Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

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All We Want is a Bus to Make Out with Girls In

The homecoming dance was behind us and, giddy with post-make-out fever, Chuck and I were determined to recreate what we had since dubbed “bus magic”. Saturday night had been perfect. Actual girls, girls we knew, had willingly kissed us, and then, in a twist, they’d kept on kissing us!


Our dates hadn’t lost a bet, done it on a dare, or done it as part of D.A.R.E. Saturday night had been real—Chuck and I tasted girl mouth and we wanted more.


By the process of elimination, we deduced that the party bus our group rented had been our much-needed game-changer. It hadn’t been our clothes; Chuck and I had worn suits and ties around girls before, like to church, funerals, or School Picture Day, and no fine ladies ever tried to get jiggy and suck some hot face with us then. Charm, too, was out of the question—we’d spent most of dinner and the ride to the dance giggling and quoting Dude, Where’s My Car ad nauseam the way we had nearly every other mouth-whoopee-less day. And, truly, our dates’ nervous laughter subsiding into a petrified, silent horror had been a strong indication that the late-night fervent tonguing hadn’t been prompted by my enthusiastic display of unrestrained agility on the dance floor that I called “getting funky”.


The solution was a simple truth: we needed our own party bus. Life in the last week had imparted that, at least for us, the party bus was an essential ingredient if Chuck and I ever again wanted to cook up a big ol’ pot of make-out-y fun.


Backers and financiers were needed. Fortunately, the allure of a PDA-party paradise made our venture an easy sell. Before even third period, Chuck and I had procured verbal commitments from twelve other sophomore dudes each aching to invest $100 for future access to a den full of uninhibited oral delights.


With potential pledges procured, we took to the Internet during lunch and were pleasantly surprised at how much bus $1,400 could buy. Craigslist and eBay had been scoured and our budgetary constraints had us considering options with descriptors like “great project”, “hasn’t been started in five years”, and “full of owls”.


No details were deal-breakers. I mean, just because one hadn’t been started in five years didn’t necessarily mean that it didn’t run. Like, just because I hadn’t made out with anyone for almost sixteen years didn’t mean that I wasn’t a natural at it and a true, bona fide mouth-hound capable of delivering the perfect ratio of tactical tenderness and unchecked pleasure at a moment’s notice.


Retrieving our to-be fortress for tongue-heavy hedonism would be a snap. One investor, Patrick, we knew had a freshly-acquired license and we totally figured he’d be legit to scoop it with us.


Sure, Patrick was still dangerously awful at driving his mom’s minivan, but that didn’t matter. He’d be perfect to caravan the three hundred miles back and forth from Southern Ohio this Saturday to pick up and drive back an unreliable vehicle six times the size of said minivan. Chuck was skeptical, but I assured him it’d be totally legit.


There would be no issues once we returned with our prize. Another committed shareholder, Jimmy, wanted it for his backyard. He said he knew his parents wouldn’t care; his dad had eloped to Argentina with that slutty mailman two months back, effectively prompting a nervous, sambuca-riddled breakdown from Jimmy’s mom.


Shoes on in the house, candy for breakfast, cigarettes for dessert, dessert after breakfast, Jimmy could get away with anything now. Really, since his dad left, Jimmy’s mom had become, like, hella sweet and it was totally coolio of her to remain apathetically indifferent to us parking our permanent party of perpetual first-basing at her place.


I can’t wait for this. 2010 Census, take note; I know you’re nearly eight years away, but by then we’ll have ridden all this bus magic right up to our new, permanent residence in Make-Out City, USA.

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Shanty-Van Randy

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.



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