Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Tag Archives: adult humor

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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All We Want is a Bus to Make Out with Girls In

The homecoming dance was behind us and, giddy with post-make-out fever, Chuck and I were determined to recreate what we had since dubbed “bus magic”. Saturday night had been perfect. Actual girls, girls we knew, had willingly kissed us, and then, in a twist, they’d kept on kissing us!

 

Our dates hadn’t lost a bet, done it on a dare, or done it as part of D.A.R.E. Saturday night had been real—Chuck and I tasted girl mouth and we wanted more.

 

By the process of elimination, we deduced that the party bus our group rented had been our much-needed game-changer. It hadn’t been our clothes; Chuck and I had worn suits and ties around girls before, like to church, funerals, or School Picture Day, and no fine ladies ever tried to get jiggy and suck some hot face with us then. Charm, too, was out of the question—we’d spent most of dinner and the ride to the dance giggling and quoting Dude, Where’s My Car ad nauseam the way we had nearly every other mouth-whoopee-less day. And, truly, our dates’ nervous laughter subsiding into a petrified, silent horror had been a strong indication that the late-night fervent tonguing hadn’t been prompted by my enthusiastic display of unrestrained agility on the dance floor that I called “getting funky”.

 

The solution was a simple truth: we needed our own party bus. Life in the last week had imparted that, at least for us, the party bus was an essential ingredient if Chuck and I ever again wanted to cook up a big ol’ pot of make-out-y fun.

 

Backers and financiers were needed. Fortunately, the allure of a PDA-party paradise made our venture an easy sell. Before even third period, Chuck and I had procured verbal commitments from twelve other sophomore dudes each aching to invest $100 for future access to a den full of uninhibited oral delights.

 

With potential pledges procured, we took to the Internet during lunch and were pleasantly surprised at how much bus $1,400 could buy. Craigslist and eBay had been scoured and our budgetary constraints had us considering options with descriptors like “great project”, “hasn’t been started in five years”, and “full of owls”.

 

No details were deal-breakers. I mean, just because one hadn’t been started in five years didn’t necessarily mean that it didn’t run. Like, just because I hadn’t made out with anyone for almost sixteen years didn’t mean that I wasn’t a natural at it and a true, bona fide mouth-hound capable of delivering the perfect ratio of tactical tenderness and unchecked pleasure at a moment’s notice.

 

Retrieving our to-be fortress for tongue-heavy hedonism would be a snap. One investor, Patrick, we knew had a freshly-acquired license and we totally figured he’d be legit to scoop it with us.

 

Sure, Patrick was still dangerously awful at driving his mom’s minivan, but that didn’t matter. He’d be perfect to caravan the three hundred miles back and forth from Southern Ohio this Saturday to pick up and drive back an unreliable vehicle six times the size of said minivan. Chuck was skeptical, but I assured him it’d be totally legit.

 

There would be no issues once we returned with our prize. Another committed shareholder, Jimmy, wanted it for his backyard. He said he knew his parents wouldn’t care; his dad had eloped to Argentina with that slutty mailman two months back, effectively prompting a nervous, sambuca-riddled breakdown from Jimmy’s mom.

 

Shoes on in the house, candy for breakfast, cigarettes for dessert, dessert after breakfast, Jimmy could get away with anything now. Really, since his dad left, Jimmy’s mom had become, like, hella sweet and it was totally coolio of her to remain apathetically indifferent to us parking our permanent party of perpetual first-basing at her place.

 

I can’t wait for this. 2010 Census, take note; I know you’re nearly eight years away, but by then we’ll have ridden all this bus magic right up to our new, permanent residence in Make-Out City, USA.

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