Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Tag Archives: advice

That’s Odd, Really, You Don’t Watch Any TV?

Hey, quick question, Hot Dog: how can you tell if someone doesn’t watch any television?  Actually, it’s rather simple; for you see anyone who doesn’t watch TV will assuredly tell you right away how they don’t watch TV.

 

They lay in wait, like a conceited mountain lion, waiting for a moment to pounce as soon as someone mentions anything they watched on the tube.  From there it’s a downhill ambush on the, now one-sided, conversation.  Incredible, how suddenly a pedestrian discussion about how racist or incompetent Terry Bradshaw has become or speculation about The Office’s Jenna Fischer’s belly button depth can be instantly derailed in favor of them filibustering about how “they don’t have time for that inane chatter.”

 

Way to steal all the fun out of the conversation, you little fun-burglar.  Hey, buddy, at least TV taught me not to interrupt until the commercial break, but you come in, on your high horse, touting your anti-television gospel.  It should be noted I’m taking the liberty of assuming you’re interrupting my conversation while you are literally on the back of some unfortunate, drug-addicted equine.

 

However, non-sober stallion or not, I thought in the spirit of manners you shouldn’t impede my stimulating discourse about what I think Matt Lauer smells like on the air. It’s quite rude, and, to be honest, you don’t see me trying to change the subject when your going on an on about the donation you gave to the Humane Society, the charity fun run for fat-orphans with low self-esteem and Lou Gehrig’s disease you’re setting up, or how you insist on paying a carbon tax on everything you buy.

 

Lisa Frankly, I think carbon can pay it’s own taxes and if I’m going to help someone, besides myself, on their back taxes, the list starts and stops with Wesley Snipes.  Further, I honestly think these fat orphans are the ones who could benefit from running more than you and the others who want to pat themselves on the back.  Do I air these grievances? Nope, you don’t see me interrupting; I just keep keeping my mouth shut and continue to fantasize about hitting you with my car.

 

How incredibly fascinating you are; boy, to go through life not doing something the rest of us do.  Your time must be so freed up from not watching television that you’re able to find time to read all the great philosophers, travel the world, and achieve self-actualization.  You don’t see the rest of us bragging about not doing things; I wasn’t vaccinated, but you don’t see me prancing around all smug, clamoring about how great my immune system is for keeping me polio-free all these years.

 

Seriously, have we become so boring that we need to talk about the things that we don’t do to make conversation?  I don’t tell you about how I don’t exploit children for cheap labor.  I don’t tell you about how I don’t shoot up Vicodin mixed with barbecue sauce because I’ve heard great things about the smoky, smooth, yet flavorful and relaxed high it provides.  I haven’t even broached the topic about how I’m not using my neighbor’s name and apartment address to commit mail fraud.  Why haven’t I told you about said lack of mail fraud?  Well, because it would be a lie, since I’m about six months into my personal best mail fraud caper.  Sorry, humble brag!

 

My tribe of one has spoken and the verdict reads: we like television and we don’t like you.  Don’t try to convert me; I’ve seen your side’s zealots and believe me when I say that I don’t like what they’re preaching.  This adult baby likes his mouthwash mug full and his TV on during marathons of circus or funeral accidents.  Call me old-fashioned, but that’s just how I am.   Don’t try to tell me how green the grass is on the other side; the other side does not have a video of daughter in mourning discharging a barrage of thunderous farts during their eulogy that end up overshadowing not only their dead mom’s funeral, but their dead mom’s entire life.

 

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Masturbation Etiquette: A Sticky Situation

Humans are a superficial species; a species who are quick to judge one another on how they handle themselves in public with the biggest red flag being if you are actually “handling yourself” in public.   It’s a double standard in our society where we celebrate a man’s success when he creates a company that profits off of the donations sent to starving children, but, as soon as that charity-mogul-villain whips our his flesh spout to pour himself a fresh, steamy shot of man-yogurt at the local petting zoo, well, that’s when we all finally see him as the abhorrent monster.

 

Masturbating can be great fun, but we need to recognize that with great power comes great responsibility.   On the plus side though masturbating isn’t like standup comedy, circus performing, or selling nerve tonics where you’d need to be on the road in order to really turn pro.  Take it from me, an old veteran that’s a sure bet for the hall of fame, I went pro right at home around the ripe old age of twelve or thirteen and never looked back, unless I thought someone was walking up behind me when I was in “game-mode”.

 

When your able to put the time in and be as thorough as you need to be masturbating is a beautiful, like a flower blossoming into a swan at sunrise.  However, when interrupted or done through anxiety, masturbation can turn into a dismal, bleak affair—on par with a black and white documentary about cholera in Latvia.

 

The caveat comes with sharing your living quarters; you’re roommates are likely not always going to be able to give you the time to light a butterscotch candle or two, draw the shades, and cue up the cassette tape of Danny DeVito reading 50 Shades of Grey.  So maybe you can go all out and fully (trick or) treat yourself each session, but if you can be open with your roommates you can ensure that you’ll at least have the privacy to get your money’s worth from that Kama Sutra For One you bought off Amazon.

 

As with any relationship, a successful relationship with your roomies about your jerk-off stints is built on the foundation of boundaries, communication, and trust.  It begins with everyone acknowledging that they all masturbate and recognizing that it’s just a natural, relaxing thing to do that there should be absolutely no guilt attached to.  Masturbating is simply more effective when you’re doing it than when a stranger doing it to you—you know what you like.  Think of Pandora Radio. Pandora Radio is like a handjob to me; I can make a better playlist myself, but sometimes I’m lazy and it’s nice to have someone else do it for me.

 

If the mutual trust is there between you and your roommates you’ll be able to revel in the fact that if you’re in the middle of crank yankin’ or flickin’ the Skittle and your roommate knocks on your door you can quickly communicate something like, “Hold on, broski, I’m in the middle of a fat-beat-off sesh.”  It’s as easy as relaying those thirteen simple words to your roommate mysteriously hairy ears.  You trust your roommate to respect your boundaries and give you the serenity needed to Miracle Whip up a frothy helping of your Hellman’s Original man-nnaise (or the woman-nnaise equivalent) and, in turn, your roommate trusts you that you are actually masturbating and not reading his diary or burning his clothes again.  Unless he knows your sexual aroused by reading diaries written by adult men or by the sweet, sweet, amours aroma of smoldering polyester; then he’d probably be suspicious.

 

There you have it: trust, communication, and boundaries; be honest and effectively inform your housemates of your actions if they get close to breaking through your comfort threshold and they’ll be sure to reciprocate the action.

 

Also, just be cool and use discretion if during Spring Cleaning you find a really crusty sock next to a picture of Jake Gyllenhaal in my room.

 

 

- Join Adult Baby Nation below with just an email address today for free, exclusive ramblings, guaranteed never to flood your inbox.  Also follow Justin on Twitter for cringe-worthy puns, recaps of Hot Pocket binges, and topical jokes about balms, creams, and his rash-y lifestyle.

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