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.

 

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