From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag
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!
Dearest Everyone,
Be forewarned: this is a nice post. I know most people who read my ramblings have tuned in each week to read erotic fiction or other musing about what monstrosities fell out of my balloon knot, but this week I want to send a genuine thank you out to all of you. I have loved the support that all you crazy diamonds have given me and I hope we can keep this runaway freight train filled with potty humor and doody bombs a rolling.
This week my post here is about sappy, Lifetime movie-type stuff here. However, if you’re looking for a “traditional” rambling from the Internet’s adult baby I have been honored this week with a guest post on The Guilty Conscience called “The Unbearable Loss of a Facebook Friend” . So please check it out if you’re feeling inclined. The Guilty Conscience is also an awesome blog that has supported me, even though I initially it was just about scientific findings published by con-men who have been found guilty.
Adult-Baby Nation, you all do give me a warm feeling inside, wait, actually I think that’s just my lunch-whiskey. But seriously though, you guys are amazing and I know I’m not always the best at responding to your comments or awards. So here goes some much needed recognition to some people who have nominated me for awards. They are truly cool cats who I would shoot pool and smoke cigarettes with at a jazz club any day.
I love you all and you all have a standing invitation to come eat McRibs with me in the trash pile that I call living quarters. Please let me know if any of the links don’t work; I’m not great at computers and I think my Windows 95 caught an Altavista cookie or something.
Love,
Justin
Humans are a superficial species; a species who are quick to judge one another on how they handle themselves in public with the biggest red flag being if you are actually “handling yourself” in public. It’s a double standard in our society where we celebrate a man’s success when he creates a company that profits off of the donations sent to starving children, but, as soon as that charity-mogul-villain whips our his flesh spout to pour himself a fresh, steamy shot of man-yogurt at the local petting zoo, well, that’s when we all finally see him as the abhorrent monster.
Masturbating can be great fun, but we need to recognize that with great power comes great responsibility. On the plus side though masturbating isn’t like standup comedy, circus performing, or selling nerve tonics where you’d need to be on the road in order to really turn pro. Take it from me, an old veteran that’s a sure bet for the hall of fame, I went pro right at home around the ripe old age of twelve or thirteen and never looked back, unless I thought someone was walking up behind me when I was in “game-mode”.
When your able to put the time in and be as thorough as you need to be masturbating is a beautiful, like a flower blossoming into a swan at sunrise. However, when interrupted or done through anxiety, masturbation can turn into a dismal, bleak affair—on par with a black and white documentary about cholera in Latvia.
The caveat comes with sharing your living quarters; you’re roommates are likely not always going to be able to give you the time to light a butterscotch candle or two, draw the shades, and cue up the cassette tape of Danny DeVito reading 50 Shades of Grey. So maybe you can go all out and fully (trick or) treat yourself each session, but if you can be open with your roommates you can ensure that you’ll at least have the privacy to get your money’s worth from that Kama Sutra For One you bought off Amazon.
As with any relationship, a successful relationship with your roomies about your jerk-off stints is built on the foundation of boundaries, communication, and trust. It begins with everyone acknowledging that they all masturbate and recognizing that it’s just a natural, relaxing thing to do that there should be absolutely no guilt attached to. Masturbating is simply more effective when you’re doing it than when a stranger doing it to you—you know what you like. Think of Pandora Radio. Pandora Radio is like a handjob to me; I can make a better playlist myself, but sometimes I’m lazy and it’s nice to have someone else do it for me.
If the mutual trust is there between you and your roommates you’ll be able to revel in the fact that if you’re in the middle of crank yankin’ or flickin’ the Skittle and your roommate knocks on your door you can quickly communicate something like, “Hold on, broski, I’m in the middle of a fat-beat-off sesh.” It’s as easy as relaying those thirteen simple words to your roommate mysteriously hairy ears. You trust your roommate to respect your boundaries and give you the serenity needed to Miracle Whip up a frothy helping of your Hellman’s Original man-nnaise (or the woman-nnaise equivalent) and, in turn, your roommate trusts you that you are actually masturbating and not reading his diary or burning his clothes again. Unless he knows your sexual aroused by reading diaries written by adult men or by the sweet, sweet, amours aroma of smoldering polyester; then he’d probably be suspicious.
There you have it: trust, communication, and boundaries; be honest and effectively inform your housemates of your actions if they get close to breaking through your comfort threshold and they’ll be sure to reciprocate the action.
Also, just be cool and use discretion if during Spring Cleaning you find a really crusty sock next to a picture of Jake Gyllenhaal in my room.
Oh, God, what the fuck, she hasn’t responded since I sent my last text three-and-a-half minutes ago. Something’s up and this isn’t sitting right. Where is she that she wouldn’t have service, or does she just not care? This just doesn’t add up. I thought we had a good time last week and now this? Three-and-a-half, four minutes now? Jesus, do you think? I mean, she’s could be with some other dude and is just now finishing up banging him. If he’s anything like me, four minutes is more than enough time.
Four-and-a-half minutes and she still hasn’t texted me back. This guy is clearly better at sex than I am. Should I call her? Maybe I should call her. What would I even say? Uh, hey, you hadn’t texted me back yet, so yeah, about that. What’s even the point, I’m sure she won’t be able to hear her cell phone ring over the clatter of her breasts and her screams of ecstasy.
Five minutes, okay he’s beyond satisfying her; he’s going for the high score at this point. This pleasure-bot she’s with is undoubtedly a contemporary John Henry: seemingly part machine, an expert at driving hard steel, and of course, clearly black and packing something like thirteen inches of ferocity in his pants. There’s no way I can compete with that. Everything was going so well and now it’s all being washed away in what I can only imagine is a fast and furious display that has everything on the Paul Walls of her apartment shaking as she orgasms over and over at a Ludacris level of volume from the penetration of his (The) Rock-hard dick.
Six-almost-seven minutes now, I’m sure time is standing still as her life is flashing before her eyes. Her brain literally overloaded with endorphins that an aneurysm is a possibility. She is going to be pleasured to death. It will make national news and bored housewives everywhere will touch themselves to it. Honestly, she’s going to be a different person after this. Winning the lottery, writing the next great American novel, eating a piece of bacon wrapped in cheese and dipped in ranch dressing, it doesn’t matter, they will all pale in comparison to this voyage she’s taking on the bang bus to Climax City.
She’s literally going to need to smoke a carton of cigarettes after this onslaught is over.
Eight minutes, okay, this makes sense now, of course she hasn’t texted me back; she probably can’t even remember her own name, let alone what a phone is or how to text someone on one. She’s going to have to acclimate to real life again. This could be the premise for The Miracle Worker 2. I’m sure her vocal chords are strained beyond belief and the police have been summoned to investigate what the neighbors are figuring is a murder. Boy, will that guy’s hand be sore from all the high-fives he gets from cops and neighbors after they sort all of this out!
Nearly ten minutes now, this is unbearable. Let me just look at my phone and try to pick up the pieces of my emasculated existence. I’ll try information and see if they have a therapist I can get a hold of. If that doesn’t work it’ll be on to the suicide hotlines until they all eventually block my number.
Wait; hold on, my last message to her didn’t send! Oh, that means she’s probably just been waiting for me to text her back. Let me find service and try again. Sorry for freaking out, everybody!
