Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Tag Archives: company


Oh, you’re coming over to my apartment?  Let me tell you how to get there.


I never entertain guests; this will be so exciting!  We can play board games; I’ve got ALF Pictionary, ALF Trivial Pursuit, and ALF Boggle; so, basically, we’ll either get to draw ALF a bunch of times, get to respond to a bunch of questions whose answers are all ALF, or get to spell “ALF” over and over again.  Plus, I’ll make my famous saltines topped with hot sauce and ketchup that we can eat while huffing white out in front of the Magic Eye poster that I stuck on the screen of my broken TV.   Wow, I’m actually having company over; this is the beginning of my transformation, I suppose. I’m turning from an ugly, apathetic duckling into a larger, more apathetic duck who lives to entertain!


When you leave from your home, be sure to kiss your significant other goodbye, whether that individual is your spouse, your dog, or just a photograph of Steve McQueen you passionately care about.  Jump in your car, Segway, or rickshaw and just get on the first freeway you see.  Don’t worry about which freeway, just pick one and you’ll eventually make it to my exit probably.


Contrary to Christian belief: all roads lead to people, but all roads do not lead to Jesus.  How do I know, well, I can drive it to anyone’s place via roads, plus, this one time, I was lost and ended up on a road ending at a T.G.I.Friday’s that was part of a larger Old Country Buffet that was currently hosting an event that seemed to only be attended by screaming, colicky babies.  I’m going to be honest when I say that if the presence of that establishment may be the biggest argument against God’s existence—a sensible and kind-spirited god would never let such a disgustingly malevolent place exist.


Now, it’s okay if you drank a little before coming to see me.  I know walking into an apartment filled with trash that an adult-baby nests in would be intimidating.  I’d advise against drinking too much and driving, unless you’re texting too.  If that’s the case, then I’m pretty sure you’re in the clear since drunk driving and drunk texting cancel each other out.


As you’re driving try to find the North Star.  If you’re in the Southern Hemisphere, or it’s light outside, just keep driving aimlessly and you’ll see it eventually.  Now, once you’ve found it, you’ll be prepared for all the fun star-gazing activities I have planned for when you make it over!


Drive until you see a sign for that burger place I threw up in that one time.  No, not that one that you’re thinking of; that one burned down in a chemical fire.  No, I’m talking about the other one, yeah, I think you know the one.


Once you’re off the freeway stop at the grocery store.  Obviously, not the one with the manager that smelled my hair that one time—please, I spend enough money there trying to get him to smell me more and I don’t need anymore competition.  While you’re at the other grocery store though pick up saltines, hot sauce, and ketchup so I can be a good host.


You may want to pick up toilet paper if you used to that sort of comfort.  I choose not to support those greedy toilet paper barons that run the country, but I don’t hold it against people if they do.  Obviously, get something two-ply or heavy-duty if you’re planning on taking any heavy doodys while you’re over.  Butt, if you want to use my eco-savvy, post-poo method of stripping naked, getting in the shower, and touching your toes, you’re more than welcome to use this “reverse bidet” method that lets gravity and the shower do all the dirty work.


Now, once you’re in the town, drive around until you find the lighthouse.  Wait for sunset and share a bottle of whiskey with your thoughts and tap into your creative juices to craft a poem with inspirational capabilities.  I say this because the doorman at my building is depressed and ill-tempered, but he usually enjoys particularly moving verses.  Be a good guest and cheer him up ; because I’m worried about him.


Nah, I’m just kidding; there’s no suicidal doorman.  The “doorman” is actually just a picture of Captain Crunch I hung in the window of the main entrance.  However, he does like to hear motivating poetry, so read him your poem and come on upstairs; I’ve got a tumbler of Nyquil and a big hug waiting for you.



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