THE NIGHTLY CHILL
By Steve Arviso
Soggy Feta Fries.
FIGHT THE DAWN!
As the sunlit sanity of the waking world burns the night to ash,
embrace the unbound madness of your wildest dreams,
laugh into the endless abyss of your darkest fantasies,
and rage against the coming dawn.
The Nightly Chill is an irregular, yet wholly absurd intimate experience with an idiot. Mon-Fri. Ish. Written and published by writer, publisher, and, on occasion, part-time lover, Steve Arviso (@AmoralCrackpot). Ish.
- OBTRUSIVE ADVERTISEMENT
- THE BIT AT THE BEGINNING
- A LETTERS’ PAGE
- A CHEAP PLUG
- SOME TRIVIAL BIT OF SILLINESS
- YET ANOTHER OBTRUSIVE ADVERTISEMENT
- A SATISFACTORY, WELL-WRITTEN BIT THAT SOMEHOW STILL FAILS TO LIVE UP TO SOME ARBITRARY STANDARD CREATED AND IMPOSED BY NOBODY
- LAST-MINUTE ATTEMPT AT ENGAGEMENT
- BLATANT, YET ALSO REDUNDANT SELF-PROMOTION
- THE END BITS NOBODY CARES MUCH FOR
JASON IS UP LATE
Be sure to listen to “Jason is Up Late,” a new podcast from Los Angeles comedian Jason King., who is not well-known for turning in early for the evening, but, to the contrary, is rather notorious for staying up well-past any decently dressed hour.
THE BIT AT THE BEGINNING
Genitalia: some people have them, others want to be them. For decades, scientists have found themselves utterly and sexily distracted from their work by genitalia, stimulating all attempts to further mankind to the point of flaccidity. Some short-lived spasming spurts of brilliance here and there, but otherwise quick to sleep the rest of the night without so much as a cuddle.
But what can possibly be done about genitalia? Will genitalia ultimately gain sentience and force the last remnants of humanity underground to orgify itself into a new species of subterranean sex-fiends? What destiny might humanity have discovered among the stars had it not resigned itself to a fate of ceaseless sexual gratification in the tacky and musky caverns and caves of the Earth’s crust while fascist genitalia thrive in their futuristic dystopia powered by the heat of raw, unfettered human lust?
Tonight’s issue will make no attempts to approach any of this.
BETWEEN THE CRACKS
(A LETTERS’ PAGE)
My husband no longer looks at me when we make love. He’s been dead ten years now, and I’m worried he’s beginning to lose interest. What can I do to bring the warmth back to our literally cold and dead marriage?
– Lusty in Laguna
Have you tried mutual immolation? Just be sure to respect each other’s safe words.
VIRAL LOAD PODCAST
(A CHEAP PLUG)
The “Viral Load Podcast” is, I’ve been assured, a podcast in the same way that audio uploaded to some temporary or long-term repository for the sake of publication and distribution across various outlets, inlets, and piglets accessible vis-à-vis the internet might, in some fashion, be considered a “podcast.” In it, comedian Andrew Pupa and co-host Brett Bayles, who may or may not be a comedian–but who am I to place such labels on anyone?–explore the weirder, more unsettling corners of diseases that plague us.
SOME TRIVIAL BIT OF SILLINESS
These days, I find it utterly fascinating when I come across those inclined to complain about the way people are now inclined to “overshare” on social media.
Well. What would you, dear, sweet Scarecrow, rather we–the slummish collective “we” that is the refuse of humanity daring to reach a hand to our fellow mess–do? Continue to hold in every thought, feeling, or momentary lapse in judgement for fear of some wholly arbitrary bit of social spanking in kinky retaliation for daring to share some intimate bit of one’s self with the world?
It would seem more important those so maturbatorially self-obsessed to the point of requiring everyone else’s timeline to conform to their narrow interests and absent levels of intimacy and empathy should be the first to delete their accounts. Why should the collective world need to shut up because some irritable irritant can’t be assed to stop using Twitter or Reddit?
The internet has gone from a place of anonymity and shame to a place where people now feel empowered to speak and share when they never would have before (and also shame). It brought society out of its constrictive, prudish shell. Perhaps a bit too much at times. But growing pains, unflattering photos, suspect thoughts being spoken aloud, the 21st century resurgence of Nazism by way of children’s entertainment produced and published by twattering halfwits, and, if we’re being perfectly honest, far too many true crime podcasts, are an expected part of progress.
More so, what else do you, sweet sexy Scarecrow, expect from a populace where the average person is forced to drag their hardly thriving corpse around from one job to the next in search of loose change to make up for a lack of time caused by a distinct lack of money caused by a distinct lack of humanity perpetuated by a populace happily and eagerly brainwashed by malicoiusly affluent tits that vaccines, living wages, affordable and easily accessible healthcare, housing, food, education, love and affection, or simply a day to do more than chores are less preferable to burning the whole fucking world to ash?
Of course Brennifer is going to share photos of her overpriced grilled cheese she paid for with the money she saved eating reheated leftovers during the week while Branthony broadcasts his mother’s final moments for his livestream. It’s not to annoy, bother, or disturb you. They have to get back to their third job because their manager said they’re too understaffed at the hotel for you to be wasting time with friends and loved one during this pathetic attempt to get out of working your shift. They’re simply far too busy.
What else are we to do? Therapy? Not in this economy.
(YET ANOTHER OBTRUSIVE ADVERTISEMENT)
“SOGGY FETA FRIES”
(A SATISFACTORY, WELL-WRITTEN BIT THAT SOMEHOW FAILS TO LIVE UP TO SOME ARBITRARY STANDARD CREATED AND IMPOSED BY NOBODY)
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 emphasises 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 surrounding 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.
LAST-MINUTE ATTEMPT AT ENGAGEMENT
Please, contact us however you can if you, or someone you know, engages in the following acts of debauchery:
- Animal Husbandry
- Audio plays
- Pulp and/or other genre fiction
- Shopping lists
- Absurd acts of defiance against a pleasantly cold, yet wholly uncaring universe
- Short films
The weirder, the better.
We are The Lost. And together, we’ll make sure the world sees and hears us.
(BLATANT, YET ALSO REDUNDANT SELF-PROMOTION)
Tonight, CHILL with “Grand Ghoulish,” an absurd twisted romance between a photographer, a housewife, and her husband–a surgeon who enjoys getting a little blood on his hands!
THE END BITS NOBODY CARES MUCH FOR
(READ: OBLIGATORY PLEA FOR MONEY)
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YOU ARE NOT ALONE
THE NIGHTLY CHILL