Drunk Lang

[Derranged]

Drinking Duvel right out of a 750ml, no glass.

My stomach is really bothering me and I have a feeling its coming back up later tonight.

Watching Wedding Crashers. Farting and burping violently. Gonna write some stuff later and post it.

[Derranged]

An excerpt from the short story I'm working on where the narrator travels back in time to meet Charles Bukowski. I'm not done with it yet and what I have written hasn't been fully edited. If you have read Bukowski's short fiction, you would appreciate this more:

I walk in to the bar on East 5th and it hits me: The smell of stale beer, farts and dead dreams. The floor was sticky linoleum and the wallpaper had yellow stains on them. There he was, on the near side of the bar sitting on a stool all alone drinking what I assumed to be a scotch and water. I was nervous . The woman bartender looked like she died a month ago. Aside from Charles, I saw an old man at the far end of the bar staring into space with a beer in his hand. Presumably dead for a year.

Still shaky, I almost took a deep breath but stopped at the last second because of that god awful smell. I sat in the seat next to Charles and ordered a bourbon neat. The bartender sounded like she was smoking before ten years before she was born. "Right away doll" she said, coughing immediately after.

Charles had not yet noticed I was there, or least pretended not to. I turn in his direction.

"Charles Bukowski?"

"Yea" he said. He didn't turn his head in my direction.
"Sir-"

"Names Charles" he said. He glances at me briefly. "Not Sir. And leave me alone. My asshole itches."

"I just wanted to say I'm a big fan of your writing. Its such an honor to meet you"
"Writing's not a big deal, kid" said Charles. "People write, drink, eat, shit, scream and curse on the toilet and fucking die. You ever have serious problems with hemorrhoids and constipation?"

"Can't say that I have." I gulp down my drink and order another.

"Then we got nothing to talk about".

"Well, I like to drink. Lemme buy you one".

Charles turned his head and looked at me again. "You're a fan of my work?"

"Your novels and short stories."

"Not my poems?"

"I'm not really into poetry to be honest".

"Neither am I. I make up stuff and they sit and listen and drink and clap afterwards. Its pointless. I can't go to a reading without at least a half pint of scotch. Poetry sucks and the people who like it are even worse. If I could actually crap I'd destroy a bathroom and cram every one of my fans in there to watch them gasp for air."

"But they're your fans. They pay your bills."

"Get me a scotch and water. Keep 'em comin".

I order two more drinks. "Do you really scream and curse on the toilet?" I asked.
"I scream and curse everywhere. Especially the toilet. Worst part of my day. Aside from coming to this shithole. Every night some fat hairy ***** stumbles in here drunk and tells me what a great poet I am, what a great writer I am and how bad she wants me to fuck her and eat her pussy and puke on her asshole. Its exhausting. My only advice to you is don't become a writer."

"Doesn't sound so bad" I said. We both drained our drinks and I ordered two more. "But I wouldn't puke on someone's asshole."

"I told myself that very same thing" said Charles. "Deny it all you want. You start writing and drinking in this dump and meeting fat ****s, its gonna happen."

My stomach turned just a bit. I'm not sure if it was all the talk about puking on fat women, the booze or the effects of time travel. Word of advice to time traveler's out there: This ****sucker can drink. Don't travel back to meet him if you don't have the stomach for it.

[Derranged]

Is everyone at rehab or church?

[BostonGuy]

Fun story (or is that an excerpt from a from story?); it has kind of Iceman Cometh vibe to it, in the tone and setting

[Derranged]

Fun story (or is that an excerpt from a from story?); it has kind of Iceman Cometh vibe to it, in the tone and setting

Its an except from a story I'm writing. Have you read Bukowski at all?

[BostonGuy]

Its an except from a story I'm writing. Have you read Bukowski at all?

No, but I've read a bunch of Eugene O'Neil's stories/plays. Your story reminded me of one of his works - I guess a similar genre. What can you recommend of Bukowski's? I've heard of him but never picked up any of his stuff. What's his style and subject matter?

[Derranged]

No, but I've read a bunch of Eugene O'Neil's stories/plays. Your story reminded me of one of his works - I guess a similar genre. What can you recommend of Bukowski's? I've heard of him but never picked up any of his stuff. What's his style and subject matter?

Novels: Post Office, Pulp and Factotum.

Short Story Collections: South Of No North, Hot Water Music and Tales Of Ordinary Madness.

He mostly talks about drunkneness, womanizing, and white trash. He's cynical and pretty straight forward.

[Beercules]

An excerpt from the short story I'm working on where the narrator travels back in time to meet Charles Bukowski. I'm not done with it yet and what I have written hasn't been fully edited. If you have read Bukowski's short fiction, you would appreciate this more:

I walk in to the bar on East 5th and it hits me: The smell of stale beer, farts and dead dreams. The floor was sticky linoleum and the wallpaper had yellow stains on them. There he was, on the near side of the bar sitting on a stool all alone drinking what I assumed to be a scotch and water. I was nervous . The woman bartender looked like she died a month ago. Aside from Charles, I saw an old man at the far end of the bar staring into space with a beer in his hand. Presumably dead for a year.

Still shaky, I almost took a deep breath but stopped at the last second because of that god awful smell. I sat in the seat next to Charles and ordered a bourbon neat. The bartender sounded like she was smoking before ten years before she was born. "Right away doll" she said, coughing immediately after.

Charles had not yet noticed I was there, or least pretended not to. I turn in his direction.

"Charles Bukowski?"

"Yea" he said. He didn't turn his head in my direction.
"Sir-"

"Names Charles" he said. He glances at me briefly. "Not Sir. And leave me alone. My asshole itches."

"I just wanted to say I'm a big fan of your writing. Its such an honor to meet you"
"Writing's not a big deal, kid" said Charles. "People write, drink, eat, shit, scream and curse on the toilet and fucking die. You ever have serious problems with hemorrhoids and constipation?"

"Can't say that I have." I gulp down my drink and order another.

"Then we got nothing to talk about".

"Well, I like to drink. Lemme buy you one".

Charles turned his head and looked at me again. "You're a fan of my work?"

"Your novels and short stories."

"Not my poems?"

"I'm not really into poetry to be honest".

"Neither am I. I make up stuff and they sit and listen and drink and clap afterwards. Its pointless. I can't go to a reading without at least a half pint of scotch. Poetry sucks and the people who like it are even worse. If I could actually crap I'd destroy a bathroom and cram every one of my fans in there to watch them gasp for air."

"But they're your fans. They pay your bills."

"Get me a scotch and water. Keep 'em comin".

I order two more drinks. "Do you really scream and curse on the toilet?" I asked.
"I scream and curse everywhere. Especially the toilet. Worst part of my day. Aside from coming to this shithole. Every night some fat hairy ***** stumbles in here drunk and tells me what a great poet I am, what a great writer I am and how bad she wants me to fuck her and eat her pussy and puke on her asshole. Its exhausting. My only advice to you is don't become a writer."

"Doesn't sound so bad" I said. We both drained our drinks and I ordered two more. "But I wouldn't puke on someone's asshole."

"I told myself that very same thing" said Charles. "Deny it all you want. You start writing and drinking in this dump and meeting fat ****s, its gonna happen."

My stomach turned just a bit. I'm not sure if it was all the talk about puking on fat women, the booze or the effects of time travel. Word of advice to time traveler's out there: This ****sucker can drink. Don't travel back to meet him if you don't have the stomach for it.

[Rudyo]

I'm on the gin diet, been a while. I'm being an ******* lol.

[Derranged]

Might have been a bit overkill with some of it but I think I got something there.