Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Tag Archives: death

Guess What, Grandpa is Dead: A Phone Call From U.S. State Department in Jamaica

Yes, is a Wilma Pennybuckle available?


Oh, terribly sorry, you’re already on the line.  Although, I probably should have saved my “terribly sorry” for what I’m about to tell you because, honestly, it’s just going to seem like I’m marginalizing bad news now.


No, please, I insist, Mrs. Pennybuckle, stop guessing.  To the best of my knowledge, no conspiracy exists that causes your grandchildren to keep putting on weight, I don’t think your pharmacist is trying to poison you, and I don’t think because your new mailman being black is an omen that a “tribe” of Nigerians moving in to the unsold house down the street. Further, I’d assume should they existed they would use the “family” and not don’t use the word “tribe” to describe themselves.


Honestly, I’m calling you today to inform you that your husband, Bucky Pennybuckle, has died in Jamaica.  Now I didn’t know him personally, but it seems like he was a man with a fun name to say and I am terribly sorry for your loss.


Interesting, you were unaware he was in Jamaica?


Hmmm, he said Omaha on business for the annual shower cap convention.


Ah ha, if by “Omaha” he meant “Montego Bay, Jamaica,” and by “annual shower cap convention” he meant “sex tourism extravaganza,” and by “business” he meant “three nights of sensual pleasure spent with various women before being robbed, bound, and having his face beaten to a pulp with a piano leg before being dumped in a sugar cane plantation,” then, yes, he was being very transparent and honest.


No, there was no trace of any actual business happening on this trip, unless by “business” you mean—


I see, I see.


Yes, I really am getting some mileage out of that gag.


Now, I realize this is a little personal, but did your late husband every show a proclivity for any specific fetishes?  We’re just trying to figure out if the ropes, bondage hood, and nipple clamps were put on him to make him easier to bludgeon, or if that was just what he was into.


I’m sorry, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I’m sure Mr. Pennybuckle would vomit with anger as well if he had, as you so eloquently put it, “had known he was going to die in a country run by drug-addicted, dark gypsies.”  Now I must interject, Mrs. Pennybuckle, because the population here genuinely does prefer to be called “Jamaicans.”


How much infidelity occurred?


I mean, it’s difficult to say, but the authorities did recover an oddly descriptive erotic itinerary in his hotel room with very strange crudely drawn pictures drawn in it.  If those figures were correct, he had been with three call girls his first night that he had in a position he referred to as “The Devil’s Baccarat Table” and then on the second night it appears he met a very frumpy night receptionist and utilized a move he dubbed “Jonah and the Whale.”


I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that that reference on the Sabbath would nearly give you a stress migraine.  I’ll give you a second.


Anyways, it appears he was killed on the third night of his excursion.  Make no mistake, it appears that infidelity definitely occurred, as the black light investigation revealed stains on nearly every surface of his hotel room.  However, that may have just resulted from the housekeepers half-assing it these days.


No, no, please, please, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I do not want to hear about your exploits while he’s away; this isn’t a time for one-upping.


That’s really not helpful either, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I’m not going to discuss the ethnicity of the housekeepers just so you can comment on their apparent lack of work ethic.


Honestly, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I really just needed to break the news and have you tell me where I can send the body.


No, leaving the corpse with one of his mistresses is not an option; in fact, the women are actually leading suspects in this investigation.


No, we can’t just fly him coach back home; that’s completely out of the question


I assure you, Mrs. Pennybuckle, people would notice a dead passenger on the plane.


Okay, I’ll be sure to ship it out as quickly as possible and the funeral home will notify you when it arrives.


Yes, I’m sure his friends and family will be surprised.


I mean, there’s no reason you can’t lie or not give specifics about his demise.  I’d be sure to have a closed-casket ceremony because no one is going to believe he died from a heart attack or stroke if they see his disfigured, battered face and that regrettable Jamaican braid he had put in his hair.


Frankly, I don’t think the mortician is going to be fix it.  Mr. Pennybuckle’s face is completely busted—like it’s a cross between an old, melted candle and a Salvador Dali painting.


No, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I honestly don’t think this is Obama’s fault.


Okay, okay, enough, really! This is a phone call with a stranger about your logistics with your late husband’s death not a chance for you to get on your soapbox and rant about minorities.


Well, yes, there’s no denying that Richard Dawson was the best host of Family Feud, but could you please save your “gravy faced” discussion and banter about Steve Harvey for another time?  I’m finding it offensive and I’m a little embarrassed to even be listening to your tirade!


I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have scolded you; I didn’t realize that was how you deal with grief.


Okay, I’ll let you grieve.  I’ll send his body out as soon as possible.  They’ll keep investigating here, but his bloodstained Tommy Bahama shirt has not yielded any leads or given us any names.


Yeah, seriously, you’re right, that’s totally like something out of Burn Notice.


Shut up, no way! I’m a huge Burn Notice ­fan too!


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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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