Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

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Shanty-Van Randy

Did someone say that, did I just think that, or did I pick this up through some sort of Morse Code military vibration in my teeth left over from my stint in Korea? Sorry, I should note I don’t mean Korea and the hullabaloo-kerfuffle-nonsense way back in the fifties, no, sir, I’m talking about my Korean Town dentist with whom I have a mutual “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” policy when it come to asking for insurance and for asking for extra nitrous oxide to take home.


Give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a night; give a man a complimentary garbage bag full of euphoric gas and he’ll come back to your office of dentistry and fireworks for years to come.  I may only have a degree from a discredited institution, although some people will tell you it was fake and just an outdated CPR certificate I found in the trash.  However, if I had needed to take an economics class for my degree I’m sure Adam Smith’s “The Wealth of Nations” would more than cover the stability and attractiveness of a business founded on cavities, cleanings, and complimentary drugs and explosives.


I may have underestimated the strength of this gas.  I know, it sounds like a line I’ve undoubtedly poured on before in times of failed chemistry tests and instances of excessive funeral flatulence.   But Randy had warned me this time; he said I would freak out and here I am, mercy me, having me a spell of the crazies with a touch of the vapors.


Is it possible Randy is some sort of sayer of sooth?  Nah, if he were any good at that then his living quarters would resemble more of a house rather than his van full of sea spiders and pigeons.


Alas, Randy, I should have heeded your prophecy more seriously.   Twas foolish of me, similar to that time you sold me that Malcolm Ecstasy and I stored it in the Motrin bottle.  Seriously, who knew hallucinogens cured hangover so well?  You were right about that that time, Randy; that stuff did get me messed up by any means necessary, and was, overall, much more of an aggressive trip than that Dr. Molly Luther Chronic Jr. stuff.


How long have I been home holding this garbage bag full of nitrous?  It’s gotta be somewhere between twenty minutes and all of time, but I can’t remember and, sadly, I neglected to buy a watch with a decade readout, or any watch, or wrist-sized sundial, at all, for that matter.


Has Randy been sleeping here the whole time?  What is that piece of paper he’s clutching—he doesn’t have any valuable papers in his life.  Christ on a cracker, he smells like shanty-van if I’ve ever smelled it.  Why does this paper have my name and signature on it?  Here’s to hoping this isn’t a repeat of when I traded him my power of attorney for gas money.


Major crisis averted, looks like this document just give Randy permission to crash in my place until his Van of Man makes it through monsoon season at the quarry.  Pretty sure Randy doesn’t know how quarry water levels work, shockingly though this document is proof that he is reaping the benefit of hiring that personal notary.


Well, let’s make the best of this and ride out New Roommate Randy through monsoon season. Today could be the beginning of something great, but right now the trash bag is emptying and things are returning to normal, as in I’m consciously eating a pack of raw hotdogs in my bathtub.


This day would truly make a fantastic movie, wait, no, not fantastic—what’s that other thing—oh yeah, horribly unwatchable.



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