The Sound-Sex of It

Neither of Us is Getting This Time Back, You Know

There is a time and pace for which there is a time and place. This is not the time, nor is it the place, I’m sorry to say. It is some other time that is not quite a good use of it, some place that is not quite the point, and either really could be defined in rather simple and direct terms if one gave a shit about brevity. This is not that, though. It is, however, what one might call A Complete Waste of Time.

A Complete Waste of Time is a presentation of the not-entirely unerotic essays, rantings, ravings, and assorted sordid nonsense of “Amoral Crackpot” Steve Arviso. Not intended for human consumption. Void where prohibited.

Words? Bunch of silly grunting, squawking, and squiggles, if you ask me.


Good evening. And to those of you just joining us: good evening.

Welcome some of you to the first part of a nine-part series entitled, "A Complete Waste of Time, or: A Modern Post-Modern Exploration of the Pointlessness of Wasting Time." Tonight's piece: "Ugh! Ugh! I'm Dying, You Idiot!"

Death: what is it? Nobody’s quite sure, really. Scientists, for example, believe Death to be the point at which all things - babies, puppies, and, yes, even dear, sweet gram-gram - cease to be, which I think we can all agree is a bit of a bummer.

Nonetheless. Like a trial to a local newspaper or magazine that we never would have signed up for if given a say in the matter, Death comes for us all.

Sometimes, Death comes like a thief in the night - loud, chaotic, and wholly inconsiderate of what time it is, or if we have work first thing in the morning. Such was the case for Cecil Cecilson of Plainfield, Indiana - a turgid little bastard who knows damn well what he did - who had the misfortune, I suppose, of coming-to as an unknown, yet shockingly skilled prostitute proceeded to remove one of his kidneys on the tile floor of a motel bathroom.

Other times, Death is more playful trickster than some unseen, terrifying constant and inevitable conclusion of biological existence. Such was the case for Chlamydia Lapierre, of Fontana, California, the unwed widow of a small ficus plant who suddenly found herself reduced to two dimensions following her regular Tuesday afternoon shift at Classy Lou’s Erotic Dancing Emporium.

Tonight Dear Reader, we humbly invite you to laugh into the abyss, to embrace the all-consuming madness that comes from knowing, one day, you, and all that you hold dear, will, for all intents and purposes, be scrubbed clean from the stained, cracked, and wholly holey pavement of existence. And in some highly unfortunate cases, this will inevitably and statistically prove quite literal.

And for precisely those very reasons, Dear Reader, in tonight’s issue we shall fail to stoop so low as to speak with Connie McGivens, a local barista and failed piano tutor; fish enthusiast, Cyril Shenanigans; and Kyle Dewit, local con man and bookie. And in just a moment, a very special presentation of Bill Billiamson's lesser-known erotic novella, "Calvin Carson's Cavalcade of Cars, Cards, and Cardigans," already in progress.

But first, a complete waste of time.

Are you dim-witted, haggard, and useless? Are you purposely left uninvited to parties? The solution to all your problems is at the bottom of a bottle... and with us! Be sure to scrape the bottom with "Exploitation of Human Capital Stock" with Youwannabe A. Richman, every morning on N-U-T-S A.M., Santa Carla Public Radio.

TOP 10

#01. Mandibles
#02. Sensible Shoes
#03. Medical Experiments
#04. Funiculì, Funiculà
#05. Stromm
#06. Underpants
#07. Why not, how come?
#08. Hello, Goodbye
#09. This Was a Mistake
#10. I’m Cold


Good evening. Tonight's piece, "Calvin Carson's Cavalcade of Cars, Cards, and Cardigans," has fortunately been misplaced on account of gratuitous sex, violence, and pedantry. In its place, we dispassionately offer a mostly flaccid, partly turgid bit of tale titled, "That Wasn't Even Sexy," already unpackaged, reheated, and ready for you to do with as you please.

(NOTE: the safeword is, "mucklucks.")

And now, the bit:

A phone rang, and someone accidentally answered when they actually meant to ignore the call. "Hello."





"Oh, good. You're not a complete idiot."

"Surprises await us both, I suppose."

"Truer words have been spoken. May I speak with Throbbing Fistwood, please?"



"Did I say, 'No?'"


"Oh. Because I meant to say, "'Yes.'"

"So, I may speak with Throbbing Fistwood, then?"


"I'm sorry. I must have bludgeoned myself to death on my faux hardwood floor, because I appear to be in Hell."

"Would you like to call back another time?"

"May I speak with Throbbing Fistwood then?"


"Then, for God's sake, why would I call back later?"

"I was wondering that myself."

"I swear, this is the number the young lady gave me when I inquired with her about Throbbing Fistwood. Are you sure this isn't Throbbing Fistwood?"

"Fairly certain."

"I'm sorry if I've wasted your time."

"It doesn't have to be a total waste, does it?"

"How so?"

"I mean, you'll have to give me a moment, but I may be able to help."

"You can help locate Throbbing Fistwood?"

"Well. At my age, you never can be too sure without a bit of 'assistance,' if you will."

"No. No, thank you. I'm afraid I'm a bit tight on time at the moment. Perhaps I'll try calling back later."


"Who should I ask for?"

"Dick Squat-thrust."

"Got it, Dick. May I call you 'Dick?'"

"I do certainly hope so."

"Thank you."



The phone went click, and never rang again.


Mercifully, our mutual issues have concluded. Our individual ones... Well. It’s behind us for now, yes? Right. Well. To wake-up with the same walk-of-shame feeling every whenever, subscribe to this newsletter.

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Steve Arviso