There is a time and place 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.
I accidentally left the gas on this morning as you slept. If you’ve received this letter in time, please be sure to turn it off. If not, then I’ve wasted not only paper and ink, but postage. Please, be more considerate next time.
PEOPLES IS PEOPLES
As mother nature continues her cosmically-endowed war of terror, mankind righteously or wrongeously keeps on trucking with what can only be explained as a deeply troubled, self-harmful, arguably suicidal glee in the face of utmost certain uncertainty. So for a lack of forethought, we decided to interview people inexplicably lining up along a freeway overpass, staring at the speeding traffic below with a familiar glee in and about the face, and this is what we decided they had to say.
"Did I leave the baby plugged in again?"
"I build miniature horses. The hardest part is taking them apart the first time."
"I once wrong-dialed the Astoria Best Western."
"I haven't slept the same since I drank my son's favorite goldfish."
"I don't mean to sound sexist, but if bear's are going to shit in the woods, the least they can do is bag it up like the rest of us."
"We're divorced in the sense that she isn't even aware she ever signed the marriage license in the first place."
"Just because someone puts something in their mouth doesn't mean they can spell it."
"I like to handcraft and photograph miniature dioramas around my navel. I didn't even know it was a fetish when I started, but now I'm making more money than I ever did as a carwash blogger."
"No, I mean in the sense that they point at nearby bits of metal."
"It is right now, yes. These days, once it gets going, I sort of let it do its own thing. You never know when it'll come around on its own again."
"I lost it in college. But they expelled me after I put up posters all over campus asking if anyone had seen it."
"I may vote against my own interest, and my now adult children want nothing else to do with me as I slip closer into the cold, lonely, and hopefully eternal embrace of nonexistence... but at least I'm not happy."
"I've seen the inside of many human bodies and the many secret delights therein."
"My kinks include competitive arts and crafts, loitering by strangers on the beach, taking out the trash, and sharing my kinks."
"Certainly I'll put my name on it! I just won't take credit for it is all."
Bronson Pubic-Lice is a man rough around the edges, and often too quick to bite. But when a night out with the boys goes horribly wrong, all he really wants to be... is a good boy. John Jablonksi and Maggie Sex-Pun star in: "I'm a Middle-Aged Werewolf!" A second act... with a twist!
“SOGGY FETA FRIES”
Vincent Raginghardon, better known to his friends as, “Bill,” wasn’t very well-liked at all, thus nobody really cared nor noticed when or even how he died. Meanwhile, Billy’s half-brother, Teddy Nippleblaster, continues to be missed to this day.
Teddy was coincidentally eating at his half-brothers second-favorite burger joint on what also happened to be the anniversary of Bill’s death. It was the sort of fine ground beef establishment that emphasizes presentation and comically large and wholly inedible brioche buns over trivial things like taste, price, or a respectable amount of aioli that doesn’t leave your burger a soggy mess before you’ve even had a chance to taste the damned thing. And the less said about the parking, the better. But as Teddy was posting a patronizingly positive review in exchange for a free platter of stone cold, yet somehow still soggy feta fries, he suddenly had the urge to vomit and defecate. Perhaps it was the heretical amount of room-temperature garlic and ranch aioli his burger had been swimming in. Or perhaps, it was the bits of bones and globs of thick, runny fat that flowed from the unevenly cooked patty that wasn’t setting well in his tummy. Either way, Teddy was hardly paying much attention to anything else other than the sudden, powerful urge to not vomit and defecate in a public sense.
Now. There’s something to be said about minding one’s surroundings as one quickly waddles about in search of a toilet or unoccupied sink to relieve one’s self. I’m not quite sure what that might be, of course. But given how Mr. Nippleblaster failed to notice his being guided down a winding hallway, through a pair of large, swinging double-doors, into a blood-soaked and scream-filled abattoir used to butcher and slaughter countless hand-picked cows, chickens, and other assorted animals and rodents for fifteen-dollar burgers, systematically butchered and slaughtered alive, ground into a burger, and then served up medium rare to the still-living, non-hamburgerized patrons of a grossly overrated hamburger bar and grill in Huntington Beach, it’s probably safe to assume there might be some vague moral or insight to glean from such a careless mistake.
THE END BITS NOBODY CARES MUCH FOR
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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YOU’LL NEVER GET IT BACK
A COMPLETE WASTE OF TIME