Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Tag Archives: humour

Take Back Lunch?

All my senses are taking an Irish beating and it’s not even St. Patrick’s Day.


It’s a formidable concoction of chaos, misdirected passion, and a perpetual twinge of nearly vomiting that leaves me keeled over on the couch, just as sweaty and as confused as I was on Prom Night.


Once the initial shock and bewilderment subsided, there was no mystery. No, I knew what exactly what happened; my incident was all brought on by extreme abhorrence towards Horace O’Sullivan’s Irish Debauchery Dungeon’s new, overly-aggressive marketing campaign imploring me to “take back my lunch.” The ads imply that you aren’t truly living life if you aren’t incorporating begrimed chicken wings, dirty sandwiches, and waitress grabassery into every lunch hour.  Like a football coach calling me in his English a “homo-queer candy bum” for not wanting to crawls all over fit dudes on a muddy field, Horace O’Sullivan is conveying the message “you’re nothing but a nancy-boy, working stiff if you don’t come to my dank basement filled with goofy crap and stains to consume meat and beer on your lunch hour.”


I didn’t realize I had to prove that I had a Y chromosome every lunch period, O’Sullivan.  I didn’t realize I wasn’t truly “living” during my noon hour if I wasn’t tossin’ back brews with my idiot coworkers and stomaching Albanian-army-grade coleslaw and chicken. My apologies if my ritual of dumping out a pack of ten bologna slices and eating the mound like a steak with a fork and knife on my desk while I do a crossword puzzle affirms my oddities more than my masculinity in today’s society.  Don’t put my life on trial, O’Sullivan; it’s easy to throw stones when your house is a subbasement beneath a dirty debauchery dungeon and doesn’t have anything close to a window or non-broken glass in it.


Now, just out of general curiosity, do your customers feel a surge of pride and accomplishment after successfully “taking back lunch” for another day?  What I’m really asking is how often have your lunchtime patrons commented that after eating an, apparently liberating, plate of nine-dollar, microwaved nachos that they feel like Dr. King or Harriet “The Original Tubgirl” Tubman taking back what was rightfully theirs?  Do they feel as if they have “raged against the machine” through their daily pilgrimage and consumption of salt, fat, and booze? Is this the message that every Spike Lee movie is trying to teach?


Okay, what if you walked a mile in my flip-flops and I walked a mile in your Hush Puppies, O’Sullivan? You could enjoy the daily Mount Meat consumed at my desk at the stapler repair shop.  You could take in the sights, sounds, and smells of that lower desk drawer I converted into a marinade bin. You could even enjoy the suspense and intrigue of a Manic Monday Maury Marathon in the office!  We’ll each see how the other side lives and compare notes.  I think you’re getting a sweet deal, since I’m fairly sure my trip in your shoes to your workplace will just end with a Justin Gawel diatribe to the tune of: “I know you work for tips, but get your fucking tits out of my fucking face, you goddamn harlot; can’t you see I’m trying to repress vomit and trying to figure out where my life went so tragically wrong to end up here?”

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I’m Not Going to Save Your Life if You Aren’t Going to Learn Anything

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.


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