From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag
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 don’t blame you, AAA, no; I blame myself for trusting you. You’re a charlatan, a snake-oil salesman, or that magician in Ohio who stole my identity for six months. Scarring, grotesque, reeking of eggs and mayonnaise, all words and phrases I would use to describe my hotel experience at Big Rudy’s Feed N’ Sleep along I-80—a place you gave one diamond rating to and wrote a review that made generous use of phrases “up to all building codes”, “open”, and “technically satisfactory”.
I arrived mid-afternoon, eager to see what my $26.75 plus sheet deposit bought me for the night. In the past, nearly twenty-seven dollars has been proven to buy a lot of fun, be it in the form of a twenty-seven-dollar case of breakfast meats covered in yolks, one-hundred-and-eleven gumballs, or one photo of me dressed up like a cowboy—truly Big Rudy had his work cut out for him.
AAA had described the lobby as having a “Mediterranean” style to it, but from the missing plaster, concrete floor, and chain-smoking clerk missing an arm I’m going to assume AAA was referring to the Syrian part of the Mediterranean. Technically correct, I suppose, AAA. However, being correct doesn’t stop it from being disgusted while watching that tiny child repetitively lick a pink stain on the counter after being told not to several times from the clerk.
With his one good hand the clerk gives me a slip of paper with “41-7-22” scribbled on it. Expecting a key and confused, I round the corner into the single corridor with about eight rooms on either side each with a combination padlock affixed to their door. Swanky, AAA.
On my third try the rusted lock pops off and I start speculating they aren’t going to have complementary tetanus shots. The room itself is decorated in a classic Russian decor, meaning that there’s a single bed, nothing on the walls, and a desk with a phone and toaster nailed to it—perfect for a family of seven to share during a cold Moscow winter during the 1950’s while they sat sipping their last jug of potato water and picking at the carcass of their pet crow.
The bathroom is nothing more than a single toilet-sink fixture like you’d find in a prison accompanied by a tub consisting of more hair than porcelain. I close the door hastily knowing I’ll never be able to return to a point in my life where I didn’t know that tub entity existed.
Okay, so I’m not here to spend time in the room anyways, and AAA did say this place has a pool, a restaurant, and an entertainment center. I’m going to explore, and, ideally, I’ll just fall asleep once I’m back in the room after I barricade the door with the desk-toaster-phone.
I take my book and make my way to the pool in the back. I survey the above-ground monstrosity, complete with broken chairs and old stumps strewn about the area. I approach the pool wall and discover there’s only about six inches of brown, filth swill at the bottom of the pool. My eyes pan up and at the deeper end and I immediately shudder—it’s an overweight Italian man with a gold chain, thinning, yet greasy, hair on his head, and pseudo-rug of midnight black strands covering the rest of his body. He’s in the water up to his shins and he’s making passionate love to an equally overweight woman whose pasty thighs resemble stained-glass works made of varicose veins.
The woman notices my embarrassment and as I’m scampering away with my head down I hear the man bellow, “Lighten up; we just renewed our vows!”
Truly, there is so much beauty in this world. However, none of it can be found at Big Rudy’s Feed N’ Sleep.
I make my way back into the building, hoping the entertainment center will have a bar where I can repress this memory with a mason jar filled with whiskey and bleach. Sadly, when I ask the clerk which way to the entertainment center he merely points to the pinball machine and cigarette machine sitting in the corner of the room.
When I inquire about the restaurant he gestures to the heat lamps at the other end of the room that are currently warming a bowl of dirty muffins and a trough of something curdled. I wasn’t hungry, just curious, but I doubt I’ll ever be hungry again.
Out of sheer anger, I’m able to sleep for a few hours. I wake up cold and disturbingly clammy. In a silent, yet frantic, rage I grab my backpack and walk out to the lobby where I give the clerk the sheet of paper with the combination scribbled on it. With his hand he grasps it and says, “checking out?” in a way that implies this is a legitimate hotel. I respond with a grunt and he asks, “breakfast?” and again points to the heat lamps at the end of the lobby.
There’s the couple from yesterday, piling paper plates with a yellow sustenance and a white paste that I’m guessing is the eggs and mayonnaise I smelled when I walked in. The fat Italian man gives me a nod and a wave. I storm out of the building.
You really hustled me, AAA.
The sun was high in the sky on this bright summer Saturday morning. Fresh from his night of slumber, John opened one eye and took a glance around the room before reading his clock radio.
Eleven-twenty: too late to salvage the morning, yet too early to start any afternoon activities. Rested, John sat up and pulled back his sheets pondering his next course of action. He wasn’t hungry, and his only plans for the day weren’t until five; his options were endless really. He considered setting up a doctor appointment for the rash on his arm, but he decided it maybe just needed a few more days.
John supposed he could go to the bank, not to deposit money or transact—he just liked hanging out at the bank. Nah, he didn’t want to do that, I mean, come on, he already has his pants off. Deliberation set in about a potential trip to the grocery store but John ultimately decided against it; he already had all the provisions he needed for his one-man nacho fiesta that was happening at five o’clock.
He lied back down on his bed and nestled into the groove his crooked spine had established in the mattress over its many moons of use. The groove provided him a small canyon that he allowed himself to cozy into night after night, a canyon that became particularly difficult to scale out of after a restless night. His eyes drooped a little and he let out a small yawn; he supposed he could read.
A stretch across the mattress and John snagged the screenplay he was working on editing the night before. He was at page sixteen, and the last few days have been far from productive, but he figured if he can get some good, hard work done now he can gorge on a trough of nachos later completely guilt free. Guilt-free about being productive at least, after all, there is a considerable amount of self-loathing that goes along with any personal nacho fiesta.
He starts down the page and begins marking with his red pen. Embarrassed, he circles his your-you’re confusion and laments that he can’t remember why he thought Thomas Merriweather Rockefeller was a good name for any character, let alone the main one. Self-Hating Saturday had already started and John hadn’t even binged on nachos, been to church, or spoke to his parents yet.
John’s conscious mind continued editing while his unconscious mind let his left hand wander. His left hand blazed a trail through the maze of skin, blanket, and underwear and popped in at John’s junk as if to say, “Good morning, beautiful; you feel like dancing?”
With just a splinter of morning wood remaining, John’s left hand realized he was going to have to do most of the work rousing this sleeping giant, but hey, you can’t start a fire without a spark—but a lot of wood would certainly help.
John’s conscious mind snapped into it; he knew how he could pass the time—the answer had been literally right in front of him. His attention shifted and he was soon only skimming through his bad symbolism and unnatural dialogue. Suddenly, he realized that he was playing with himself while reading. He now could identify with the way hipster kids feel when they read Catcher in the Rye or how Glen Beck feels when he’s proofreading his own books. Disgusted with either of those groups, John emphatically hurled his first draft across the room.
His eyelids close and his mouth opens ever so slightly; his right hand begins to work his joystick like he’s going for the high score in the video game that is himself. His mind flashed to that girl from senior year of high school. Not her as a person, like her accomplishments and what not, more so just her pink lips sucking on his thing with such force you’d think she had a jet engine for a mouth—John’s strokes sped up and his body tensed. In his mind she smiled quickly and John immediately remembers her missing tooth and shuddered a bit. Immediately, she faded from mind.
Back to the highlight reel and John’s mind jumped to a hazy, post-bar memory. He recalled this sexual encounter being like a slip and slide—it had been a particularly muggy summer and that particular girl’s vagina acted like it. So wet and smooth he recalled, as his hand now was taking the most thorough, caressing touch to his wang. He felt himself begin to lose control, slightly, as he reminisced; his hand bouncing up and down on his throbbing member like it was a piston in some well-oiled flesh engine. Suddenly he stopped, it was only now twenty-five after eleven; John still had a ways to go until five, so he decided to make this last.
John took a few strokes off in order to prevent culmination, but now he realized that he’s got to kick-start the old love machine as the realization set in that his hiatus had been too long and he should never interrupted the diligent work routine he had established. “If only I put this kind of effort and craftsmanship into my screenplays,” he though, but alas, that thought faded away in lieu of a sexual fantasy involving the cashier at the corner gas station.
It’s just an average night, John’s buying his usual pack of cigarettes and three candy bars. John then removes his card from his wallet, preparing to swipe it on the machine. But, when he goes to run it through the machine, John finds the machine has been replaced with a, now naked, cashier girl. He swipes his Red Lobster Visa down her ass crack as she peeks over at him and whispers, “credit or debit, big boy?” She turns to face him and grabs all she can of him. John, now paralyzed by his own erotic pleasure, clenches every muscle in his body as he tries to hit his figurative brakes.
Just like the guy who shows up drunk to an AA meeting—John can’t stop and he knows it. No use trying to derail this train. John tightens his grip—his hot rod turning that deep fuchsia color indicating the pleasure express was right on time. He mind drifts back to the gas station and he’s thrusting into cashier girl. He’s loving every bit of this as he looks into the mirror behind the counter to fully appreciate this moment, but right then he realizes that it isn’t a reflection of him having his way with the cashier girl in the mirror, why it’s just him having his way with a very sweaty Louie Anderson. John begins to climax as he feels the white-hot man yogurt drip down the back of his hand. His mind is racing with a lot of confused feelings about his sexuality and Louie Anderson. He wipes his hand on the sheets and curls up in a ball—looks like Self-Hating Saturday is off to a great start!
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.
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.
