Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Tag Archives: comedy

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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No, Justin, it Isn’t Christmas Again

As I lapped up a bowl of Frosted Flakes, my eyes remaining fixated on the debatably-racist cartoon rooster promenading across the television screen. A bit of anxiety festered about a mandatory shoe-shopping excursion supposedly transpiring later, but, for the most part, this was just a normal, delightfully-lethargic Saturday morning for this six-year-old.

With a slap at the front door I jumped.  My weekly slothful ritual had been disrupted. My parents were still asleep and so, ever-cautions for lurking pedophiles with creepy mustache smiles, I peered out the window next to the door.

I couldn’t believe it. There, standing on my stoop in full suit, beard, and hat, was Santa Claus. My breath quickened. It was only late January, but maybe I’d just been so good, so well-behaved, so unable to tease that fat kid in class who was currently home on bed rest after his Cheeto-induced heart attack that Santa had noticed and was now rewarding me with a bonus Christmas.

Thoughts raced.  My hands trembled as I fumbled with the lock and doorknob. “Lemmme in, Jess-tin!” Santa barked.

Gah, he knew my name!

As I threw the door open, I charged at him, wrapping my arms around his waist and narrowly missing the White Castle satchel clutched in his fist. He was much dirtier and slimmer than he was last month at the mall, and from the hug alone, my hands had become covered in this filth-gristle that had been caked onto his coat.

He stepped inside and used the walls for balance, chattering too fast to be discernible.  I pranced ahead, leading him into the living room where he swiftly collapsed on the floor after asking if I had any money he could borrow.

Everything was happening so fast.

“Crim-mass,” he muttered as he pulled out a bottle with a black crow on it out from his bag and took a sip.  I smiled.

I hoped he’d get to my presents soon because I knew they’d be something amazing, like a robot or a remote-controlled car.  I had to be patient and wait though.  With no giant sack of toys or a sleigh, I knew that the large White Castle bag had to contain my gifts – despite it now leaking and smelling like a carnival toilet.

Wait, cookies! How had I forgotten the cookies? Instinctively, I dashed to the pantry and snatched up a handful of Dad’s sugar-free cookies and brought them back out to Santa. He snapped up two and smashed them into his rosy mouth, but his face soon soured.

A mist of crumbs erupted from his craw before he grabbed the candy dish off the coffee table and promptly regurgitated the moist wad of post-cookie into it. He gagged, revolted, and subsequently slapped the remaining Diabetic Delightz out of my hand and onto the floor.

Santa then nestled into the couch and closed his eyes.  I was a little discouraged, but this was my first Bonus Christmas—presents must work differently —  naps and horrible smells must just be the tradition.

I went to grab my bowl of Frosted Flakes when Mom came down the stairs in her bathrobe. “Oh, Jesus Christ, Marty, you’re fucking drunk again,” she said as she saw the sleeping Santa. “Honey,” she yelled up the stairs, “wake up and get down here; your idiot brother’s here in his Santa outfit and passed out again, can you please drive him home or just get him out?”

 

This post originally appeared on Long Awkward Pause: http://longawkwardpause.com/2014/01/27/no-it-isnt-christmas-again/

 

 

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