From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag
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!
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.
We can all agree high school kids are idiots. We always make comments about them like, “Oh, she’s so smart for her age,” and never, “Oh, she’s so smart”. We, rightfully, handicap the field to pay them a compliment; it’s like saying, “He walks pretty well for having Gout,” or, “She has a pretty good appetite for just watching them pull the plug on Grandma.” Now, dead-grandma-Old-Country-Buffet-trip or no dead-grandma-Old-Country-Buffet-trip, high school kids still remain pretty dumb on the whole and incredibly easy to trick into anything.
Now, the chucklehead who sat behind me in tenth-grade English was no exception. He wasn’t illiterate, but you sure couldn’t tell. I remember convincing him that Hemmingway’s A Farewell to Arms was titled as such because the main character’s arms are blown off in an explosion at the end. Like an old woman slipping on a banana peel and breaking her hip as she lands in a pile of wet garbage and cats, it was hysterical and sad all at the same time.
One day before class this future community college dropout was speculating on how he wants to go out when the world freezes over. Yes, he is convinced that the world is going to end where everyone and everything is suspended in time and completely frozen, because, clearly, he sees the only logical end of the world being a super villain using some sort of doomsday device to freeze us all after the ransom of ten-thousand Asian babies isn’t paid. Climate change, asteroids, nuclear war—all of these theories never crossed his mind or do not hold any credibility in his mind. Refreshing to see that he doesn’t pay attention in his science or social studies classes either.
Chucklehead elaborates further that at the moment of said hyper-freezing of the world he wants to mid-coitus with a lady. This way, in his eyes, when future beings thaw his corpse out there will never be any doubt in their eyes on whether or not this man was able to get pussy. Adamant, he said this was the way he wanted to go out as, apparently, there is nothing else in his life he would want to be remembered by other than his ability to convince this one lucky woman let him wiggle around his stink pickle inside of her this one instance.
It’s shocking to me that this was the only way that he thought he could demonstrate his pussy prowess to future archaeologists. Frankly, he could have just wished to be with his children when the world ended; a touching gesture that confirms that this man had raised children and has had sex in the past. If he didn’t want his kids to be with him he could have just asked to die clutching child support and alimony collection letters, further demonstrating that at least during one point during his life he was able to let his bathing suit area rub up against a lady’s bathing suit area enough to get her pregnant.
Really, this chucklehead is overlooking the most obvious solution which would be just constantly prepare for the end of the world by perpetually wearing a t-shirt that says something like “I Fuck On the First Date”, “Pussy Poacher”, or “I’m RSVP-ing to the Orgy As “Cumming””, as any one of those t-shirts would undoubtedly be worn by an individual who wants to show off how much sex they have had.
To be James Blunt, his solution leaves a lot to be desired. First off, slowly freezing to death with your penis out sounds like horrible way to die. Plus what if the archaeologists interpret it wrong? I mean, honestly, what if they do a future autopsy and reveal that the girl died four hours before the world ended and Chucklehead died?
As for me I’m hoping to die the way I lived—drunk and in a karaoke related mishap.
Boy, everyone is pretty bummed out. This tie with the Looney Tunes characters on it seems like a bad idea in hindsight. Yeah, here’s my dad walking over; he’s definitely pissed about the tie. Well, I’m sorry, Dad, I honestly didn’t think people were going to be sad at this thing since it’s only Aunt May who died.
Focus, focus; don’t open the conversation with your dad with, “What’s up, Doc?” You’re the only one who will think that’s funny and he’ll probably be pissed that you’re not taking yet another funeral seriously.
I should probably feel bad. I did accidentally-on-purpose pull the plug on Aunt May so that I could have a free outlet to charge my phone and play more Angry Birds. Honestly though, how much does a power strip cost, Aunt May, or are you too cheap to buy that just like you were too cheap to buy me Transformers and instead bought me Gobots for my sixth birthday? Yes, Aunt May, there is a very, very noticeable difference!
Do I make small talk at this funeral, or would people be upset that I’m not spending all of my time thinking about Aunt May, reading scripture, or denouncing evolution more? I just want to talk about my theories about what’s going to happen on Dance Moms; my relatives don’t have to watch it, I just want them to listen to me while I ramble on. I know, I know, very Aunt May of me to ramble on about something no one else cares about; but come on, relatives; just give the show a chance; I’m trying to do you a favor. Forget that attention whore, Aunt May, for just one day.
Okay, I’ll feign sadness; can’t come on too strong or everyone will notice it for sure. Channel the hurt from all those times you missed McDonald’s breakfast by a few minutes; you were sad, but not overly sad. That’s the magic we need now. Don’t over-do it; don’t try to conjure the overwhelming emotions you experienced during Hurricane Katrina when they cancelled a Gilligan’s Island marathon in lieu of coverage about New Orleans. That was far too sad to draw on for this occasion and it’s going to seem contrived if you try for it. Really, don’t try to reminisce on the feelings you had for all those poor, innocent people; just trapped and stuck with nothing but the raging water surrounding them as a dark fear crept within you as you slowly realized their situation was beyond anyone’s help and beyond tragic—especially since their only hopes of getting off that island were riding on that idiot Gilligan!
A few uncomfortably long hugs and a sweaty handshake or two later and the service starts. I try to hold it in, but a ghost of a former poo escaped the flesh-mausoleum of my b-hole. Fortunately, it’s quite pungent, a tear-jerker even. Nearby relatives inquire if I’m cutting a rotting onion, but I tell them what I think they want to hear: that I think that smell is definitely coming from Aunt May. They scoff and go back to listening to this eulogy drag on. A quick look around and I’m fairly sure I’m ruining this funeral and most people seem to be hoping that I die next, but I’m not leaving until after I eat my fill of funeral falafel.
The service continues, a lot of people are tearing up and I don’t think it’s just from my gas leak. This priest is really going on. He really wants us to feel like we need to believe in God and come back to church and give a lot of money to this place if we want to see Aunt May in heaven when we die. Well, I’ve got news for you, father, I didn’t like visiting Aunt May when she was on Earth; so if heaven is anything like her house it’s going to reek of pet dander and medical cream by the time I die so just count me out.
Wow, I really hope I remembered to set up my DV-R to record that Maury marathon I’m missing by being here—forgetting that would be the real tragedy.
