Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Tag Archives: sex

Fun and Failure Both Start With Creative Liberties [Part 2/2]

Thank you, everyone, for tuning in last week. Now enjoy Part Two of another countless chapter in my saga of disappointing employers.

Second Rejected Article: Homemade Bidet—All Systems Flow

Years of itching, designing, and dreaming have finally paid off. Figuratively, I’ve shat and will get off the pot, but, literally, it’s now because I have a bidet.

I’ll admit, it was a tough road littered with plenty of failure and “unforgiveable” messes.  Now, though, I’ve scaled the impossible precipice and have crafted the world’s first affordable, portable bidet. Models and operating systems have been tweaked and twerked. I’ve stumbled onto a couple, what I like to call, bi-dos and, frankly, I’ve committed more than my share of bi-don’ts. Yet, looking out from this mountain’s summit, I can tell you that this destination was well worth the journey.

Flashback: several crusty years earlier, a despondently irritated Justin Gawel and his equally ill-tempered brown eye simmer in a Ramada hot tub. I can’t spell out my epiphany exactly, but it resulted from a combination of genuine curiosity, a soothing Jacuzzi jet, and a healthy disregard for the pool area’s posted rules. I’d found a remedy to my dump hole’s perpetual prickliness and I would stop at nothing to harness such power within my own domicile. A veil had been truly lifted and my life would never be the same.

Buying a hot tub was too expensive, as was buying a Ramada. I found a place specializing in installing bidets, but, alas, that too was outside my budget of forty American dollars.

Laboring under my fiscal constraints, I tested out several early ideas. The cheapest was merely a series of purposeful aiming with strategic body positioning while in my shower. City water, gravity, and hope joined forces to deliver, well, subpar results. This technique grazed the surface of my problem, but it didn’t have the concentration I sought. I wanted a scout sniper and the showerhead was only a firing squad.

Next I purchased an old water pick at a garage sale. At only six dollars, it was well within my price range and expectations were high. Sadly, in practice, it was a dismal disaster. Weak and frail, the pick had the precision but not the power. I didn’t need a soloist—what I needed was the entire orchestra playing measure after measure with accuracy, passion, and poise. I was young and sloppy then; I wanted the results without putting in the effort.

Stagnancy set in. The next half-decade was filled with nothing but apathy, tears, and bouts with Itchy Butthole Syndrome.  There was no end in sight. But then one Saturday near Christmas, while listlessly wandering through the mall, an overloaded obese woman in a dress dropped a mirror onto the polished tile and it shattered. Shattered in a way that one of its fragments gave me a truly vomit-inducing view of her entire undercarriage. I was suddenly inspired. Not by her grubby overgrowth, but by the previously-overlooked notion of utilizing mirrors.

In this fated-frenzy she’d also dropped a SuperSoaker that I immediately snapped up. I bolted out of the mall, my new water gun in hand and my solution in mind. Once home, I attached a small mirror to the front of said aquatic novelty and, at long last, I was able to wield a device that could be forceful while being as exact as I needed it to be.

Today, I live a charmed life. Now with my SuperSoaker-mirror apparatus, I wield the power and tact necessary to splinter away any and all crap-nel left clinging to my backdoor. My life had changed for the better and I can now best my IBS any day.

Thank you, Ramada!

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I Think I’ve Been Pregnant For Years

Uncertainty and anxiety fester. My mind’s racing over the potential duties and doodys I’d be responsible for as a parent. I don’t know how this could’ve happened; I never hot tub naked with others and I’m always vigilant to wipe off seats in all public toilets no matter what country I’m in.

I should just man up and take the pregnancy test but, alas, I can’t. A truth-shrapnel-heavy bombshell could provide a definitive answer but could also eradicate what remains of the sweet delusional bliss I’ve been clinging to. I suppose I’m only deceiving myself, though. The writing’s been on the wall—any idiot could tell you that missing your period for this many months, my entire life in fact, likely means I’ve been totes preggers for at least a few years now.

The proof has accumulated steadily over time. Suspicions first began when my appetite surged to a level of routine gluttony. Gone were the days of being satiated by a paltry six-piece McNugget and medium fry. No, now a ravenous, adult-onset-diabetes-inducing hunger coursed throughout me. Orders of family-sized McNugget cartons and vats of McFlurry paired with near-violent, manager-directed diatribes to restore the Supersize option had become my new normal.

Blame boredom. Blame delicious salt. Blame Netflix. No matter your angle, I’m gorging for at least two now. It doesn’t matter where we are or what we we’re doing, much like a dumpy girl on Prom Night unsuccessfully parting with her virginity and subsequently eating her feelings, I’m getting filled one way or another.

My weight, much like the pregnancy evidence, soon began aggressively accruing. This non-sexual girth first appeared in my ankles. These once-slim beauties, my sexiest feature according to my nineteenth-century Englishmen friends, ballooned into varicose-vein-riddled stumps that branched off into a pair of equally-swollen feet like I was just another patron in a Midwestern strip mall.

Missing periods, being obnoxiously cankled, living in a constant state of food lust: the proof was in the Snack Packs.

Not long after I’d exiled my skinny jeans and sexy underwear to the back of the closet, a sore-nipple epidemic broke out in my life. Maybe it was just that I was distracted with the potential looming pregnancy or maybe I just wasn’t as quick on my cankles now, but the fellow passengers on my morning commute took full advantage. Once upon a time I’d had the quickest pair of hands and the slipperiest pair of nips on the bus; but, lately, the culture of rampant titty-twisting has left me perpetually surrendering window seats in order to stop my nurples from becoming any more raw and purpled.

Mood swings have now crept their way into daily life. I caught an errant whiff of garlic-stuffed olives yesterday and couldn’t shake the craving. When I couldn’t find them in the grocery store I panicked, collapsing on the tile floor in a ball of tears. Perspective completely gone, I latched onto a clerk, pleading that he find the olives for me, but he scurried away, probably rushing off to help a hotter, trimmer, not-possibly-pregnant person.

Magic Eight Ball, you were right; the signs all do point to yes.

Fine, I’ll be the man and do it; I’ll take the pregnancy test and finally know for sure if I’m carrying little Obi-Wan McFly Gawel in my tummy after all.

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