From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag
I’m dead tired, but I’m not going to fall asleep. No, this isn’t a repeat of when my butcher was grinding up amphetamines in my meat to get me hooked on his, less legitimate, side business, no, this is actual terror keeping me awake.
Dread writhes through my veins, my heart starts beating at the rate of a coke addicted, hummingbird air-traffic controller. How I wish this panic was just my butcher up to his old tricks again; I’d know how to deal with it and I could get through tonight. You know that’s not true, Justin, you know you brought this on yourself.
You knew you couldn’t resist that cheese plate an hour ago.
You knew you couldn’t stop at one kind of cheese, no; you had to have them all.
You had to have them all because that’s who you are.
You will mix and match your cheeses.
You mix and match your cheese, even though you know you’re going to bed soon and that that cheese medley that your stomach has churned into cheese chaos will inevitably result in horrifying night terrors.
They’re called “cheese terrors” to the layman or “lactose-inspired horrors of repressed fears” to the layman who wants to sound smarter than he or she really is. Although not yet acknowledged by the DSM-IV-TR, “cheese terrors”, or “CT’s” for people who are too busy to say one more syllable, have been plaguing our society since the milk proteins began coagulating.
Sufferers of cheese terrors have been campaigning apathetically to be included in the DSM-V. Letters have not been written, petitions have not been signed, babies have not been kissed, and parades have not yet been held. Most likely this inactivity is due to confusion on how to get a condition elected into the book and, because the average person suffering from cheese terrors spends most of their day rapt in fear, trying to regain their sanity that was lost the night before.
It’s a tough life; I constantly keep buying cheese, thinking that I’ll play it safe and eat it during the day, but then every night it calls to me with it’s siren song of deliciousness. Like clockwork, I make my way to the refrigerator as it shimmers like a beacon of pleasure amidst the shelves littered with the mold and sticky patches of leftovers from years past. I tell myself to just eat one piece and leave it at that, full knowing that the more pieces and varieties I ingest the exponentially worse my ensuing nightmares will be.
Tonight I couldn’t help myself. I gorged on hard cheese hard. I gorged like I wasn’t going into surgery tomorrow. I gorged like I was on a gorge-centric vacation in the American Southwest.
I gorged like I really wanted to hate myself afterwards.
My self-loathing was strong post-cheese binge. During the bender my mind had only been focused on the delicious mouth delight cheese affords one, but now, and with my eyelids beginning to droop, I recognized the folly of my gluttony and lust in the cold light of the refrigerator.
You ignorant ignoramus, you bumbling bumblefuck, you doody-headed dunce; my god, Justin; you’ve set yourself up to panic all night.
What did you do it for, Justin?
A few seconds of sweet cheesy release in your mouth?
Justin, you filthy cheese-whore, you don’t care where you get it from or what it does to you; you just eat it because it gets you off and that drives you fucking wild.
So here I sit, four hours, six cups of coffee, and one chocolate enema later and I’m struggling to stay awake. Hopefully, that laxative-based chocolate the enema was dipped in will get to work soon and I can pass this cheese and get to sleep with it out of my system. I don’t have the courage tonight to face the Muenster inspired monsters and the Gouda infused ghouls. How many times am I going to be able to fit the pieces of my shattered psyche back together only to have it smashed by cheese terrors the following night? Why didn’t I just remember the rhyme my sponsor made up?
Cheese before bed? I’d rather be dead. Cheese through the day? Everything’s okay!
This is no way to live. If I make it through the night, I’m going cold turkey tomorrow, and by that I mean I’ll be stocking my mini-fridge with cold turkey to eat before bed, so, in theory, the tryptophan will take hold and put me to bed before I can do anymore damage to myself or my mind.
The sun was high in the sky on this bright summer Saturday morning. Fresh from his night of slumber, John opened one eye and took a glance around the room before reading his clock radio.
Eleven-twenty: too late to salvage the morning, yet too early to start any afternoon activities. Rested, John sat up and pulled back his sheets pondering his next course of action. He wasn’t hungry, and his only plans for the day weren’t until five; his options were endless really. He considered setting up a doctor appointment for the rash on his arm, but he decided it maybe just needed a few more days.
John supposed he could go to the bank, not to deposit money or transact—he just liked hanging out at the bank. Nah, he didn’t want to do that, I mean, come on, he already has his pants off. Deliberation set in about a potential trip to the grocery store but John ultimately decided against it; he already had all the provisions he needed for his one-man nacho fiesta that was happening at five o’clock.
He lied back down on his bed and nestled into the groove his crooked spine had established in the mattress over its many moons of use. The groove provided him a small canyon that he allowed himself to cozy into night after night, a canyon that became particularly difficult to scale out of after a restless night. His eyes drooped a little and he let out a small yawn; he supposed he could read.
A stretch across the mattress and John snagged the screenplay he was working on editing the night before. He was at page sixteen, and the last few days have been far from productive, but he figured if he can get some good, hard work done now he can gorge on a trough of nachos later completely guilt free. Guilt-free about being productive at least, after all, there is a considerable amount of self-loathing that goes along with any personal nacho fiesta.
He starts down the page and begins marking with his red pen. Embarrassed, he circles his your-you’re confusion and laments that he can’t remember why he thought Thomas Merriweather Rockefeller was a good name for any character, let alone the main one. Self-Hating Saturday had already started and John hadn’t even binged on nachos, been to church, or spoke to his parents yet.
John’s conscious mind continued editing while his unconscious mind let his left hand wander. His left hand blazed a trail through the maze of skin, blanket, and underwear and popped in at John’s junk as if to say, “Good morning, beautiful; you feel like dancing?”
With just a splinter of morning wood remaining, John’s left hand realized he was going to have to do most of the work rousing this sleeping giant, but hey, you can’t start a fire without a spark—but a lot of wood would certainly help.
John’s conscious mind snapped into it; he knew how he could pass the time—the answer had been literally right in front of him. His attention shifted and he was soon only skimming through his bad symbolism and unnatural dialogue. Suddenly, he realized that he was playing with himself while reading. He now could identify with the way hipster kids feel when they read Catcher in the Rye or how Glen Beck feels when he’s proofreading his own books. Disgusted with either of those groups, John emphatically hurled his first draft across the room.
His eyelids close and his mouth opens ever so slightly; his right hand begins to work his joystick like he’s going for the high score in the video game that is himself. His mind flashed to that girl from senior year of high school. Not her as a person, like her accomplishments and what not, more so just her pink lips sucking on his thing with such force you’d think she had a jet engine for a mouth—John’s strokes sped up and his body tensed. In his mind she smiled quickly and John immediately remembers her missing tooth and shuddered a bit. Immediately, she faded from mind.
Back to the highlight reel and John’s mind jumped to a hazy, post-bar memory. He recalled this sexual encounter being like a slip and slide—it had been a particularly muggy summer and that particular girl’s vagina acted like it. So wet and smooth he recalled, as his hand now was taking the most thorough, caressing touch to his wang. He felt himself begin to lose control, slightly, as he reminisced; his hand bouncing up and down on his throbbing member like it was a piston in some well-oiled flesh engine. Suddenly he stopped, it was only now twenty-five after eleven; John still had a ways to go until five, so he decided to make this last.
John took a few strokes off in order to prevent culmination, but now he realized that he’s got to kick-start the old love machine as the realization set in that his hiatus had been too long and he should never interrupted the diligent work routine he had established. “If only I put this kind of effort and craftsmanship into my screenplays,” he though, but alas, that thought faded away in lieu of a sexual fantasy involving the cashier at the corner gas station.
It’s just an average night, John’s buying his usual pack of cigarettes and three candy bars. John then removes his card from his wallet, preparing to swipe it on the machine. But, when he goes to run it through the machine, John finds the machine has been replaced with a, now naked, cashier girl. He swipes his Red Lobster Visa down her ass crack as she peeks over at him and whispers, “credit or debit, big boy?” She turns to face him and grabs all she can of him. John, now paralyzed by his own erotic pleasure, clenches every muscle in his body as he tries to hit his figurative brakes.
Just like the guy who shows up drunk to an AA meeting—John can’t stop and he knows it. No use trying to derail this train. John tightens his grip—his hot rod turning that deep fuchsia color indicating the pleasure express was right on time. He mind drifts back to the gas station and he’s thrusting into cashier girl. He’s loving every bit of this as he looks into the mirror behind the counter to fully appreciate this moment, but right then he realizes that it isn’t a reflection of him having his way with the cashier girl in the mirror, why it’s just him having his way with a very sweaty Louie Anderson. John begins to climax as he feels the white-hot man yogurt drip down the back of his hand. His mind is racing with a lot of confused feelings about his sexuality and Louie Anderson. He wipes his hand on the sheets and curls up in a ball—looks like Self-Hating Saturday is off to a great start!
We can all agree high school kids are idiots. We always make comments about them like, “Oh, she’s so smart for her age,” and never, “Oh, she’s so smart”. We, rightfully, handicap the field to pay them a compliment; it’s like saying, “He walks pretty well for having Gout,” or, “She has a pretty good appetite for just watching them pull the plug on Grandma.” Now, dead-grandma-Old-Country-Buffet-trip or no dead-grandma-Old-Country-Buffet-trip, high school kids still remain pretty dumb on the whole and incredibly easy to trick into anything.
Now, the chucklehead who sat behind me in tenth-grade English was no exception. He wasn’t illiterate, but you sure couldn’t tell. I remember convincing him that Hemmingway’s A Farewell to Arms was titled as such because the main character’s arms are blown off in an explosion at the end. Like an old woman slipping on a banana peel and breaking her hip as she lands in a pile of wet garbage and cats, it was hysterical and sad all at the same time.
One day before class this future community college dropout was speculating on how he wants to go out when the world freezes over. Yes, he is convinced that the world is going to end where everyone and everything is suspended in time and completely frozen, because, clearly, he sees the only logical end of the world being a super villain using some sort of doomsday device to freeze us all after the ransom of ten-thousand Asian babies isn’t paid. Climate change, asteroids, nuclear war—all of these theories never crossed his mind or do not hold any credibility in his mind. Refreshing to see that he doesn’t pay attention in his science or social studies classes either.
Chucklehead elaborates further that at the moment of said hyper-freezing of the world he wants to mid-coitus with a lady. This way, in his eyes, when future beings thaw his corpse out there will never be any doubt in their eyes on whether or not this man was able to get pussy. Adamant, he said this was the way he wanted to go out as, apparently, there is nothing else in his life he would want to be remembered by other than his ability to convince this one lucky woman let him wiggle around his stink pickle inside of her this one instance.
It’s shocking to me that this was the only way that he thought he could demonstrate his pussy prowess to future archaeologists. Frankly, he could have just wished to be with his children when the world ended; a touching gesture that confirms that this man had raised children and has had sex in the past. If he didn’t want his kids to be with him he could have just asked to die clutching child support and alimony collection letters, further demonstrating that at least during one point during his life he was able to let his bathing suit area rub up against a lady’s bathing suit area enough to get her pregnant.
Really, this chucklehead is overlooking the most obvious solution which would be just constantly prepare for the end of the world by perpetually wearing a t-shirt that says something like “I Fuck On the First Date”, “Pussy Poacher”, or “I’m RSVP-ing to the Orgy As “Cumming””, as any one of those t-shirts would undoubtedly be worn by an individual who wants to show off how much sex they have had.
To be James Blunt, his solution leaves a lot to be desired. First off, slowly freezing to death with your penis out sounds like horrible way to die. Plus what if the archaeologists interpret it wrong? I mean, honestly, what if they do a future autopsy and reveal that the girl died four hours before the world ended and Chucklehead died?
As for me I’m hoping to die the way I lived—drunk and in a karaoke related mishap.
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.
Dearest Everyone,
Be forewarned: this is a nice post. I know most people who read my ramblings have tuned in each week to read erotic fiction or other musing about what monstrosities fell out of my balloon knot, but this week I want to send a genuine thank you out to all of you. I have loved the support that all you crazy diamonds have given me and I hope we can keep this runaway freight train filled with potty humor and doody bombs a rolling.
This week my post here is about sappy, Lifetime movie-type stuff here. However, if you’re looking for a “traditional” rambling from the Internet’s adult baby I have been honored this week with a guest post on The Guilty Conscience called “The Unbearable Loss of a Facebook Friend” . So please check it out if you’re feeling inclined. The Guilty Conscience is also an awesome blog that has supported me, even though I initially it was just about scientific findings published by con-men who have been found guilty.
Adult-Baby Nation, you all do give me a warm feeling inside, wait, actually I think that’s just my lunch-whiskey. But seriously though, you guys are amazing and I know I’m not always the best at responding to your comments or awards. So here goes some much needed recognition to some people who have nominated me for awards. They are truly cool cats who I would shoot pool and smoke cigarettes with at a jazz club any day.
I love you all and you all have a standing invitation to come eat McRibs with me in the trash pile that I call living quarters. Please let me know if any of the links don’t work; I’m not great at computers and I think my Windows 95 caught an Altavista cookie or something.
Love,
Justin
