.  I realize it would still be near impossible to teach a non-mentally impaired horse to read, but it would be extra tough if the horse was, how should I say, wealthy in the chromosome department.  I’m off topic, I don’t mean to debate the tenants of equine literacy, but, basically, what I’m trying to say is that it’s a pseudo-law that a minivan backseat will get disgusting.

 

If you’re not taking care of children currently because you never had kids, you’re kids abandoned you, or maybe they’re dead or something then I can safely assume that you’re not in the market for a minivan.   But, for the experience, flashback to 1997—my mom, taking care of two kids who take up every spare minute of hers with bickering over watching Clarissa Explains it All or The Wonder Years, decided to purchase a 1997 Plymouth Voyager.  Flash, swag, prestige—driving off the lot I can assure you the minivan had none of those qualities, and, somehow, had even less of those qualities years later when my mom sold the vehicle in exchange for a partially used gift card to Applebee’s.

 

The lack of resale value was not my mom’s fault.  In fact, I distinctly remember wiping boogers on everything I touched in that van.  I remember the time I started digging in the crevices of the seat only to discover a treasure trove of Jolly Ranchers and Skittles that were all fused together in a hair-covered, sugary cluster that was big enough to choke a dog.  I put the wad back in the seat; knowing that it would be a fun surprise for someone else down the road.  It didn’t stop there though, every vacation in which fast food was ingested over car rides resulted in a few rogue fries escaping into the seat folds and sodas being spilled in the cup holders thus creating sticky pools of syrup which were resistant to any cleaning attempt.

 

The field trips didn’t help.  A seventh-grade trip to see an afternoon performance of the musical Grease turned sour after a fat, mean girl was assigned to ride with us.  I mean, the knowledge of having a chubby child in your car is already going to hurt the resale value, but that wasn’t enough for Little Miss Two Mayonnaise Sandwiches For Lunch, no, even though we were leaving for the play right after lunch she still saw it necessary to bring a goodie bag filled with pretzels, Slim Jims, and Ring-Pops that she proceeded to hoard and munch on during the ten-minute ride to the show.  In the spirit of Grease I won’t tell you more, tell you more anymore detail about this large mammal grazing in the backseat of said van, but the result of her presence was a half-eaten and melted Ring Pop jammed in the seat pocket, a bunch of wrappers in the storage compartment, and a streak on her seat that we all prayed was just chocolate.

 

The Kelly Blue Book rated the brown stain as “undesirably tragic” and proclaimed that it was certain to doom the re-sale value of the vehicle.  By the end the person we sold the van to declared he would be selling it to the booming Detroit ashtray industry that would turn said minivan into several hundred trays for ash.   A fitting afterlife for an existence spent being filled with garbage.  And, akin a morbidly obese scuba diver dying after being mistook for a trophy fish and harpooned, it was a sad end to a sad life.

 

Fiscally Savvy, Grotesque , , , , , ,

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