Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Tag Archives: work

I’m Not Going to Save Your Life if You Aren’t Going to Learn Anything

30 Comments Posted by on May 4, 2013

I could have done nothing.  I could have feigned an excessively violent sneezing attack.  I could have just sat at my desk, idle, pretending to be in the midst of a dream about a thrilling McNugget caper.  It was a moment of weakness, and I’m now having trouble looking at myself in the mirror and being able to see that beautiful, selfish narcissist who I’ve become infatuated with over the years.

 

Disgusting, I couldn’t muster a single excuse; I’m disappointed that I didn’t even try.  Fabricated spells of non-sleep apnea, late-onset debilitating depression over the cancellation of Charles in Charge, my no-prisoners style bout with gout—none came to mind as I counter-intuitively rushed to assist an obese coworker who could have died and would not have been missed.  My inner utilitarian balked; that unlikeable, bitter, non-festively plump, Rascal-riding fuck could have been put out of his miserable, mouth-breathing existence. I would have been lauded as a hero, truly the man who did everything by doing nothing and effectively cleansed the office from his foul, cheese breath, his audible eating habits, and the residue of sweat mixed with Cheeto dust he leaves on every doorknob he touches.

 

There I was, quietly sitting at my desk, when that bulging butterball shoots me a look from across the room.  He may have been looking for a spotter, he may have just wanted an audience, but gripped within those kielbasa-like fingers of his was an entire pork chop.  He shot me a little wink, a gesture I found revolting and offensive, then proceeded to exclaim, “shotgun,” before then attempting to devour the entire meat brick in a single bite.

 

Stoically, I remained in my seat gaping, essentially frozen in a state of fear, disgust, and repulsion.

 

His overly-toned jowels churned at the torrid pace like a prized piece of livestock. He was a flesh machine engineered for consumption.  A surge of sweat flooded his brow in a display I had only before witnessed when we were at a sub sandwich shop and he watched in great anticipation as they filled one of the au jus containers with mayonnaise for him to dip his meat wrap in.  A rush of blood to his neck-less head alerted me that his brain was straining to process the immense amounts of pleasure he was experiencing; honestly, I think there was a part of him that wanted to go out this way.

 

His eyes bulged with a furious passion, reminiscent of a protective mother grizzly or Edward Norton.  Petrified and rapt with abhorrence, I oddly sprung to my feet when he began to choke.  I never help people; it’s much easier not to generally.

 

My wiry arms, weak from years of apathy and movie marathons, wrapped nearly all the way around the pasty, land whale.  His white dress shirt was uncomfortably moist, as if he had just been on a log ride at an amusement park or had participated in the most nauseating of wet t-shirt contests. I was finally able to part enough of his rolls to find a middle passage and get my arms completely around him.

 

The first squeeze did nothing except saturate my shirt with more sweat from this behemoth.  A more forceful second squeeze resulted in only freeing a disgusting noise from somewhere within his body.  I’m not sure if it was a toot or just a pocket of stale air being released from within his many folds.  I’m also not sure if I ever want to know the truth.  On the third attempt he finally coughed up the entire pork chop onto a stack of papers on his desk.  Gasping heavily, he reached for the meat, which was now covered in this gravy-like coat of saliva that resembled a foul kind of coconut sauce.  There was a bit of blood on it too, not sure if it was just undercooked or the result of his overly aggressive eating habits.  Either way, I shuddered when he tore the piece in half, held one out to me, and asked, “splitsies?”

 

Confused and shocked, I shook my head.  He gave a quick shrug and then ate both halves with a minimal amount of chewing.  Knowing full well that he had learned nothing from the ordeal, I grabbed him by the shoulders, looked him straight in his beady eyes and announced, “That was your one time,” before retreating to my desk.

 

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Complaints, Grotesque , , , , , , ,

A Tribute To You: The Quiet, Polite 7-11 Cashier

63 Comments Posted by on January 4, 2013

Thank you, kind shopkeeper, for not verbalizing your judgments with me.  You, me, and the security footage can all attest that I’m not the “catch”, the “philanthropist”, or the “mature adult” my online dating profile makes me out to be.   Like my diary, you are sweet to hold your tongue when it comes to my, well, less than stellar habits involving your marketplace.

 

You’ve supported me unconditionally and have been there at my highest highs, like when I found that loose Sour Patch Kid on the floor and gobbled the little tasty morsel right up.  And you’ve been there at my lowest lows, like right after I ate said Sour Patch Kid off the floor and I still had part of a spider web in my mustache which led to me being mocked by a pack of loose children.

 

You’ve been nothing but kind to me and even helped me with my scratch-off ticket addiction.  By helped, of course, I mean that you’ve helped keep this delightful dependence going; always offering them and reassuring me that the one that I didn’t buy would be the winner.  You’ve let me take countless dollars out of the Humane Society donation jar in exchange for IOU’s to keep my compulsion afloat.  Plus, you never call me out on the blatant lie I tell every time when I say that I’m going to give half my winnings to the Humane Society.  Now that’s truly the mark of an excellent 7-11 clerk.

 

Now, your customer service track record was always flawless, but you’ve taken your lack of oral outrage to the next level when it comes to my behavior with the grill items.  It’s like clockwork; every time I come in, I insist I need a closer inspection of the hot dogs and the other pre-diarrhea, culinary travesties that twirl themselves for hours atop those shiny rollers.  Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice, well, I had a gift card.  Fool me the eleventh time, well, sorry, body, I knew exactly what I was getting into, but I had a punch card that gave me my eleventh hot dog for free.

 

After the eleventh such meat-train passed through my mouth tunnel, I was born again over the course of a sleepless night in which I spent nine hours of labor on the commode.  Now, through my humanistic compulsion, I find it necessary to thoroughly inspect all grill items whenever I come into the store.  Hopefully, through my informal research, we can all get to the bottom of what really went down on September 11th  (said sleepless, but stink filled, night coincidentally occurred this past September 11th).

 

Needless to say, I’m glad you haven’t impeded my research or drew attention to my eccentric and my less than sanitary habits involving the hot dogs and taquitos.

 

Your resume is stellar already.  You are truly a living saint in a red vest and nametag.  Why, it was just last Friday, near the beginning of your shift I’m guessing, and I came in and bought one Digiorno frozen pizza, a pack of cigarettes, and one large bag of Twizzlers.  Later in your shift, I would return yet again and make the exact same purchase.  Disgusting, yes, yet you didn’t lash our linguistically toward me at any point.  I felt safe.  I felt I was in a judgment-free zone.  You may have thought said judgments, you may have tweeted them, you may have even cried about my life to your therapist later in the week, but you held your tongue while I was there and that’s what counts

 

Now, to the untrained eye, it looks just like two isolated incidents.  However, I think most can tell my the necessity of the second trip, just a few short hours after the first, that this was more indicative of a lethargically depressive day during which I underestimated how much damage I wanted to do to my body over reruns of Maury rather than some pizza-cigarette-licorice-fiesta day that I was hosting in which I underestimated what supplies I’d need for my guests.

 

If the two trips didn’t give it away, I’m sure my lack of eye contact and apathetically broken posture denoted the nature of said visits.  Still, you were nothing but delightful to me and, for that, I tip my hat to you.

 

You truly are the yin to my yang.

Fiscally Savvy, Nice, Rave , , , , , , , , , ,

Presidential Erotica: A Chocolate-Vanilla Swirl

30 Comments Posted by on November 4, 2012

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.

 

Absurd, Erotic Fiction, Grotesque , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Career Fair

22 Comments Posted by on October 26, 2012

Joy, another college co-ed trying to convince me to hire her. She’s all zipped up in her fancy shirts and eager-pants while doing her best impression of someone who wants to commit fifty hours a week for the next twenty-five years to analyzing rat poison supply chain schematics.  I know, pinch me; my job is just so fucking fantastic I must be dreaming instead of abusing painkillers each night in my studio apartment in Bumblepoo, Ohio.

 

Holy Type II Diabetes, Batman, this one is way too enthusiastic.  She found our mission statement, “We Good, Rats Bad”, and is giving an introspective reflection on what that means to her and how it’s shaped her outlook on life.  Actually, that mission was from our, near illiterate, savant founder.  Yes, our Public Relations department has done a great job covering up such revealing aspects of his life, like his numerous financial contributions to the American Nazi party and that he celebrates the fact that we are the preferred rat poison for cults committing mass suicide.  His idea to run a marketing campaign on that last tenant would have been, well, suicide.

 

Wow, she’s still going on how these four monosyllabic words have explained the universe to her.  With one word I could stop this torrent of embarrassment gushing out of her mouth, but, then what would I do for entertainment?

 

Hard worker, team player, tolerator of the diverse, mhmm, yeah, I’ve heard those generic lines from everyone, sweetie, yet I’m still left with a lazy, selfish, workforce who continues to insist on contributing significant portions of their paychecks to the American Nazi party, so why should I believe you? Oh, here’s why you think that—it’s because you listed it on your resume, a resume that, tragically, you wrote in Comic Sans for some misguided reason.   That’s adorable; you’re talking about why you put it in Comic Sans, as if you could ever justify it or as if I would ever care.  No, sweet cheeks, it doesn’t come across as kitschy, creative, or “showcasing your fun side”.  Honestly, both our lives have been set on darker courses for having listened to you or even being here today.

 

This is getting pathetic; Comic Sans just asked a question about our third quarter earnings versus our expected annual growth.  Let’s have some fun with this.

 

Man, giving overly complicated sounding answers that are really just saying buzzwords and jargon nonsensically strung together is becoming addicting, not as addicting as painkillers, but addicting nevertheless.  “Glocal economies are what we anticipate synergizing once our Six Sigma black belts can conquer some new Asian territory versus the Federal Reserve’s self-corrections”.  Yeah, that sounded like Bjork read a Wall Street Journal and then tried to write lyrics for a new album no one wants.  Yet Comic Sans over here is frantically scribbling down every bit of it like it’s the cure for cancer or the Colonel’s secret blend of herbs and spices.

 

She’s just trying too hard to get this interview; I think she might pull a muscle in her face from giggling at literally everything I said.  I can tell you right now that we’re not going to interview her.  She has no experience; she gave generic, plain-flavored-Quaker-oatmeal-esque answers to everything; and she has blonde hair and blue eyes that are only going to enforce the prevalent Nazi stereotype of our company. Overall, she strikes me as really dumb, like the type who would be perplexed if her new toaster didn’t come with a manual.

 

Although she’s a terrible candidate for a supply chain position but as a candidate I could flex into a sexual position?  Yeah, let’s go for it—I’m down to stick my pen in some non-company stink.

 

 

“Hey, would you want to discuss this opportunity over a drink with me later?”

 

 

Joy, I think this business prick is trying to hit on me.  I just came to this career fair wanting a job—and not a job that’s prefaced with “suck”, “rim”, or “manual labor”, mind you.  This short, corporate-rat-poison prick with his lazy-ish, well, just not as hard-working, eye will be in for a rude awakening if sex is what’s in his poison-riddled mind right now.  Here he goes into his best impression of the guy he thinks I’d want to be with for the next twenty-five years or so when in reality he’s just another guy in a fancy shirt and eager-pants looking get off the clock and subsequently get off all over me.

 

Holy shot of penicillin, Batman, I think he just leaned in and tried to make a joke.  I couldn’t discern a punch line from his monosyllabic stammer, but all of a sudden he stopped the surge of anti-charm coming out of his mouth and looked for a reaction out of me before he started uncontrollably sweating and clicking his jaw.  I just tried to force a little laugh.  Not too much though, we wouldn’t want him to think he’s actually funny or have him, god-forbid, attempt another joke.  We just need to force enough laughter for him to save face so that he doesn’t go home and kick a dog or take a bunch of painkillers to ease his sexual frustration; I wouldn’t want a dog hurt out of my lack of amusement, and, seriously, guys who look like short business Nazis have done worse for less.

 

Oof, he’s still going with this, generously named, “comedy” part of his flirting.  I don’t know why he keeps going with this; honestly, I think Michael Richards could get more laughs at an Al Sharpton’s birthday party.  With one word I could stop this speeding locomotive of humiliation he’s riding, but, then what would I do for entertainment?

 

Open minded, free spirit, thorough, mhmm, yeah, I’ve hear those generic lines before, guy.  Is that why you wore your puka shell necklace under your tie?  Does that really stick it to those one-percent, corporate fat cats?  Never mind,  He’s too busy explaining the tattoo sleeve of civil rights figures he wants to get.  No, that tattoo doesn’t make you “deep” and it certainly doesn’t “heel the scars of slavery” as he put; that tattoo makes you the idiot who’s trying too hard to seem not racist.

 

Wow, he just segued from speaking about his civil rights sleeve to asking me about my ancestry.  I swear if he brings up the universe or Burning Man next I’m going to barf angrily.

 

It should be illegal to have as much fun as that answer was to give.  He’s absorbed by my non-sequiturs and my fabrications about “the old country traditions,” “my real birthday versus my German birthday”, and “waltzes during eclipses of the harvest moon under Sagittarius at the gord festival”.   Hilarious, he’s eating it up every word like it’s some fair-trade oats that he claims to give a shit about.

 

This is even better, he’s trying to analyze it and make sense of it.  I think I just heard him misquote Aristotle, Descartes, and Savage Garden all in an attempt at an explanation for the concept of “culture”.  Jesus, this is getting painful.  I really wish one of us could just die right now to put me out of the misery of this conversation—where is a D.C. Sniper when you need one?

 

Okay, he’s still trying to convince me; this is beyond human politeness.  He would be a terrible coworker and I’m guessing a horrible sexual partner, since, based on his vanity, I think his life is too empty and he’s too sad to achieve orgasm.  I’m don’t want to deal with all this; I just want money from a job.

 

I’ve seen enough; I don’t really give a shit about my chances at a rat poison company anyways. I’m just going to cough in his face and walk away.

 

Absurd, Complaints, Fiscally Savvy, Rave , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Bathroom Vacation

16 Comments Posted by on October 19, 2012

Mild-mannered Justin Gawel’s perched, motionless, on the handicapabel toilet in the back of the tiny, downstairs bathroom at work.  Justin’s a simple man who enjoys the handicap stall and the space it affords him. Space Justin uses to sprawl out and just let his bathroom experience “happen”.

 

Unrestrained bathroom habits are, and have always been, a simple pleasure in his life.  A pleasure that may delay a lame man from a making bowel “lack of” movement for a few minutes, but it’s worth it Justin rationalizes; their legs shouldn’t get too exhausted waiting for Justin to download a stink file of his into the toilet.

 

With no impatient handicapabel friends or Autobots rolling up on him, Justin begins to revel in the luxury of his toilet time.  He’s not forcing anything today.

 

This is his vacation.

 

“Why be on a beach,” Justin thinks, “when you could be on a toilet?  Sure, if you’re on a beach you can let the riptide take care of your back door oil slick; that’s easy enough, but what happens when the tide’s coming in?  What happens if I’m boogie boarding when the waves “assist” me with my ocean dumpage?  And what if, and I’m just spitballing, but what if I can’t find a lifeguard willing to pee on my winking brown-eye after an unfortunate encounter with a jellyfish?”

 

Too many questions, not enough answers for this handsome lover to keep contemplating the beach now; after all, this is his vacation.

 

Roosting on his proverbial nest, Justin feels his eyelids droop and his heart rate slow as he nears the precipice of this trip to the bathroom.  It’s a nirvana-esque state where his mind and his bowels are completely open.  The weight of his body fades from thought while his mind seamlessly sifts through the philosophies of Plato, Descartes, and Federline simultaneously.

 

With his spirit and psyche finally unchained, he’s able to come to terms with the ending of The Sopranos and he finally understands why they chose to name that movie Sophie’s Choice.  Further drifting down the river of tranquility he begins mentally engineering a cigarette that tastes like chicken wings: a product designed to prey on the fat smokers of the country so that America can finally finish the job Katrina started on all those corpulent pre-corpses inhabiting New Orleans.

 

On the brink of a revelation, Justin’s serenity is shattered by the pitter-patter of urgent feet.  After a few choice grunts Justin identifies the panicked pre-pooper as Greg: the not-so-lovable temp.

 

Although annoyed with the forced hiatus of his vacation, Justin realizes he brought this on himself because Greg is likely sick from the tainted mayonnaise on the sandwich Justin planted.  Tainted mayonnaise that Justin rubbed all over his taint before spreading it on his sandwich to teach Greg a lesson for a previous transgression.  You see, a few days ago, Justin watched Greg lick all the mayonnaise off of his sandwich before reassembling said sandwich and placing it back in Justin’s lunch bag as if it was still totally fine, but, in actuality, was totally disgusting.

 

The bathroom tension builds; Greg emits a Mel Gibson-eqsue racist rant while fumbling with his, apparently, overly difficult belt buckle.  This is it, Justin thinks; Greg could cut loose right here and justice would be served—especially if his pants are tucked into his socks like there were all day yesterday for some reason.

 

Listening intently, Justin thinks it can’t be much longer now.  How much more belt fumbling before Greg’s backdoor levee breaks?   A sinister smirk emerges across Justin’s face while he bites his bottom lip in anticipation for the hurricane of humiliation and booty butter about to ravish Greg.

 

The grin fades from his face when Justin hears a deep exhale from the adjacent stall followed by the sound of a zipper and an emphatic thud onto the toilet.

 

A deep breath and brief pause in the action is ensued by a cacophony, reminiscent of a school of king salmon being released back into the wild, before the disharmony crescendos into what Justin initially thought to be a car backfiring.  It was no car; it was just the unadorable and disdainful temp, Greg, backfiring.

 

The discord continued with sounds akin to a lawnmower sputtering to life on the third or fourth pull.  The sounds and smells passing through Greg’s canyon of wet ass fill the confined bathroom.  It was then that Justin grabbed his pants and stood up.  Covering his mouth and holding his breath he hurried out of the bathroom.  The vacation was officially over as Justin thought to himself, “I’m going to need a vacation after this vacation.”

 

Complaints, Grotesque , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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