Trouble With Spain
I got in the shower and burned my balls last Wednesday. met this painter called Spain, no, he was a cartoonist, well, I met him at a party and everybody got mad at me because I didn't know who he was or what he did. he was rather a handsome guy and I guess he was jealous because I was so ugly. they told me his name and he was leaning against the wall looking handsome, and I said: hey, Spain, I like that name: Spain. but I don't like you. why don't we step out in the garden and I'll kick the shit out of your ass? this made the hostess angry and she walked over and rubbed his pecker while I went to the crapper and heaved. but everybody's angry at me. Bukowski, he can't write, he's had it. washed-up. look at him drink. he never used to come to parties. now he comes to parties and drinks everything up and insults real talent. I used to admire him when he cut his wrists and when he tried to kill himself with gas. look at him now leering at that 19 year old girl, and you know he can't get it up. I not only burnt my balls in that shower last Wednesday, I spun around to get out of the burning water and burnt my bunghole too.