From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag
This experience has been highly objectionable and I want it to end as soon as possible. I’ve watched this waitress saunter about the restaurant, feigning laughter and genuine interest in customers’ stories while permitting that smallest of small talk to gush out of her dolled-up face socket. Yes, Toots, that’s right, your overly-projected conversation about it raining two days in a row is not fascinating to anyone. It’s odd to make a point of something being unremarkable, but that quip was not conversation-worthy in the slightest. You’ve exhibited a blatantly offensive lack of self-awareness when you didn’t even hesitate before launching into that monotonous monologue. Initially, I thought it might be an isolated incident, but not three minutes later you started in on a tirade about your mild dislike of lentils. Honestly, everyone’s life’s too short to listen to that.
Release me from this tediously droning waking terror and bring me my check. I know I don’t like you, but you can be my angel and set me free.
My high-school guidance counselor explicitly explained that I was not a people person. He advised a “career” in becoming mildly injured and collecting government disability checks while I frittered away sixty years alone through microwavable cheese-based foods and daytime TV. Young and idealistic, I was convinced he was wrong, but as I sit here today, fantasizing about this waitress contracting a severe case of lockjaw, I’m recognizing the accuracy of my guidance counselor’s diagnosis.
Whenever a waitress starts in with a personal story or anecdote, my appetite becomes forcefully suppressed. Impulsively, I’m flooded with a desire to bolt to the nearest gas station and eat a cold hot pocket in my car in lieu of continuing this unfortunate exchange. Sadly, this restaurant is in one of those neighborhoods where the convenience stores only sell malt liquor, lottery tickets, and other non-hot-pocket remedies to sadness.
I think this waitress knows exactly what she’s doing; it’s this passive-aggressive demeanor that she knows rips me up inside like a misguided owl just going hard and fierce on the face and scalp of kid with a filthy rattail. Look, she’s just taking another lap of her tables then pretending she can’t figure out the computer. If I wasn’t such a devout capitalist on my way from my weekly worship at the First Objectivistic Room of Ayn Rand I would walk out. I would strap up my summer slippers, light a cigarette to instantly put out in my coffee, and bid a good day to this time-squandering emporium of griddlecakes and pig meat.
Holy taco night, this waitress is awful. Think of what would happen to the glove, ring, and nail polish industries if every carpenter, slaughterhouse worker, or sawmill foremen were this terrible and inattentive at their jobs. I’m considering dumping this coffee on the floor, intentionally slipping in it, and bleeding profusely in order to get her to bring me the check and in order to start another frivolous legal battle.
This notion started as a conspiracy theory, but I’m now suspecting this hussie is on a power trip. She must know my predicament, but who tipped her off? Trust no one, everyone is a suspect. This is why I never tell anybody anything.
I’m done. I’m not playing into her game. She can come over her and tell me all the excuses in the world about busy tables, about her irrational fear of computers, or about her perpetual bout with gout—I won’t care. Nope, I’m going to do the adult thing: call into work, tie up this table all morning gingerly sipping my coffee out of spite, and top it all off by leaving a frowny face in the tip line of the bill. While fighting fire with fire is not recommended strategy for putting out house fires, fighting passive aggression with passive aggression is always the way to go.
Yes, is a Wilma Pennybuckle available?
Oh, terribly sorry, you’re already on the line. Although, I probably should have saved my “terribly sorry” for what I’m about to tell you because, honestly, it’s just going to seem like I’m marginalizing bad news now.
No, please, I insist, Mrs. Pennybuckle, stop guessing. To the best of my knowledge, no conspiracy exists that causes your grandchildren to keep putting on weight, I don’t think your pharmacist is trying to poison you, and I don’t think because your new mailman being black is an omen that a “tribe” of Nigerians moving in to the unsold house down the street. Further, I’d assume should they existed they would use the “family” and not don’t use the word “tribe” to describe themselves.
Honestly, I’m calling you today to inform you that your husband, Bucky Pennybuckle, has died in Jamaica. Now I didn’t know him personally, but it seems like he was a man with a fun name to say and I am terribly sorry for your loss.
Interesting, you were unaware he was in Jamaica?
Hmmm, he said Omaha on business for the annual shower cap convention.
Ah ha, if by “Omaha” he meant “Montego Bay, Jamaica,” and by “annual shower cap convention” he meant “sex tourism extravaganza,” and by “business” he meant “three nights of sensual pleasure spent with various women before being robbed, bound, and having his face beaten to a pulp with a piano leg before being dumped in a sugar cane plantation,” then, yes, he was being very transparent and honest.
No, there was no trace of any actual business happening on this trip, unless by “business” you mean—
I see, I see.
Yes, I really am getting some mileage out of that gag.
Now, I realize this is a little personal, but did your late husband every show a proclivity for any specific fetishes? We’re just trying to figure out if the ropes, bondage hood, and nipple clamps were put on him to make him easier to bludgeon, or if that was just what he was into.
I’m sorry, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I’m sure Mr. Pennybuckle would vomit with anger as well if he had, as you so eloquently put it, “had known he was going to die in a country run by drug-addicted, dark gypsies.” Now I must interject, Mrs. Pennybuckle, because the population here genuinely does prefer to be called “Jamaicans.”
How much infidelity occurred?
I mean, it’s difficult to say, but the authorities did recover an oddly descriptive erotic itinerary in his hotel room with very strange crudely drawn pictures drawn in it. If those figures were correct, he had been with three call girls his first night that he had in a position he referred to as “The Devil’s Baccarat Table” and then on the second night it appears he met a very frumpy night receptionist and utilized a move he dubbed “Jonah and the Whale.”
I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that that reference on the Sabbath would nearly give you a stress migraine. I’ll give you a second.
Anyways, it appears he was killed on the third night of his excursion. Make no mistake, it appears that infidelity definitely occurred, as the black light investigation revealed stains on nearly every surface of his hotel room. However, that may have just resulted from the housekeepers half-assing it these days.
No, no, please, please, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I do not want to hear about your exploits while he’s away; this isn’t a time for one-upping.
That’s really not helpful either, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I’m not going to discuss the ethnicity of the housekeepers just so you can comment on their apparent lack of work ethic.
Honestly, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I really just needed to break the news and have you tell me where I can send the body.
No, leaving the corpse with one of his mistresses is not an option; in fact, the women are actually leading suspects in this investigation.
No, we can’t just fly him coach back home; that’s completely out of the question
I assure you, Mrs. Pennybuckle, people would notice a dead passenger on the plane.
Okay, I’ll be sure to ship it out as quickly as possible and the funeral home will notify you when it arrives.
Yes, I’m sure his friends and family will be surprised.
I mean, there’s no reason you can’t lie or not give specifics about his demise. I’d be sure to have a closed-casket ceremony because no one is going to believe he died from a heart attack or stroke if they see his disfigured, battered face and that regrettable Jamaican braid he had put in his hair.
Frankly, I don’t think the mortician is going to be fix it. Mr. Pennybuckle’s face is completely busted—like it’s a cross between an old, melted candle and a Salvador Dali painting.
No, Mrs. Pennybuckle, I honestly don’t think this is Obama’s fault.
Okay, okay, enough, really! This is a phone call with a stranger about your logistics with your late husband’s death not a chance for you to get on your soapbox and rant about minorities.
Well, yes, there’s no denying that Richard Dawson was the best host of Family Feud, but could you please save your “gravy faced” discussion and banter about Steve Harvey for another time? I’m finding it offensive and I’m a little embarrassed to even be listening to your tirade!
I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have scolded you; I didn’t realize that was how you deal with grief.
Okay, I’ll let you grieve. I’ll send his body out as soon as possible. They’ll keep investigating here, but his bloodstained Tommy Bahama shirt has not yielded any leads or given us any names.
Yeah, seriously, you’re right, that’s totally like something out of Burn Notice.
Shut up, no way! I’m a huge Burn Notice fan too!
I could have done nothing. I could have feigned an excessively violent sneezing attack. I could have just sat at my desk, idle, pretending to be in the midst of a dream about a thrilling McNugget caper. It was a moment of weakness, and I’m now having trouble looking at myself in the mirror and being able to see that beautiful, selfish narcissist who I’ve become infatuated with over the years.
Disgusting, I couldn’t muster a single excuse; I’m disappointed that I didn’t even try. Fabricated spells of non-sleep apnea, late-onset debilitating depression over the cancellation of Charles in Charge, my no-prisoners style bout with gout—none came to mind as I counter-intuitively rushed to assist an obese coworker who could have died and would not have been missed. My inner utilitarian balked; that unlikeable, bitter, non-festively plump, Rascal-riding fuck could have been put out of his miserable, mouth-breathing existence. I would have been lauded as a hero, truly the man who did everything by doing nothing and effectively cleansed the office from his foul, cheese breath, his audible eating habits, and the residue of sweat mixed with Cheeto dust he leaves on every doorknob he touches.
There I was, quietly sitting at my desk, when that bulging butterball shoots me a look from across the room. He may have been looking for a spotter, he may have just wanted an audience, but gripped within those kielbasa-like fingers of his was an entire pork chop. He shot me a little wink, a gesture I found revolting and offensive, then proceeded to exclaim, “shotgun,” before then attempting to devour the entire meat brick in a single bite.
Stoically, I remained in my seat gaping, essentially frozen in a state of fear, disgust, and repulsion.
His overly-toned jowels churned at the torrid pace like a prized piece of livestock. He was a flesh machine engineered for consumption. A surge of sweat flooded his brow in a display I had only before witnessed when we were at a sub sandwich shop and he watched in great anticipation as they filled one of the au jus containers with mayonnaise for him to dip his meat wrap in. A rush of blood to his neck-less head alerted me that his brain was straining to process the immense amounts of pleasure he was experiencing; honestly, I think there was a part of him that wanted to go out this way.
His eyes bulged with a furious passion, reminiscent of a protective mother grizzly or Edward Norton. Petrified and rapt with abhorrence, I oddly sprung to my feet when he began to choke. I never help people; it’s much easier not to generally.
My wiry arms, weak from years of apathy and movie marathons, wrapped nearly all the way around the pasty, land whale. His white dress shirt was uncomfortably moist, as if he had just been on a log ride at an amusement park or had participated in the most nauseating of wet t-shirt contests. I was finally able to part enough of his rolls to find a middle passage and get my arms completely around him.
The first squeeze did nothing except saturate my shirt with more sweat from this behemoth. A more forceful second squeeze resulted in only freeing a disgusting noise from somewhere within his body. I’m not sure if it was a toot or just a pocket of stale air being released from within his many folds. I’m also not sure if I ever want to know the truth. On the third attempt he finally coughed up the entire pork chop onto a stack of papers on his desk. Gasping heavily, he reached for the meat, which was now covered in this gravy-like coat of saliva that resembled a foul kind of coconut sauce. There was a bit of blood on it too, not sure if it was just undercooked or the result of his overly aggressive eating habits. Either way, I shuddered when he tore the piece in half, held one out to me, and asked, “splitsies?”
Confused and shocked, I shook my head. He gave a quick shrug and then ate both halves with a minimal amount of chewing. Knowing full well that he had learned nothing from the ordeal, I grabbed him by the shoulders, looked him straight in his beady eyes and announced, “That was your one time,” before retreating to my desk.
Idioms: delightful bits of speech intended to confuse non-native speakers and prompt said individuals to inquire about your collections of felines in burlap sacks or your apprehensions on scuffling with local bureaucrats. Way to be, English, even people who’ve studied your obscure, contradicting, and arbitrary rules for years can still appear inept when they ask as to why one would commit such brutal atrocities against an equine’s corpse.
Generally dealing with obscurely specific situations, idioms can be quips in our rhetoric that innocently offend people from time. For instance, be very careful about your phrasing when it comes to discussing prices or affection towards strangers if you’re trying to converse with your self-hating, paraplegic neighbor. Idioms report that misery loves company, but, shockingly, your neighbor probably doesn’t.
The true icing on the cake of non-English speakers familiarizing themselves with idioms is watching them trot them out for the first time—truly the literal icing because it is so delicious to witness that it just has to be fattening. Once the idiom is explained to them they become like a kid who just opened the handgun gifted to them on their seventh birthday—yes, they’ll eventually be competent with their new toy but there’s going to be a lot of casualties and embarrassment before that. Don’t be surprised if one of his or her early conversations ends with someone screaming, “I don’t know about you, but I don’t see the world through that lens. So, yeah, you and your figurative, racially-obsessed kettle can just leave!”
Like anything really, idiom etiquette relies heavily on timing. It’s curt to remark on the frivolous nature of idiots’ finances if you’re chatting with someone who lost significant wealth in the Bernie Madoff scandal. Plus, idioms are fairly inflexible, so if you find yourself halfway into remarking how you’re stuck between two unyielding forces when you realize you’re speaking with the man 127 Hours is based off of the best solution for you is to probably just walk away midsentence and commence a session of self-hating in the privacy of a bathroom stall. And really, you should really know which saying to avoid if you find yourself in a room with a Middle-Eastern straw baron who recently had to shoot his prized transport in the head after it was horrifically crippled during an extensive haul.
Idioms, you’re truly a lot of fun, but no matter how familiar I become with you I’ll always find it bizarre when people say, “Speak of the devil,” even when they’re not currently discussing Marv Albert.
Monday mornings, taxes, and Garfield movies: truly three universally despised entities. Perpetually looming, we exist in a state of dread, waiting for them to strike so that we can try to persevere and return to our lives with only minimal post-traumatic stress and consequences from composing and delivering threats against people’s lives.
We all realize Monday mornings are rough, but I believe that some people are blessed with either a degree of narcissism or adult autism that compels them to share the most mundane personal anecdotes from their weekend every week. All of us feign interest and empathize with their ramblings about they were upset that the car wash didn’t honor their expired coupon, but on the inside we’re all realizing how precious life is and that we’re now three wasted minutes closer to death. Frankly, it’s a sweet release when their jowls and tongue tire from spouting such inane stories and I can return to punching data into a machine
Marta, we get it; you’re your own biggest fan, but you don’t seem to realize that your gusto isn’t shared, and is genuinely abhorred, by everyone else in the office. We sit, disinterested, because social norms dictate that we don’t tell you to “kindly shut your pasty food chute before anymore of that linguistic garbage gets in my ears.” No, we are all cowards and have been tolerating Marta for too long to change anything now. It’s become like the constant threat of terrorism, rising gas prices, or Ellen DeGeneres—truly an annoyance we perpetually deal with now.
Strategically, I came in late this Monday and Marta was already into your tirade about an evening out. Three long faces of coworkers surrounded the overly excited Marta, faces like when they open one of those shipping containers filled with starved illegal immigrants trying to come to America. She sees me come in and says that she’ll start the story over so I can hear it all. Fantastic, now there’s blood on my hands. I’m now at fault in these coworkers’ eyes for subjecting them to a second hearing of a story that did not merit a first hearing.
Now Marta does her work on time and, judging by her personal photos, is well-loved by her friends and family, but I’ll be damned if every day her coworkers don’t fantasize about her being punched in the throat and never being able to speak again.
This story has started to drag before it’s even begun. She’s backpedaling with the details of setting the scene. She’s no Quintin Tarantino when it comes to non-linear storytelling, no, she’s just fucking awful at telling the story. Literally describing your routine to get dolled up to go to Chili’s are details that do not need to be included. Also, Chili’s does not warrant looking fancy—I’ve witnessed a man eat there wearing a shirt made from a burlap sack with a child wearing no shoes and nothing but an oversized t-shirt. You don’t need five-inch heels or a dinner jacket to go stuff loaded potato skins into your craw that’s already brimming with ranch dressing, Marta.
Why is she describing the weather and traffic patterns on her drive to Chili’s? This lack of narrative economy is infuriating and I’m just going to mentally check out and think about the effigy of Marta that I’m planning on running over with my car and burning later.
I check back in and she’s ranting about how nice the waitress was being to her husband. Ooof, now she had to bring her weight into it and turn this into a tirade about the unrealistic standards the media sets for women. Stop, just stop talking about your weight like it’s a disability your can’t control, and, please, stop comparing yourself to a civil rights leader again for speaking out on this topic—truthfully, I’m becoming embarrassed to even be associated with you.
I don’t think she realizes how a restaurant or flirting works. When the waitress gives your husband suggestions for salad dressing it’s generally not because she is trying to show him that she is the only one who knows how to satisfy him. And it’s not that she is trying to impose on your relationship built on “action movies, waffles, and quick sex in the dark,” as you so eloquently divulged.
Marta’s becoming animated now, she’s really trying to sell her rage at this “eighteen-year-old hussie who’s trying to turn my beloved neighborhood Chili’s into her personal sex brothel for married men.” I’m not buying Marta’s accusations that the waitress was trying to get her nipple to fall out, or that she was trying to give Marta food poisoning, or had any intent other than describing a specific entrée when she dropped the words “big meat.”
I knew I couldn’t keep listening; I was beginning to fear for the safety of myself and the others in the room. Naturally, I did what any rational person would do and just succumbed to the stress hemorrhage in my stomach before spitting up some blood, excusing myself, and retreating to my car to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes.
