Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

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A Confusing Morning

21 Comments Posted by on March 22, 2013

A clang rattles somewhere in the distance and I’m suddenly awake and sweating more than I am usually. This perspiration, like a gooey afterbirth, covers me fresh from my slumber, as I realize I am in a world I do not remember existing in.

 

The fluorescent lights flicker and my temples throb with pain and incomprehension; my mouth’s desiccation reminds me that I have no idea how long I have been here.  I’m truly parched, my mouth tastes dry and filthy all at once, as if an obese individual filed their sloppy craw with a handful of rancid sand and spent the entire time I was asleep open-mouth kissing me while their sweaty rolls scrubbed across every one of my surfaces, like brushes in an ineffective and disgusting car wash.

 

Fate has begun to torture me; I’m covered in moisture, that I’m beginning to suspect may not all be entirely mine, but my mouth is bone dry.  It’s become a smelly, little desert full of the taste of rancid yawns, congealed chunks of unidentified meat, and a wicked sinus infection that makes my voice sound like a clinically-depressed John C. Reilly—all symptoms I had only experienced two years ago during my most recent exclusively-bologna cleanse.

 

With my hot, little mouth aching for sweet relief, a remark I knew I should have phrased better, even if only for my inner monologue, I suddenly stop and I’m frozen in fear.  My blood runs cold, even though my confines are excessively humid; I look at a hanger with my shirt and jeans dangling from it—I don’t remember changing clothes, but it appears that someone else may.  I’m terrified and feeling the potential embarrassment already, like if someone puts this on TV and America become privy to my ever-apparent penchant for self itching and my tendency of killing boredom by describing overly-erotic fictitious adventures of Henry Winkler and a promiscuous body pillow who just always seems to be begging for it.

 

How did my clothes get changed?  My captors must have motivation; maybe human trafficking, maybe they’re preparing for an annual organ harvesting festival, maybe it’s mere disdain for my now-apparent lack of style—it’s anyone’s guess truly.  Also, why did they leave the new pants at my ankles; is this how this sicko gets his or her kicks and yuks?

 

The odor of my confines has become overwhelming.  It’s like peppery mold crossed with a pig farm, just enough that my dehydrated tongue can taste it with every breath.  It’s a thick, stale almost fog that lingers, however, suddenly a fan kicks on and my focus becomes sharper.

 

The fan roars and the cell becomes more bearable.  I change back into my clothes, thinking this will irritate my captor into explaining these cramped quarters, as no explanation or escape is clear.  I’m scouring for clues, hints, anything that could give some insight to the purpose of this.  Suddenly, one wall starts to rattle and muffled screams start coming from the outside. The light flickers again before shutting off for good and leaving me in pure darkness.

 

Unrestrained terror rushes through my body, I’m desperately trying to snap out of this nightmare, but the authenticity sets in—I’m conscious and far too powerless for this to be a dream.  The reality is setting in and I’m immersed in fear and uncertainty.

 

The banging intensifies and the dampened shrieks build. I’m freezing on the inside and sweating on the outside but neither has my attention.  This is my fate; whatever is on the other side of that wall, one way or another, will be my escape from this purgatory.  My stomach flips like I’m on a carnival ride gone haywire, I reach for the mysterious clothes that I had shed and cough up bile out of nervousness.

 

Memories flood back, little, petty items I wish I could take back, now fully appreciating the brevity of delicate nature of an individual’s existence.  I’m breaking down, suddenly filled with the thought that I’ve contributed nothing to my former world except troves of Who’s The Boss fan fiction, more than my share of sewage, and hundreds of discarded chicken buckets.

 

A second voice joins and the thundering clamor is broken by a shrill, piercing sound of metal on metal.  Unexpectedly, a calm washes over me and I feel ready to accept my fate.  With a low crank the wall breaks away and the small cell becomes flooded with a blinding light.

 

My pupils contract and soon I realize I’m staring down a large man holding a staff or some sort and a smaller man with a name tag that reads “Dennis.”

 

“Are you kidding me; why the crap were you in there for so long?  Are you that selfish?  Jeez, are you telling me we broke the door down for nothing?” starts an irate Dennis in a whiny voice, “You’re going to have to pay for those clothes you know.”

 

The larger man, now disinterested, take his what appears to be a crowbar and shuffles away.  I stand up and Dennis continues his diatribe, but I couldn’t care less.  I’m not dead or dreaming, I just fell asleep on the toilet after dropping some seriously wicked dump-dump at J.C. Penney’s again and they had to break down the bathroom door out of concern for me not being dead and the potential lawsuit.

 

What, I don’t see anything wrong with my actions.  Doody calls and I’m now recalling that I was wondering what I would look like wearing the Hawaiian shirt and tuxedo pants I took in there—I’m now remembering that look isn’t as hilarious as I had initially thought.

 

Dennis is still going at it—something about how I’m going to have pay for the door and the clothes now because the garments have been “irrecoverably and detestably sullied” from my aggressive bathroom habits.

 

Yeah, you’d think this experience would change me for the better, but, really, I’m just going to hide these puke-riddled clothes, avoid paying J.C. Penney’s, and the flee to go eat a family-sized bucket of chicken by myself in the food court.

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Absurd, Grotesque , , , , , ,

Swindled Again By AAA

39 Comments Posted by on March 15, 2013

I don’t blame you, AAA, no; I blame myself for trusting you.  You’re a charlatan, a snake-oil salesman, or that magician in Ohio who stole my identity for six months. Scarring, grotesque, reeking of eggs and mayonnaise, all words and phrases I would use to describe my hotel experience at Big Rudy’s Feed N’ Sleep along I-80—a place you gave one diamond rating to and wrote a review that made generous use of phrases “up to all building codes”, “open”, and “technically satisfactory”.

 

I arrived mid-afternoon, eager to see what my $26.75 plus sheet deposit bought me for the night.  In the past, nearly twenty-seven dollars has been proven to buy a lot of fun, be it in the form of a twenty-seven-dollar case of breakfast meats covered in yolks, one-hundred-and-eleven gumballs, or one photo of me dressed up like a cowboy—truly Big Rudy had his work cut out for him.

 

AAA had described the lobby as having a “Mediterranean” style to it, but from the missing plaster, concrete floor, and chain-smoking clerk missing an arm I’m going to assume AAA was referring to the Syrian part of the Mediterranean.  Technically correct, I suppose, AAA.  However, being correct doesn’t stop it from being disgusted while watching that tiny child repetitively lick a pink stain on the counter after being told not to several times from the clerk.

 

With his one good hand the clerk gives me a slip of paper with “41-7-22” scribbled on it.  Expecting a key and confused, I round the corner into the single corridor with about eight rooms on either side each with a combination padlock affixed to their door.  Swanky, AAA.

 

On my third try the rusted lock pops off and I start speculating they aren’t going to have complementary tetanus shots.  The room itself is decorated in a classic Russian decor, meaning that there’s a single bed, nothing on the walls, and a desk with a phone and toaster nailed to it—perfect for a family of seven to share during a cold Moscow winter during the 1950’s while they sat sipping their last jug of potato water and picking at the carcass of their pet crow.

 

The bathroom is nothing more than a single toilet-sink fixture like you’d find in a prison accompanied by a tub consisting of more hair than porcelain.  I close the door hastily knowing I’ll never be able to return to a point in my life where I didn’t know that tub entity existed.

 

Okay, so I’m not here to spend time in the room anyways, and AAA did say this place has a pool, a restaurant, and an entertainment center.  I’m going to explore, and, ideally, I’ll just fall asleep once I’m back in the room after I barricade the door with the desk-toaster-phone.

 

I take my book and make my way to the pool in the back.  I survey the above-ground monstrosity, complete with broken chairs and old stumps strewn about the area.  I approach the pool wall and discover there’s only about six inches of brown, filth swill at the bottom of the pool.  My eyes pan up and at the deeper end and I immediately shudder—it’s an overweight Italian man with a gold chain, thinning, yet greasy, hair on his head, and pseudo-rug of midnight black strands covering the rest of his body.  He’s in the water up to his shins and he’s making passionate love to an equally overweight woman whose pasty thighs resemble stained-glass works made of varicose veins.

 

The woman notices my embarrassment and as I’m scampering away with my head down I hear the man bellow, “Lighten up; we just renewed our vows!”

 

Truly, there is so much beauty in this world.  However, none of it can be found at Big Rudy’s Feed N’ Sleep.

 

I make my way back into the building, hoping the entertainment center will have a bar where I can repress this memory with a mason jar filled with whiskey and bleach.  Sadly, when I ask the clerk which way to the entertainment center he merely points to the pinball machine and cigarette machine sitting in the corner of the room.

 

When I inquire about the restaurant he gestures to the heat lamps at the other end of the room that are currently warming a bowl of dirty muffins and a trough of something curdled.  I wasn’t hungry, just curious, but I doubt I’ll ever be hungry again.

 

Out of sheer anger, I’m able to sleep for a few hours.  I wake up cold and disturbingly clammy.  In a silent, yet frantic, rage I grab my backpack and walk out to the lobby where I give the clerk the sheet of paper with the combination scribbled on it.  With his hand he grasps it and says, “checking out?” in a way that implies this is a legitimate hotel.  I respond with a grunt and he asks, “breakfast?” and again points to the heat lamps at the end of the lobby.

 

There’s the couple from yesterday, piling paper plates with a yellow sustenance and a white paste that I’m guessing is the eggs and mayonnaise I smelled when I walked in.  The fat Italian man gives me a nod and a wave.  I storm out of the building.

 

You really hustled me, AAA.

Complaints, Fiscally Savvy, Grotesque , , , , , ,

The Minivan Backseat: A Filthy Frontier

31 Comments Posted by on December 28, 2012

Great empires fall, the brightest stars burn out, masterpieces fade, and minivan backseats inevitably become sticky, disgusting, and uninhabitable places.  The enfilthment of a backseat is like erosion; a slow process, but, given the time, sediment from all regions will be deposited in the minivan’s backseat usually taking the form of spilled colas, spilled Kool-Aids, and spilled science fair projects.

 

You can’t fight the machine on this one.  Like a moth to light, the backseat of any minivan is going to attract a certain level of nasty, stank trash-doody.  Frankly, you’d be better off trying to get water to boil at sixty degrees Fahrenheit or tying to teach a mentally impaired horse how to read rather than trying to keep a minivan backseat clean.  I realize it would still be near impossible to teach a non-mentally impaired horse to read, but it would be extra tough if the horse was, how should I say, wealthy in the chromosome department.  I’m off topic, I don’t mean to debate the tenants of equine literacy, but, basically, what I’m trying to say is that it’s a pseudo-law that a minivan backseat will get disgusting.

 

If you’re not taking care of children currently because you never had kids, you’re kids abandoned you, or maybe they’re dead or something then I can safely assume that you’re not in the market for a minivan.   But, for the experience, flashback to 1997—my mom, taking care of two kids who take up every spare minute of hers with bickering over watching Clarissa Explains it All or The Wonder Years, decided to purchase a 1997 Plymouth Voyager.  Flash, swag, prestige—driving off the lot I can assure you the minivan had none of those qualities, and, somehow, had even less of those qualities years later when my mom sold the vehicle in exchange for a partially used gift card to Applebee’s.

 

The lack of resale value was not my mom’s fault.  In fact, I distinctly remember wiping boogers on everything I touched in that van.  I remember the time I started digging in the crevices of the seat only to discover a treasure trove of Jolly Ranchers and Skittles that were all fused together in a hair-covered, sugary cluster that was big enough to choke a dog.  I put the wad back in the seat; knowing that it would be a fun surprise for someone else down the road.  It didn’t stop there though, every vacation in which fast food was ingested over car rides resulted in a few rogue fries escaping into the seat folds and sodas being spilled in the cup holders thus creating sticky pools of syrup which were resistant to any cleaning attempt.

 

The field trips didn’t help.  A seventh-grade trip to see an afternoon performance of the musical Grease turned sour after a fat, mean girl was assigned to ride with us.  I mean, the knowledge of having a chubby child in your car is already going to hurt the resale value, but that wasn’t enough for Little Miss Two Mayonnaise Sandwiches For Lunch, no, even though we were leaving for the play right after lunch she still saw it necessary to bring a goodie bag filled with pretzels, Slim Jims, and Ring-Pops that she proceeded to hoard and munch on during the ten-minute ride to the show.  In the spirit of Grease I won’t tell you more, tell you more anymore detail about this large mammal grazing in the backseat of said van, but the result of her presence was a half-eaten and melted Ring Pop jammed in the seat pocket, a bunch of wrappers in the storage compartment, and a streak on her seat that we all prayed was just chocolate.

 

The Kelly Blue Book rated the brown stain as “undesirably tragic” and proclaimed that it was certain to doom the re-sale value of the vehicle.  By the end the person we sold the van to declared he would be selling it to the booming Detroit ashtray industry that would turn said minivan into several hundred trays for ash.   A fitting afterlife for an existence spent being filled with garbage.  And, akin a morbidly obese scuba diver dying after being mistook for a trophy fish and harpooned, it was a sad end to a sad life.

 

Fiscally Savvy, Grotesque , , , , , ,

Bathroom Vacation

16 Comments Posted by on October 19, 2012

Mild-mannered Justin Gawel’s perched, motionless, on the handicapabel toilet in the back of the tiny, downstairs bathroom at work.  Justin’s a simple man who enjoys the handicap stall and the space it affords him. Space Justin uses to sprawl out and just let his bathroom experience “happen”.

 

Unrestrained bathroom habits are, and have always been, a simple pleasure in his life.  A pleasure that may delay a lame man from a making bowel “lack of” movement for a few minutes, but it’s worth it Justin rationalizes; their legs shouldn’t get too exhausted waiting for Justin to download a stink file of his into the toilet.

 

With no impatient handicapabel friends or Autobots rolling up on him, Justin begins to revel in the luxury of his toilet time.  He’s not forcing anything today.

 

This is his vacation.

 

“Why be on a beach,” Justin thinks, “when you could be on a toilet?  Sure, if you’re on a beach you can let the riptide take care of your back door oil slick; that’s easy enough, but what happens when the tide’s coming in?  What happens if I’m boogie boarding when the waves “assist” me with my ocean dumpage?  And what if, and I’m just spitballing, but what if I can’t find a lifeguard willing to pee on my winking brown-eye after an unfortunate encounter with a jellyfish?”

 

Too many questions, not enough answers for this handsome lover to keep contemplating the beach now; after all, this is his vacation.

 

Roosting on his proverbial nest, Justin feels his eyelids droop and his heart rate slow as he nears the precipice of this trip to the bathroom.  It’s a nirvana-esque state where his mind and his bowels are completely open.  The weight of his body fades from thought while his mind seamlessly sifts through the philosophies of Plato, Descartes, and Federline simultaneously.

 

With his spirit and psyche finally unchained, he’s able to come to terms with the ending of The Sopranos and he finally understands why they chose to name that movie Sophie’s Choice.  Further drifting down the river of tranquility he begins mentally engineering a cigarette that tastes like chicken wings: a product designed to prey on the fat smokers of the country so that America can finally finish the job Katrina started on all those corpulent pre-corpses inhabiting New Orleans.

 

On the brink of a revelation, Justin’s serenity is shattered by the pitter-patter of urgent feet.  After a few choice grunts Justin identifies the panicked pre-pooper as Greg: the not-so-lovable temp.

 

Although annoyed with the forced hiatus of his vacation, Justin realizes he brought this on himself because Greg is likely sick from the tainted mayonnaise on the sandwich Justin planted.  Tainted mayonnaise that Justin rubbed all over his taint before spreading it on his sandwich to teach Greg a lesson for a previous transgression.  You see, a few days ago, Justin watched Greg lick all the mayonnaise off of his sandwich before reassembling said sandwich and placing it back in Justin’s lunch bag as if it was still totally fine, but, in actuality, was totally disgusting.

 

The bathroom tension builds; Greg emits a Mel Gibson-eqsue racist rant while fumbling with his, apparently, overly difficult belt buckle.  This is it, Justin thinks; Greg could cut loose right here and justice would be served—especially if his pants are tucked into his socks like there were all day yesterday for some reason.

 

Listening intently, Justin thinks it can’t be much longer now.  How much more belt fumbling before Greg’s backdoor levee breaks?   A sinister smirk emerges across Justin’s face while he bites his bottom lip in anticipation for the hurricane of humiliation and booty butter about to ravish Greg.

 

The grin fades from his face when Justin hears a deep exhale from the adjacent stall followed by the sound of a zipper and an emphatic thud onto the toilet.

 

A deep breath and brief pause in the action is ensued by a cacophony, reminiscent of a school of king salmon being released back into the wild, before the disharmony crescendos into what Justin initially thought to be a car backfiring.  It was no car; it was just the unadorable and disdainful temp, Greg, backfiring.

 

The discord continued with sounds akin to a lawnmower sputtering to life on the third or fourth pull.  The sounds and smells passing through Greg’s canyon of wet ass fill the confined bathroom.  It was then that Justin grabbed his pants and stood up.  Covering his mouth and holding his breath he hurried out of the bathroom.  The vacation was officially over as Justin thought to himself, “I’m going to need a vacation after this vacation.”

 

Complaints, Grotesque , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Erotic Fiction: The Fool Triumphant [2/2]

8 Comments Posted by on September 21, 2012

–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.

Absurd, Erotic Fiction, Fitness, Grotesque, Rave , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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