Thursday, September 22, 2011

I got in the shower and burned my balls last Wednesday

Once, twice a year, my mood is so comprehensively vile about almost everything (but thankfully not me and mine), and shazam, today. Hopefully it will last until tonight's Thursday Night Pints and past when I write about it. Here, let me violate one of my sillyass blog rules and say that sad librarians are the exception and there are no happy librarians, and if you want to piss off a librarian, ask him if his undergraduate degree was in English or Art History.

trouble with spain

Charles Bukowski

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

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


  1. So, all those right-to-life types couldn't wait to execute someone again?

  2. Buck up, champ!

    Thanks for the link.

  3. Since I'm not officially a librarian, it's okay to ask me my major, I had planned on saving the blood eagle for later, anyway.

    You need to listen to more metal.

  4. Heh, I never said I wasn't *enjoying* my comprehensively vile mood. I already feel it slipping away. DAMN!

  5. Jeebus, even the title of the Derrida post is bullshit. I want to dig up Derrida's corpse just to punch the motherfucker.

    Recovering librarians are fine. But rare.

    Also: that pome is effing awesome. I mean, it's prose that's only poetry because some sophist asshole broke up the phrasing and claims there's meaning in that. But it's still an awesome story. And if the storyteller wants to call it poetry, whathefuckever.

    I will accept fan mail at

  6. BUCK UP!

    Oh by the way, I've been meaning to suggest a possible solution to your occasional hit-publish-instead-of-save problem (if you're interested), which is when you start writing a post to change the publication date to tomorrow, so that if you do accidentally hit publish it'll just get queued, rather than actually publishing. Then, when you're done writing, change it back to today. Ya?

    (Of course, if doing that would eliminate the chance for some enjoyable complaining, then don't even think of doing it.)

  7. Thanks! Randal made the same suggestion and I've used it without fucking up twice already! And heh, the world is full of things to enjoyably complain about.

    But yes, I've bucked up and the vile mood has dissipated (listening to Irwin's monologues between sets is curative). Damn!

  8. Damn that Randall! Always steppin' on my toes.

  9. Fuck bucking up.

    Bukowski -- The only poet I actually recognize. I recognized Ferlinghetti once, but he feels outdated.