Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Tag Archives: goofy

Directions

Oh, you’re coming over to my apartment?  Let me tell you how to get there.

 

I never entertain guests; this will be so exciting!  We can play board games; I’ve got ALF Pictionary, ALF Trivial Pursuit, and ALF Boggle; so, basically, we’ll either get to draw ALF a bunch of times, get to respond to a bunch of questions whose answers are all ALF, or get to spell “ALF” over and over again.  Plus, I’ll make my famous saltines topped with hot sauce and ketchup that we can eat while huffing white out in front of the Magic Eye poster that I stuck on the screen of my broken TV.   Wow, I’m actually having company over; this is the beginning of my transformation, I suppose. I’m turning from an ugly, apathetic duckling into a larger, more apathetic duck who lives to entertain!

 

When you leave from your home, be sure to kiss your significant other goodbye, whether that individual is your spouse, your dog, or just a photograph of Steve McQueen you passionately care about.  Jump in your car, Segway, or rickshaw and just get on the first freeway you see.  Don’t worry about which freeway, just pick one and you’ll eventually make it to my exit probably.

 

Contrary to Christian belief: all roads lead to people, but all roads do not lead to Jesus.  How do I know, well, I can drive it to anyone’s place via roads, plus, this one time, I was lost and ended up on a road ending at a T.G.I.Friday’s that was part of a larger Old Country Buffet that was currently hosting an event that seemed to only be attended by screaming, colicky babies.  I’m going to be honest when I say that if the presence of that establishment may be the biggest argument against God’s existence—a sensible and kind-spirited god would never let such a disgustingly malevolent place exist.

 

Now, it’s okay if you drank a little before coming to see me.  I know walking into an apartment filled with trash that an adult-baby nests in would be intimidating.  I’d advise against drinking too much and driving, unless you’re texting too.  If that’s the case, then I’m pretty sure you’re in the clear since drunk driving and drunk texting cancel each other out.

 

As you’re driving try to find the North Star.  If you’re in the Southern Hemisphere, or it’s light outside, just keep driving aimlessly and you’ll see it eventually.  Now, once you’ve found it, you’ll be prepared for all the fun star-gazing activities I have planned for when you make it over!

 

Drive until you see a sign for that burger place I threw up in that one time.  No, not that one that you’re thinking of; that one burned down in a chemical fire.  No, I’m talking about the other one, yeah, I think you know the one.

 

Once you’re off the freeway stop at the grocery store.  Obviously, not the one with the manager that smelled my hair that one time—please, I spend enough money there trying to get him to smell me more and I don’t need anymore competition.  While you’re at the other grocery store though pick up saltines, hot sauce, and ketchup so I can be a good host.

 

You may want to pick up toilet paper if you used to that sort of comfort.  I choose not to support those greedy toilet paper barons that run the country, but I don’t hold it against people if they do.  Obviously, get something two-ply or heavy-duty if you’re planning on taking any heavy doodys while you’re over.  Butt, if you want to use my eco-savvy, post-poo method of stripping naked, getting in the shower, and touching your toes, you’re more than welcome to use this “reverse bidet” method that lets gravity and the shower do all the dirty work.

 

Now, once you’re in the town, drive around until you find the lighthouse.  Wait for sunset and share a bottle of whiskey with your thoughts and tap into your creative juices to craft a poem with inspirational capabilities.  I say this because the doorman at my building is depressed and ill-tempered, but he usually enjoys particularly moving verses.  Be a good guest and cheer him up ; because I’m worried about him.

 

Nah, I’m just kidding; there’s no suicidal doorman.  The “doorman” is actually just a picture of Captain Crunch I hung in the window of the main entrance.  However, he does like to hear motivating poetry, so read him your poem and come on upstairs; I’ve got a tumbler of Nyquil and a big hug waiting for you.

 

 

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Presidential Erotica: A Chocolate-Vanilla Swirl

President Barrack Obama stewed in the Oval Office late one Friday night.  Frazzled about the country’s impending decision over his job, he kept running over numbers from various focus groups and demographics as he wearily tried to figure out if he was missing any key voters before Election Day.  Drained, he decided to call it a night and closed his binder, but just then the door opened.  Stunned, Obama turned to see none other than his opposition and Republican candidate, Mitt Romney, standing in the door.

 

“Hey there; you’re looking well, Mr. President.”

 

“You too, governor, what are you here for?”

 

“Don’t play hard to get; you know exactly why I’m here.”

 

As soon as Romney let those words leave his lips he and the president each took three quick strides towards each other and collapsed on the floor in a sloppy, homoerotic, interracial make out session that would make anyone’s grandparents vomit with rage.

 

Mitt worked his mouth down the president’s wrinkled shirt and unbuckled his belt with his teeth as Obama reciprocated the action.

 

“Happy birthday, Mr. President.”

 

“It’s not my birthday.”

 

“Then why are we about to party like it is?”

 

Simultaneously and instinctively they took one another’s Anthony Weiners and jammed it in their respective mouths in a beautiful bipartisan display.  They had turned the Oval Office into the Oral Office in no less than two minutes.   Although not members of the Tea Party, the two candidates proceeded to do their share of tea bagging as waves of pleasure washed over them.

 

Romney was trying to hold on for a few more moments, but it was not use.  He accidentally thought about how little he paid in taxes as took the First Penis out of his mouth and with urgency in his voice hollered, “Do you want it in your mouth or on your face?”

 

“What,” replied Obama, taking the governor’s Dick Nixon out of his mouth.

 

“Well, I figured since you’re pro-choice I’d give you the option.”

 

Without words Obama took some affirmative action and let that hot, billionaire cream hit him in the face.  By the time it was over the president looked like he had been in an explosion at a whiteout factory.

 

Romney, being a gentleman, reached in his coat pocket and pulled out several wads of cash and one Chinese baby that he gave to the president to clean himself up.

 

“Talk about a loaded question,” Obama said through a laugh.

 

“Oh, you’re so bad.”

 

“Quit your filibustering and let me fill you, buster.”  Obama stated as he aggressively bent Romney over the desk and mounted him from behind.  “Oh, yes, we can,” Obama said to himself before he penetrated Romney’s rear cave like it was in Pakistan and his member was a member of SEAL Team Six.

 

With furious thrusts Barrack began to rock the desk and initiated ass-warfare on much more than just the top one-percent of Romney’s pooper.

 

The sex was short-lived, but powerful and Obama let freedom ring after a few thorough thrusts resulting in the president emptying, a much more eco-friendly, Exxon Valdez-esque load into Romney’s dumper.  Exhausted the two collapsed onto the floor in an embrace.

 

Predictable, the president soon sparked up a post-coital cigarette while Romney began counting the money in his wallet to wind down, but not before letting a little bit of Santorum leak out of his strip mine and onto the Oval Office’s carpet.

 

Masturbation Etiquette: A Sticky Situation

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.

Erotic Fiction: The Fool Triumphant [2/2]

–We rejoin our hero on his figurative precipice, about to dive into the graphic description of last night’s sexual encounter in which no detail is too trivial to not mention.

 

“She invited me up to her place,” Milton continued, “It didn’t matter that it was below freezing out or that her heat had been turned off at her apartment; I had enough warm wang to thaw an igloo.  One look at my demeanor, or the demeanor of my penis, and you would know that Milton Honeysnickle was ready to jam his beef log in some of that stinky, Kellenberger cookie.”

 

The orcs destroying the sleepy town of Djallenfjord in the group’s game of Dungeons and Dragons would have to wait to be vanquished; this traveling party had more pressing things on their plate at the moment; Milton carried on with his tale of conquest, “We go back to her room and I rip her clothes off with such force that they’re reduced to mere rags, suitable for nothing more except maybe cleaning clogged drains in pubic schools.  I plunge my face into that bushy badger’s nest she was sporting and I start licking those meat curtains like I’m devouring a Subway Cold Cut Combo.  Each stroke from my tongue is more aggressive than the last; rattling that clitoris like it’s a die in a Yahtzee shaker in a game played by Parkinson’s patients during an earthquake.  She was almost there, but I stop, because my forceful licks are starting to break skin.

 

The group is in awe at this point; Milton has them at full attention.  He knows they are hanging on to every moist detail of his story.  “I took my mouth out of her pube forest and stood up.  My steel girder of a bulge was testing the strength of the button on my jeans and when I tried to remove the pants the button shot off into the corner of room and lodged itself in the skull of her roommate’s cat.  I froze momentarily, worried a dead animal could kill the mood, but she quickly reassured me, “Hey, when you’re done lodging things in that pussy I see something of yours I like to lodge in my pussy.”  She had given me the green light and I wasted no time pulling out my junk as I imagined myself lighting a cigarette and saying a cool-guy tagline.

 

Nerdenkrantz’s misgivings had been silenced, as he too sat, rapt with excitement hanging on every word out of Milton’s mouth.  “My wang blazed a trail through her thicket of dark stringy hairs and before long my battering ram was knocking down the doors to the infamous Kellenberger lady bits.  At this point I just start using that battering ram of a dong I’ve got to just fully hammer her slop hole.  Like a pneumatic nail gun; I’m just firing and reloading over and over again as the bed frame and walls begin to rattle causing picture after picture to crash to the floor covering the dead cat in a layer of broken glass and precious Kellenberger family memories.”

 

Milton leaned forward and drew the crowd in, “Now this is when it’s kicked up a level,” he teased, “After about five minutes of that I bend her right leg up and start going at it, essentially hitting the NOS on my sex drive. She let out a little yelp, like a dog that had been accidentally stepped on, as I can tell my thrusts are shaking her internal organs like she’s on some unsafe carnival ride.  Well, guess what, bitch, you are on an unsafe ride and his name is Milton Honeysnickle.”

 

“It was after then I pulled her leg back farther to try to get even deeper.  It was here that I thought her leg felt like ligaments were popping, but she didn’t care.  She was too busy trying to repress her screams to keep from straining her vocal cords while still attempting to keep herself conscious through the extreme g-forces being exerted on her.  I heard a cracking sounds and worried that her leg was breaking, but I realized that it was just the box spring starting to splinter under my domineering force.  Good work, Sealy, way to not make a box spring that couldn’t handle my Saturday night.”

 

“She was nearing, yet another, bone-rattling and mind-shattering orgasm and she repressed her pleasure shrieks long enough to get out an “Oh God, oh God,” to which I simply replied, “Hey, baby, I’m here, but you don’t have to call me God, you can just call me Milton.”  She nodded as if she understood, but I doubt anyone could hear much over the sound of me furiously entering and exiting her while my jackhammering of her flesh cavern continued.”

 

The room had become hotter and the boys clenched their fists in an attempt to draw their attention away from their arousal.  “As I neared my big finish,” Milton progressed, “The decision to pull out wasn’t made out of worry that she would get pregnant; it was more of a concern for that the monstrous power of my load might damage her cervix or possibly even her small intestine.  I wanted to go for round two in a bit and that was going to be tough if I she had a bunch of internal bleeding.  I decided blast my cock cream into the closest thing I could find, which happened to be a blanket that looked pretty old, very handmade, and looked to contain the most sentimental value.  Since I couldn’t find anything else, and I didn’t want to risk anymore structural damage to the room, I pulled out a few thrusts later and released my floodgates into this personal item of Kelly’s at a PSI pressure level that was enough to rupture a sewer line.

 

“Was she mad,” Nerdenkrantz wondered.  “No,” Milton responded, “The blanket was destroyed beyond recognition, but that’s what two gallons of hot goo shot at a dangerously high velocity can do.  She probably didn’t even realize it; she had never experienced anything like that before in her life and if she didn’t care about a dead cat I’m guessing she wouldn’t care about a ruined blanket.  For the next twenty minutes she just lied there while I made a sandwich and ate it while I took a dump in her bathroom.  After that she was able to gather the strength to actually sit up in bed, which revealed that she had acquired massive rug burns all over her back.  It was a learning moment for both of us as we both could recognize and appreciate that Milton Honeysnickle creates a lot of friction when he fucks.”

 

“Was that it, man,” Nerdenkrantz asked, begging for there to be more to the epic.  “Well, after that, we stayed up until about seven in the morning and did the deed about three more times.  We both fell asleep very satisfied at that point; then I woke up at her place around noon and took the bus home.”

 

The group remained stunned, still trying to wrap their minds around Milton’s experience.  They slowly moved into their Dungeons and Dragons game for the week and the rest of the night went smoothly and predictably.  However, from that point forward Milton was no longer the butt of any verbal jabs or cutting remarks and the group began to go back to picking on each other for other reasons.

 

Of course Milton’s story was completely fake since in actuality he had spent his Saturday night going to a small house party, drinking a fifth of vodka, and attempting to give a very clammy and non-consensual back rub to the host’s seventeen-year old sister who was up visiting college.

My Simple Cowboy Wedding

The Old American West was a place where a man could spend a month’s pay in a day—a phrase that rings even more true in today’s age of hard drugs and persuasive speedboat salesmen.  It was a place where hog stealing was a lifestyle choice and not just an activity for weekends and vacations.  It was a simpler time then.  A time where the currency of the day was violence, racism, and alcoholism, a currency the “authentic” western steakhouse did not accept as my down payment for the reception after my cowboy wedding.

 

It’s appropriate when you think about it. With our relationship being built on the solid bedrock of grain alcohol, gambling, and deceiving Native Americans, what would be more fitting than to celebrate our love than a cowboy themed wedding?

 

Our long-term commitment runs deep; much like a cattle drive.  By that I mean we’ve eaten nothing but dried beef for months at a time and we’ve both contracted Typhoid at least once. Further, and in my indomitable spirit of full disclosure, we’ve both put on some heifer-weight mostly due to our perpetual grazing while inside the friendly confines of Golden Corral.

 

I know we’ve already booked a guide for our honeymoon to walk us down the Trail of Tears, but if we can find a real cattle drive happening, well, I might just have to send that reservation, pun-intended, down the Trail of Tears—Andrew Jackson style!  A full fortnight of cattle driving; how awesome would that be?  Wrangling, prodding, and branding all day—it’ll be like the three weeks I spent as a gym teacher.  Plus, nothing beats capping off a full day of poking cows as a cowpoke than spending a passion filled night cowpoking the new Mrs. Justin Gawel.

 

The honeymoon plans can wait, I suppose, the ceremony and reception are more pressing matters.  The only think I can say for definite is that we’re going to need a good amount of live ammunition and salted meats to get us all through both.  I’ll be sure to book a blind, Negro piano player, because, you know, I guess I’m just cliché that way.  Hopefully Stevie Wonder’s assistant will get back to me soon.

 

I don’t think we’ll serve communion at the service, but we will just perpetually passing around trays filled with assorted barbecue-sauce infused whiskies.  If you want to imagine those as the blood of a much cooler, cowboy version of Jesus then, by all means, go right ahead.

 

Graciously, our good friend Mike has lent us the use of his new servant for any odds and ends around the wedding service.  The servant man is a hard-working Cherokee, fresh off the reservation at the ripe age of seventy-six, and has agreed to work at Mike’s house in exchange for room, board, and grain alcohol.  Lucky for us he’s clinically depressed, so he fits the criteria for our something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue.

 

We’ll keep the vows simple—probably just a statement or two about supporting the Second Amendment and a promise to defend each other from bandits, loose women, and rogue cattle and that’ll be it.  The service will end with us branding a cow with each other’s initials before processing out to the sounds of our favorite jug band.  From there we will board our oxen-driven, covered wagon and embark down the trail where we will hunt at least twice, ford at a river, and, hopefully, arrive at the steakhouse still alive and, fingers-crossed, dysentery-free.

 

The staff at the reception steakhouse has assured me that we’ll be getting the complete package: a platter of steaks, a trough of gravy, and a trough of whiskey.  I suppose they’ll have water there too, but if anyone needs anything more than that they can spend their own Confederate dollars on it.  Frankly, if you need anything more than meat, alcohol, and gravy to have fun you’re probably doing something wrong.

 

After dinner our guests would eat their dessert steaks before we all turned to the dance floor to swing our sexual-partners to the styles and sounds of the finest eight-piece washboard and harmonica band in the county.   We’d cut rugs into the night, stopping only for the more-than-occasional drink from the whiskey trough or to swindle any member of the Native American wait staff into trading us their family’s land rights in exchange for some “spiritual” beads off of the crappy art projects our children had made.

 

Saddle up, partner, we’re having a western wedding.

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