Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Tag Archives: drink

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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A Sobering Graduation Speech

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!

 

 

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