Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Tag Archives: work

Just My Luck

 

Horrible.

 

Absolutely and completely senseless.

 

Lives, forever ruined in an instant. Endemic terror reverberates from the epicenter shattering our collective sense of normalcy.

 

We dupe ourselves into believing we’re immune.

 

The news seems so far from our insulated bubble. Nevertheless we’re intermittently confronted with the reality that we’re no more than a series of chance reactions happening on a pebble hurtling through space towards no particular destination.

 

Gunshots ring out. Another mugging’s gone awry in our imperfect world.

 

Tires and sirens screech and scream.

 

It’s too late. He’s already bled out.

 

The entire block and adjacent shopping plaza are shutdown. My two-thirty hair appointment with Leonardo now numbers among the casualties.

 

There is no doubt: man is the cruelest animal.

 

No recourse exists. I’m gripped with a sorrow that can’t be undone. My appointment, Leonardo, yet again derailed—even after I already had to reschedule twice when his dopey kids were struck with tuberculosis, or some shit, all last week.

 

Too late. The benefit dinner’s tonight and Leonardo of Leonardo’s Hair, Nails, and Pre-Paid Cell Phones is the only one in this city I can trust with my looks. Had I known a murder was happening I would have rescheduled yesterday’s spin class and made time.

 

Rude. Inconsiderate. All of the above.

 

I’m a magnet for tragedy. I suppose now I’m just expected to persevere through the tears, numb myself with a few solo afternoon drinky-poos, and primp as best I can.

 

What’d today’s assailant even gain, some petty cash?

 

Dear God, egoism is absolutely heartbreaking.

 

I desperately did need this appointment.

 

And, yeah, I suppose the callous snatching of human life is also never ideal.

 

It’s just that, everyone’ll be there tonight. I know Julie Henderson, that queen bee, will just have a field day with my, unfortunately, homespun appearance. How I despise that smug, toothy tart and her mole-faced lemming, Barbara. There’s no doubt in my mind they’ll spend the evening goading their twofaced following into persistent, behind-my-back mockery.

 

I see your game, Julie. I’m not dumb. I completed three semesters at Brown before parlaying an unplanned pregnancy into extortion and then later into a marriage with my contemporary culture professor and a life of stay-at-home luxury. So, yeah, Julie, I know a thing or two.

 

But smarts don’t matter now. No amount of intelligence or partially completed art appreciation degrees can un-cancel my lost appointment. Now I’m just a survivor, taking life as it comes, coping with forever being cemented on the new money B-list.

 

Jesus, tragedy can really hurt.

 

 

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The Overweight Coalition Plans Recruitment

“Easy, easy, simmer down, there’s plenty of scraps for everyone in this office fridge.

“No one’s actually talking, but if the louder chewers could keep it down that’d be appreciated. We have actual business to discuss—Friday Fridge Cleanout isn’t just grazing this week.

“I don’t need to tell you guys; it’s on the tip of our collective tongue just as much as this still-okay, three-day-old lasagna. It’s the new guy, Alex. Ever since that trim motherfucker first sauntered up this office’s half-flight of stairs without panting or dry heaving two Mondays ago he’s been cramping this workplace’s happily-fat habits with his blatantly healthy lifestyle.

“Okay, slow your rolls. I’m noting a mist of anger and mouth crumbs forming and we don’t need anyone to pull a jowel here. We’ll all have a chance to speak out about Alex; no one needs to risk choking on these mildly-stale macaroons we foraged.

“Alex is the real deal, burley brothers and stout sisters. Restraint, pants in normal sizes, self-respect—this kid’ll be tough to break. In just ten days here I’ve watched him turn down donuts on numerous occasions. I overheard him ask for vegetarian options during Meat Tray Monday. And he smugly declined my offer of drawn butter yesterday. He left me looking like the one asshole in the break room with no self-control who puts drawn butter on his tuna salad sandwich.

“Enough is enough. I’m tired of his passive fat shaming—every time he turns something down it’s like he’s stating he’s too good for our high-calorie, high-fructose, high-flavor lifestyle. I ask you all, how can we be expected to feel comfortable gorging in a den riddled with his unspoken, skinny judgment? Our life-shortening practices deserve support, and this time I don’t just mean from our girdles.

“We’ve been lucky with the apathetically-hefty hirings the company’s made over the last two years; however, I’m afraid we’re going to need to begin active recruitment.  It can be done, people. Henderson here was the last one we converted and look at him now: face-deep in container of four-day-old pasta salad that he’s doused with Thousand Island dressing.  You’re an inspiration to us all, Henderson; glad to have you on board.

“Henderson, you went willingly. Alex might be tougher. But, much like our champion tug-of-war team, if we all pull together I think we can effectively guilt him into gaining through a covert artery-clogging assault.

“We’ll start each morning.  I’ll get here early with cream-heavy donuts or cream-heavy bagels and leave one at his desk on a napkin with his name on it. The draw will be too great. Only a diabetic sociopath would be able throw anything that sweet away. Soon he’ll be hooked and it’ll be part of his routine.  I’ll dispense the butter misters, too. All of us can stealthily tack on calories whenever he leaves his food unattended.

“Further, we’ll begin holding a ‘raffle’ each week and of course we’ll fix it so that Alex always wins the gift cards to T.G.I.Friday’s.  That place will be perfect—even just a side salad and a glass of water will run him north of 1,000 calories at Total-Gravy Indulgence Friday’s.

“Last, and I think this should go without saying, we’ll start up the perpetual birthday racket.  I’ll run point, but I want everyone here claiming a ‘birthday’ within the next three weeks. With this we’ll be able to peddle heaping mounds of cake and ice cream on him daily and justify it all with ‘inclusiveness’.

“Of course, if our scheme to fatten him up doesn’t take, we’ll just do things the old-fashioned way and send him an anonymous series of menacingly sexual threats before setting his car on fire.”

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