Another Site For Fancy Boys
Error: Twitter did not respond. Please wait a few minutes and refresh this page.
From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag
Fellow graduates in the class of 2012, I stand before you today to look back while we look forward toward tomorrow. From science fairs, to homecoming pregnancy scandals and resulting cover-ups, to the annual tontine, boy, we’ve seen it all and I don’t think I could have asked for a better chucklehort of chuckleheads to be there with me each step of the way.
I know it’s cliché, and I’m as cliché an adult baby as they come, but I can’t believe it’s Graduation Day. Here we are, the Class of 2012, in our gowns and mortarboards ready to walk across that stage in all of our pompous circumstance. We’ve become so close and I feel like I know some of you as well as I know my own siblings. It’s hard to believe that six weeks ago when this court-appointed alcohol class started that I said I didn’t deserve to be lumped in with you degenerate problem drinkers.
Whew, I am on pins and needles! No, it’s not just because I’m giving a speech. No, it’s not because I ran out of underwear this morning and am wearing a diaper made out of newspaper now. And, no, it’s not even because I had my first beer yesterday since my arrest and then couldn’t stop drinking, no, right now I’m worried about tripping when I walk across the stage, right, guys, right?
Today’s also bittersweet. We’re at the end of a golden age and as soon as Marcy P., the substance abuse coordinator here, tells us to move our tassels from right to left we’ll no longer be classmates, we’ll no longer be brothers in booze, we’ll just be adults in silly outfits complying with the terms of our respective probations.
Now, as you should know, you’re all invited to my open house tomorrow. Yeah, I know, Erickson; you scheduled yours on the same day. I’m sorry, but here goes: Erickson, you’re a poseur and I know I’m more popular than you. I’m not as popular as Chad or the Moose, but come on; I know I’m more popular than the weiner who tries too hard to make friends. In fact, Erickson, I think we’re all beginning to suspect you didn’t actually get a drunk-and-disorderly for vomiting in a magician’s hat at Sea World like you said, but rather that you just signed up for this class in a failed attempt to meet people and network.
Really, guys, I know I’m taking up the middle of my commencement speech talking about how you should come to my party and not Erickson’s. Seriously though, come to mine; we’re going to have the barbecue going, we might rent a cotton candy machine. It’s going to be awesome, everyone’s going to get their genitals touched and we’re seriously going to get so drunk, har har, just kidding—or maybe I’m not, wink! Anywho, you all should come out, it’ll be fun. Plus, I still need a couple of you to sign my yearbook. Sensitive Sally Simpson, I’m looking at you!
Now that we’ve all got our suspended licenses back, we’ve all really started to live again. It didn’t matter if it was a school night, we were always going to the movies, the twenty-four hour shoe repair shop, Make-Out Creek, you name it and we can be there; living it up as only the Class of 2012 could.
Jocks, geeks, foreigners with weird socks, we never let cliques get in the way of being friends. The camaraderie between all of us was amazing; we all would come out to cheer for our beloved football team, we all pitched in to help with the homecoming dance, and we all came together to put on Oklahoma! for a group of Mothers Against Drunk Driving. Boy, that evening was a hoot to say the least!
I’m proud so say I’m part of this cohesive bunch; a cohesive bunch that includes everyone except Erickson. I know we’ll be able to stay in touch as we return to our lives as alcoholic mailmen, alcoholic snake charmers, and alcoholic students, like Buglesson, who is applying to further his education right now, mostly because the court thinks he needs more education about learning about how it’s not cool to get drunk and threaten to throw your wife down the stairs just because the Giants lost.
I’ll miss you all. You all are amazing people and I can’t want for our camping trip in a few weeks!
And I’m flattered that you all voted for me for “Best Sense of Humor” in the mock elections, solely based on that one time when I farted real loud during that movie about car accidents.
Once again, graduates, congrats; I’m proud to be a part Class of 2012!
Another humdrum hour of college lecture drips by; literally dripping by, as mine armpits and mine ass crevasse art overfloweth with droplets of sweat in this archaic, yet steamy, university building.
The pupils that remain art drained of vigor, moisture, and vitality. Yet, the precipice is nearing; just fifteen more clock-laps for the second-hand until permitted escape is imminent. I alter my posture in an erroneous attempt to free my pasty, moon-soaked thigh from the overly conducive vinyl. This haphazard gaff yields a ripping noise that draws grimaces from the nearby learners. I wished it hadn’t, but, unfortunately, my maneuver also jars something loose in my south-most intestine. A something much more sinister that will undoubtedly draw much more unwanted attention.
One baritone pitched bowel-growl later and I know something odious is concocting itself in my boiler room. Although, I’m not sure of its state of matter yet, be it solid, liquid, or gaseous, I can already guarantee the magnitude of the dank stink from this homebrew will be overpowering to us all.
Attempts to hold back this possibly fecal-fury are growing futile. This booty-hole behemoth is analogues to the Hurricane Katrina of yore, whilst my balloon knot is cast as the hopeless levee: fated to eventually give way. I pray, for the sake of my family honor, that whatever this stench storm has in store is more akin to Katrina’s winds and not so much the waxing sewage erupting though Bourbon Street.
I’m no weather-sorcerer, but I’d foretell of a slim chance of today turning swampy in lieu of breezy. Certainly, not the majority, but an ominous figure nevertheless.
My efforts fall short; the lowest of my back-sweat acts as goose-grease and the fart that I am ever-so-thankful-that-it’s-a-fart absconds out my backdoor. Like a common prisoner covering himself in butter to squeeze through the tight meaty hole in a prison wall – my fart steals away and out of me all the same. I gaze as my musk oozes through the classroom, penetrating my fellow students’ nostrils with the pungent, yet hushed, force akin to a band of frisky samurais.
The naturally humid Cherokee air of the lecture hall permits my sassy gas long overstay its welcome; actually occupying the area for longer than the Cherokees did. The students grow restless with this occupation and an epidemic of Crucible-esque accusations breaks out whilst I follow suit to avoid taking my rightful place as scapegoat. A girl begins coughing to the point of an asthma attack and I try to stifle the laughter and pride I feel bubbling inside me. As with my windbreak, however, I am unable to hold my delight in as I blurt out while gathering my books to leave:
“Hey, girl, why don’t your nasty ass hit up that local energy company? See if y’all can trace this here natural gas leak back to my ass-hoe.”
In one of my fantasies, I am a middle school gym teacher. Glamour, fame, respect, I get none of it in this fantasy. In fact, I don’t think I’m describing a fantasy at all; it seems more like a backup plan, just in case literally everything else in my life does not work out (unintentional gym pun). Nevertheless, in my gym life lessons would be worked into the curriculum. This isn’t just physical education; it’s an education about living. The first day I would state this fact loud and clear and make it known, “That if you fail this class, more than likely you will fail in life.” A smartass kid pointed out that I must have failed this class thirty years ago. He didn’t say too much after that because I popped him in his mouth and then it needed to be packed with gauze.
Second day of class: obstacle course. No doubt in my mind. It will not be confined to the gym, no, no. I’ll give the students a map and let them loose in the community, turn it into a pseudo-scavenger hunt. Give some of the students who show a little more effort a chance for some extra credit. Have one of them pick up my dry cleaning as they’re running back. Make another one pick up some stamps that I tell them I’ll reimburse them for (but then always “forget”). Hopefully there is a twenty-one year old who has been held back for several years that could save me a trip to the liquor store. Finally, at the end of the scavenger hunt, when the adolescents come up to me to ask for their time, I push them on the ground and yell at them to get up. As soon as they stand up, I stop the clock. They have learned the message that when life knocks you down (even if it takes the form of a forty-two-year-old gym instructor going through a mid-life crisis), you need to get right back up.
Leading up to Dodge Ball Day I would hype up the game to the teachers, maybe even start some faculty betting on it (for networking and profit of course). Having pre-picked the teams personally, I would put the more athletic and fit kids on one team, with the scrawny, fat, and that foreign exchange student that knows no English on the opposite team. A mismatch on paper? Of course, but this mismatch will likely lead to the highest level of physical carnage, which will lead to the highest enjoyment of the blood sport by yours truly; thus, teaching the kids the invaluable point that violence is amusing to watch.
From time to time, or when I’m having a day that I’m feeling down or out of shape, I would play in the games with the kids. I wouldn’t hold anything back in these sports; I’d block shots, boot soccer balls, and even tackle a kid if the game needed it. It would be a good life lesson for them to learn: no matter how good you think you are at anything, someone somewhere is always better than you at it. Also, on these days, if class was nearly over and my team was losing, I’d just change the rules so my team would win. It’s times these that children learn that life isn’t fair. Plus, I’m sure that a full day of beating children in sports will be great for my self-esteem.
Of course the real life lesson here is that the strong will survive. It’s a survival of the fittest, with the bigger, faster, and sporty kids not getting hurt as easily as the weak, little, out-of-shape kids. However, in actuality, the ones who decided to fake menstrual cramps or depression to get out of class would be deemed the most fit by Darwin’s theory.
Looking back on this, I must say that I’m certain this is by far the least sexual essay that can be found using a Google search of “Gym, Teacher, Fantasy”.