Charles Bukowski’s Advice Column
By Kate Knibbs
Dear Charles,
I’ve been married to my wife, Sheila, for 25 years. We love each other very much, but for the last year or so, something’s felt a bit off. How can we reignite the passion?
Yours,
Los Angelino Seeking Passion
LASP:
Passion’s not some candle flickering on the glossy table at a cocktail joint. There’s no monogrammed matchbook you can cradle in your calloused hands to re-ignite passion. There’s no sorbet spoon you can shine until you give a shit.
Dogs have passion. The drunks at the end of the sticky bar, kneeling on old gum and stale beer looking for the buck they dropped, that buck that gets them one more swig of whiskey, they are the ones with passion.
This Sheila?
Do Sheila’s round tits make your tongue wag like a Doberman? Do her muffled grunts flood your gut like a starlit symphony?
I think you have a hard pearl of an answer nestled in your nutsack already, if you have an ounce of honesty.
Dear Charles,
My son Nate wants to be a poet, like you. He’s getting bullied at school due to his sensitive nature. How can I give him the verbal tools he needs to fight back?
Worried Malibu Mom
WMM:
Everyone’s a bully in the dirty dusk light down at Mayday Malone’s. Your tender son’s getting bullied? Tell him to bring a six-pack of tallboy Budweiser into that dank locker room, crack one open like he’s the god damn captain of cock, and take a swig in front of those future used car salesmen.
Dear Charles,
I’m 26-years-old and I still live with my parents. I’m trying to make it in marketing but so far I can only get internships. How can I carve out a more lucrative and fulfilling career?
Young, Unsure Marketer
YUM:
Careers are for women and sociopaths. The only honest way to make a living and still call yourself a man involves a blank piece of lined paper, a ballpoint pen, a tall glass of whisky, and the company of young whores. And a gun to shoot yourself if you ever think of entering the bourgeoisie nightmare factory they call a marketing office ever again. Don’t come here white-knuckled and knee-deep in cold sweat and cowardice and ask me about a career. Put a pen to paper and prove you’re worth the toilet sheets you use to wipe your taint.
Dear Charles,
I’ve been going to therapy, and in my most recent session I remembered a disturbing incident – my babysitter slapped me on the face as a child, on multiple occasions. She now watches my niece. Should I say something to my brother?
Confused About Nanny’s Naughty Slaps
CANNS:
Last night I let myself be slapped hard across the face by a woman in a dirty thong, so hard it left the outline of a drunk turkey. Is there another way to discipline?
If there’s any sense left in your likely pudgy head that hasn’t been slurped out by the most cunning Parasite in the human species — the therapist, that primal huckster — you’ll march over to your brother’s house and give that babysitter a firm handshake. She’s the only thing standing between your niece and a lifetime of slowly selling her soul to people who show her kindness, the most gruesome fate.
There’s a power in letting yourself be slapped hard by someone who knows better than you, and the sooner she learns it, the closer she’ll be to differentiating the infinitesimal pocket of worthwhile humans in the world from the rest of the white-panty cotton-brained fucks.