Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Tag Archives: stars

Directions

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.

 

 

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An Encounter With A Friend’s Ex-Girlfriend

Oh, fancy meeting you here.  I didn’t know they let fun-burglars who cheat on one of my best friends in this bar.  Did you not have to pay cover again because you let the doorman smell your hair while you ate a bowl of cookie dough?

Yeah, I know this bouncer here throbs to the beat of a different sexual rhythm–and here you go again, trying to play the victim in a situation you provoked.

Come on; you know that you brought the goddamn cookie dough and you know you were the one propositioning that chubby bunny.

Go on, I know why you started talking to me tonight; you want to know what he’s up to these days.  You don’t genuinely care about the character arcs in my latest screenplay, “Loose Lips Sink Ships”, in which an eclectic bunch of idiot prostitutes compete against each other in a harrowing tale about racing the America’s Cup, do you?  No, you just want to get me talking so you can casually inquire about your ex-boo, your former tickle-piece, your old, daily hot-beef treat.

Tsk, you really want to know, don’t you?

You really want to know if your decision to cheat on him on the first day of Ramadan was, in hindsight, a good decision, don’t you?

But, yeah, true, super ironic it was Ramadan, right?

Anyways, much to your delight I’m sure: he has been miserable since then.  Just a real sack of old, dirty eggs to be around.

Well, I’m sorry if you haven’t heard that idiom before; I’m sorry you’ve had limited experience in your life with eggs and sacks!

Seriously though he’s a mess; he tried to write a few songs and channel the energy after you left.  He tried them out at some coffee-house open-mics, but the partisan crowd mercilessly booed him when none of his songs sounded like “Wonderwall”.   Subsequently, he lost his confidence and they fired his apprehensive ass from his stockbroker position.  He moved back in with his parents and took the only work he could get.

Yup, you guessed it, an unsuccessful leach farmer while moonlighting as the village idiot.  The pay isn’t enough to move out, but at least being the village idiot gives him dental coverage again.

You should really call him.

No, it wouldn’t be a bother; it wouldn’t be weird and he’d love to hear from you.

Why, would he love to hear from you?  Oh, probably so he can rub it in your makeup-caked face how awesome his life is now!

Yes, that’s right. Call it what you like be it, gotcha, reversies, super-sike, jk, or J.K. Rowling; none of what I said before that last bit is true!  He’s no leach farmer, he doesn’t live with his parents, and he doesn’t want to see or hear from you!  His life sans-you is incredible.  He works as an investor still, but on his own terms now; he just trades stocks, smokes cigarettes, and rakes in the buku bucks remotely from his fan boat.

Yeah, I know, I couldn’t believe it either; he bought a fucking fan boat!  You know why he avoided the Facebook IPO?

No, he’s not genius enough to predict the stock dropping like that.  No, it was more dumb luck he missed it.  That morning he had harpooned a crocodile with a crossbow and was now going on the second hour of reeling it in while simultaneously trying to shoot at it with the rifle more.  So yeah, he had bigger things to worry about than Facebook that morning.

Really, the only part of his life since you that wasn’t completely all smiles and McNuggets was his brief stay in the hospital.

No, it wasn’t an injury from that River Monster­-esque crocosaurus.  That crocodile he snagged was eventually shot beyond recognition

The hospital?  Oh, yeah, he’s fine now.

Ah, yes, he went to the hospital last week after he dehydrated during a pansexual coke fiesta in a champagne-filled hot tub.  Let me reiterate: he dehydrated; likely from all of the fluids him and Ving Rhames left in the many orifi of the tub as well as the ladies they picked up earlier at an NBA Finals after party co-hosted by Bruce Willis and Ray Charles.  That’s my guess on the cause, but hey, I’m no Dr. Seuss.

I thought their party would be weird too, but they’re a fantastic host duo.  Just top-notch.

After he went to the hospital though he literally had to stay there for five extra hours to graft skin on his palm after every man in the place gave him a high-five once the legend behind his hospitalization spread.

For a hospital stay it was pretty fun though.  He ended up getting down and disorderly with this cute orderly, which, as you know, hospital sex is always pretty cool.  Also, they served tacos for lunch the next day, which was also always pretty cool.

Oh, yes, I suppose I’m ahead of myself.  He’s also best friends with Ving Rhames now.  We met him after your ex and Ving both won the same lottery for $25 million and decided to open a club together in New York City.

Yes, I know that’s always been your dream; that’s why he named it after you.  Truthfully, he claims he still carries a burning desire for you; a burning desire of contempt and disdain that burns with the fire of one thousand packets of hot sauce; a fire that will eventually cause him to burn down the club.  In part the fire will be an effigy towards the skank-stain that you are, and, partially, the fire will be for the wicked, butt-load of insurance money that accompanies a burned down club.

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