From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag
Did someone say that, did I just think that, or did I pick this up through some sort of Morse Code military vibration in my teeth left over from my stint in Korea? Sorry, I should note I don’t mean Korea and the hullabaloo-kerfuffle-nonsense way back in the fifties, no, sir, I’m talking about my Korean Town dentist with whom I have a mutual “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” policy when it come to asking for insurance and for asking for extra nitrous oxide to take home.
Give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a night; give a man a complimentary garbage bag full of euphoric gas and he’ll come back to your office of dentistry and fireworks for years to come. I may only have a degree from a discredited institution, although some people will tell you it was fake and just an outdated CPR certificate I found in the trash. However, if I had needed to take an economics class for my degree I’m sure Adam Smith’s “The Wealth of Nations” would more than cover the stability and attractiveness of a business founded on cavities, cleanings, and complimentary drugs and explosives.
I may have underestimated the strength of this gas. I know, it sounds like a line I’ve undoubtedly poured on before in times of failed chemistry tests and instances of excessive funeral flatulence. But Randy had warned me this time; he said I would freak out and here I am, mercy me, having me a spell of the crazies with a touch of the vapors.
Is it possible Randy is some sort of sayer of sooth? Nah, if he were any good at that then his living quarters would resemble more of a house rather than his van full of sea spiders and pigeons.
Alas, Randy, I should have heeded your prophecy more seriously. Twas foolish of me, similar to that time you sold me that Malcolm Ecstasy and I stored it in the Motrin bottle. Seriously, who knew hallucinogens cured hangover so well? You were right about that that time, Randy; that stuff did get me messed up by any means necessary, and was, overall, much more of an aggressive trip than that Dr. Molly Luther Chronic Jr. stuff.
How long have I been home holding this garbage bag full of nitrous? It’s gotta be somewhere between twenty minutes and all of time, but I can’t remember and, sadly, I neglected to buy a watch with a decade readout, or any watch, or wrist-sized sundial, at all, for that matter.
Has Randy been sleeping here the whole time? What is that piece of paper he’s clutching—he doesn’t have any valuable papers in his life. Christ on a cracker, he smells like shanty-van if I’ve ever smelled it. Why does this paper have my name and signature on it? Here’s to hoping this isn’t a repeat of when I traded him my power of attorney for gas money.
Major crisis averted, looks like this document just give Randy permission to crash in my place until his Van of Man makes it through monsoon season at the quarry. Pretty sure Randy doesn’t know how quarry water levels work, shockingly though this document is proof that he is reaping the benefit of hiring that personal notary.
Well, let’s make the best of this and ride out New Roommate Randy through monsoon season. Today could be the beginning of something great, but right now the trash bag is emptying and things are returning to normal, as in I’m consciously eating a pack of raw hotdogs in my bathtub.
This day would truly make a fantastic movie, wait, no, not fantastic—what’s that other thing—oh yeah, horribly unwatchable.
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.
Oh, you’re coming over to my apartment? Let me tell you how to get there.
I never entertain guests; this will be so exciting! We can play board games; I’ve got ALF Pictionary, ALF Trivial Pursuit, and ALF Boggle; so, basically, we’ll either get to draw ALF a bunch of times, get to respond to a bunch of questions whose answers are all ALF, or get to spell “ALF” over and over again. Plus, I’ll make my famous saltines topped with hot sauce and ketchup that we can eat while huffing white out in front of the Magic Eye poster that I stuck on the screen of my broken TV. Wow, I’m actually having company over; this is the beginning of my transformation, I suppose. I’m turning from an ugly, apathetic duckling into a larger, more apathetic duck who lives to entertain!
When you leave from your home, be sure to kiss your significant other goodbye, whether that individual is your spouse, your dog, or just a photograph of Steve McQueen you passionately care about. Jump in your car, Segway, or rickshaw and just get on the first freeway you see. Don’t worry about which freeway, just pick one and you’ll eventually make it to my exit probably.
Contrary to Christian belief: all roads lead to people, but all roads do not lead to Jesus. How do I know, well, I can drive it to anyone’s place via roads, plus, this one time, I was lost and ended up on a road ending at a T.G.I.Friday’s that was part of a larger Old Country Buffet that was currently hosting an event that seemed to only be attended by screaming, colicky babies. I’m going to be honest when I say that if the presence of that establishment may be the biggest argument against God’s existence—a sensible and kind-spirited god would never let such a disgustingly malevolent place exist.
Now, it’s okay if you drank a little before coming to see me. I know walking into an apartment filled with trash that an adult-baby nests in would be intimidating. I’d advise against drinking too much and driving, unless you’re texting too. If that’s the case, then I’m pretty sure you’re in the clear since drunk driving and drunk texting cancel each other out.
As you’re driving try to find the North Star. If you’re in the Southern Hemisphere, or it’s light outside, just keep driving aimlessly and you’ll see it eventually. Now, once you’ve found it, you’ll be prepared for all the fun star-gazing activities I have planned for when you make it over!
Drive until you see a sign for that burger place I threw up in that one time. No, not that one that you’re thinking of; that one burned down in a chemical fire. No, I’m talking about the other one, yeah, I think you know the one.
Once you’re off the freeway stop at the grocery store. Obviously, not the one with the manager that smelled my hair that one time—please, I spend enough money there trying to get him to smell me more and I don’t need anymore competition. While you’re at the other grocery store though pick up saltines, hot sauce, and ketchup so I can be a good host.
You may want to pick up toilet paper if you used to that sort of comfort. I choose not to support those greedy toilet paper barons that run the country, but I don’t hold it against people if they do. Obviously, get something two-ply or heavy-duty if you’re planning on taking any heavy doodys while you’re over. Butt, if you want to use my eco-savvy, post-poo method of stripping naked, getting in the shower, and touching your toes, you’re more than welcome to use this “reverse bidet” method that lets gravity and the shower do all the dirty work.
Now, once you’re in the town, drive around until you find the lighthouse. Wait for sunset and share a bottle of whiskey with your thoughts and tap into your creative juices to craft a poem with inspirational capabilities. I say this because the doorman at my building is depressed and ill-tempered, but he usually enjoys particularly moving verses. Be a good guest and cheer him up ; because I’m worried about him.
Nah, I’m just kidding; there’s no suicidal doorman. The “doorman” is actually just a picture of Captain Crunch I hung in the window of the main entrance. However, he does like to hear motivating poetry, so read him your poem and come on upstairs; I’ve got a tumbler of Nyquil and a big hug waiting for you.
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
