Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Tag Archives: high school

A Sobering Graduation Speech

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!

 

 

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Neurotic Erotic Fiction: An Inner Monologue Ripped Directly From a 14-Year-Old at a High School Dance.

My date wants to stop dancing and go to the bathroom.  What the crap does that even mean “go to the bathroom”.  I bet she’s going in there to chat with some girls about how creepy I am, or how my breath is too hot, or how my mouth smells like milk and blood.   I can’t help it; I like my steaks rare and I like drinking milk! Jesus Christ, that’s gotta be what they’re talking about, I mean, she’s been in there like a-minute-and-a-half-two-minutes now!

 

Is it hot in here, or am I just sweating a lot?  Has my jaw always clicked like this, or is this a stress thing? Why am I thinking of this now, Emily Vreeland, my date, my dream girl and one and only (I think), is in the bathroom right now, and when she comes out I have to be cool, suave, and Edward Norton-esque about this Homecoming Dance situation.

 

Poo nuggets, I bet I look desperate just standing and waiting for her to come out, very un-Edward Norton.  Quick wave to some people – ah, they didn’t see me – make it look like I was running my fingers through my hair in case anyone is watching this –and, we’re good.  Okay, look around, check your phone, no one is staring at you, and okay good, Emily’s walking back to you. Just get back to dancing and hopefully, she’ll ask if she can look, and maybe touch, your dong later.

 

Dancing, and dancing, more dancing.  Okay, I can do this.  Poop, poop, shit –there’s friction on my crotch.  Bugger, she’s going to think I’m a child an incapable of controlling my urges and body.  Dang-it, I knew I should have used more Scotch Tape on my penis to ensure that it’d stay tucked away if this happened.  Can she feel this half-stack, I mean, if she can she’s acting normal about it.  Wait; maybe she’d be offended if I didn’t have a chubby, like a non-verbal way of calling her fugly-yuck-rat.  Oh, I certainly don’t want that; maybe try to discretely wriggle this tape free and pay her that “compliment”.  It’s like I’m Edward Norton and just Hulk-ing out, right?

 

Cool, this is going well, wait, maybe too well—is there such a thing as “too hard”, I don’t know why they don’t teach us things like that in Health class instead of trivial stuff about Fetal Alcohol Syndrome and dental dams?

 

Okay, she hasn’t said anything.  She’s either smitten, good at disguising how uncomfortable she is, or my penis is just too small for her to notice.  I don’t like my odds in this situation come to think of it.   Jiminies, I’ve started to sweat more.  Why didn’t I cover my entire body in deodorant instead of just covering my armpits, crotch, and butthole?  Is there a reason she hasn’t invited me to go dry-hump her in a janitors closet yet?  I promise I’d be good; I’ve been practicing all week on a very misshapen, and now stained, body pillow.  Should I just tell her that?  Maybe that’ll get the gears moving on the dry-humping front, which could lead to her possibly touching my weiner.

 

Okay, either my cell phone is vibrating in my brain or I’m have a mild panic attack; I don’t know if I’m going to maintain my cool. Sorry, Emily, I am no Ed Nort.

 

No way, I’m out. I’m just going to tell Emily that I’m going to go to the bathroom when actually I’m just going to leave and call my therapist and see if she can meet for an emergency session right now.

Do It Yourself High School Love Letter

Just circle the word or set of words that makes the most sense for you and presto, you’ll have a customized love letter to give to your special friend!

(Babe/ Dear/ My Sweet, Sweet Pootie Tang),

My (God / Allah / Mormon God), I can’t believe I’m with you!  You’re so (gorgeous / hairy / thick) that my (palms/nipples/pubes) (sweat/ tremble/ get extra itchy) every time I merely think of you.

Everything about you (infatuates me/ is adorable / makes my step dad hot and bothered).  From your (creamy/ hairy/ raw) (skin/ legs/ butthole) to your personality that’s filled with (compassion/ sass/ racism). I really can’t get enough of it all!    You may have started as just a simple (acquaintance/ pen-pal/ casual-fuck-stick), but now I can see that we have truly become (two-souls intertwined in this thing called life/ the envy of our celibate friends/ adept at adapting to each other’s fear, foot, and food fetishes)

People may have their doubts, but I think we can really (make this Facebook official/ eat an entire pizza while fucking/ claim our math teacher molested us so he passes us).  I know it won’t be totally easy, but I think in the end it will bring us closer together and we’ll be able to be more free about our (communication/ drug use/ handjob policy).

Right here I want to apologize for the other night.  It wasn’t right of me to (rub/ film/ pee on) you without your consent.  Then I spilled all my (Capri-Sun/ Anti-Semitic feelings/ blood) all over everything and I could see that the night was becoming disaster.  After I left I went home and felt (disappointed/ hungry for your love/ my genitals until they erupted in a tsunami of pleasure).  I hope we can put this mishap behind us and look forward to a life dedicated to (you/ our Cat-Nip business dream/ the Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch reunion).

You are truly a (treasure/ pleasure robot/ fart-machine) and I love you for it!  You are the (salt/ Batman/ peanut butter) to my (salt shaker/ Batman fetish/ dog that licks peanut butter off dudes’ balls).

My (heart /boner/ brain aneurysm) is always throbbing for you.

(Love/ Longing/ Firmly Errect),

[sign your name here]

P.S.  I ran out of glitter so this letter should be just filled with just the usual (strong feelings/ sequins/ pube trimmings) when you receive it.

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