Peanuts por Charles Bukowski
Imagine se o velho safado tivesse a incumbência de criar roteiros para as tirinhas mundialmente famosas de Charles Schultz, Peanuts? Será que o menino Charlie Branaski teria as mesmas aflições? Ou será que ele seria um cara que vive com problemas com jogo, mulheres e álcool? Na continuação você tem a chance de ver como seria esse mashup.
Lucy
It began as a mistake.
The first time that Charles Branaski met Lucy Van Pelt, she was holding a football. He didn’t care for the game, baseball was his thing. Still, she held out that old football.
“Just kick the fucking thing,” she said.
“Listen, babe. You just hold that thing steady and I’ll kick the shit out of it.”
She threw her head back and laughed. She laughed long and hard and propped up the football. Charlie took a running start and he reared back his leg and kicked as hard as he could. Lucy was laughing too hard to hold the ball steady and it slipped out of her hand. Charlie missed the ball and flew straight up in the air and landed flat on his back.
“AUUUGGGGHHH,” he said.
“You should have seen your face, Charlie Branaski,” she said. Then she laughed twice as hard.
“Listen, you crazy bitch. I think I broke my ass. Jesus Christ!”
She helped him up. “Look, I’m sorry about that. You try it again and I’ll hold it real steady this time.”
“O.K., Lucy. I’ll do it on more time, but that’s it. You hold it this time, got it?”
“I promise,” she said.
He dusted himself off. God o mighty, his ass ached! He walked a little ways away and Lucy set up the old football again. He took a deep breath and a running start. He could see she was holding it tight. He was really going to kick the shit out of that old football! He threw his leg forward with all his might and Lucy yanked the football away just as he kicked at it. He landed on his ass again.
“AUUUGGGGHHH,” he said again.
Lucy laughed and laughed and left with the football. Charlie laid there and groaned. Good grief, he thought. What a cunt.
sopwith camel
my dog is at it
again
I hear my neighbors
slam their windows
up
“shut that fucking dog up,”
they yell
every night it’s the
same
“shut that fucking dog up.”
it’s not his fault that he wants to dance
on top of a
piano
it’s not his fault that he pretends his doghouse
is a sopwith
camel
it’s not his fault that he spends many nights
pounding mad
on the typer
“shut that fucking dog up,”
they holler
it’s not his fault
he’s just a dog
Schroeder
Schroeder played the piano and all of the girls loved him. They would sit there for hours and watch him play. Schroeder had a big old cock, too, and the girls loved that just as well. The times Schroeder wasn’t playing one instrument, he was playing the other. He would play the piano all day and screw all night and he got maybe an hour or two of sleep. He came into the bar one afternoon and took a seat next to Charlie.
“You’re looking sort of beat there, baby,” Charlie said.
“You don’t know the half of it,” said Schroeder. “It’s these girls. They’ll kill me one of these days. They just won’t quit, Branaski! Every time I think I might get some sleep, here comes another one, pounding at my door. It’s enough to drive me mad.”
“I bet Beethoven never had these problems.”
“Beethoven probably had the clap,” said Schroeder.
They sat and drank their beers and talked about women.
“There’s Lucy and Violet. They’re some real pieces of work, Branaski. They don’t get jealous of each other and sometimes one will come over while I’ve still got the other one in the sack! It’s not like Frieda. I think that Frieda would kill me if she ever found another woman over. It’s nothing but trouble, all the time. More trouble than it’s worth, I can tell you that much.”
And Charlie said, “Maybe you should just give it up.”
Schroder laughed and clapped Charlie on the back.
“I could never give up women for the same reason I could never give up the piano, Charlie Branaski: I’m just too damn good.”
answers that never arrive
I sit by the window and listen to the rain
come down
and I think about why we
do these things
we sit with our elbows on these
brick walls,
talking
bickering
lamenting the passing of our youth,
and what it means to be
young.
we write letters to Santa Claus
tell him about how
we’ve been good
we should get presents
waiting for answers that never arrive.
we spend our days and nights
drinking
screwing
screaming our heads off
and all it ever really does
is make my stomach
hurt
Snoopy
The Daisy Hill Puppy Farm was way up in the Hollywood Hills. When Charlie Branaski’s parents drove them all in their beat-up sedan it took about two hours to get there. Charlie jumped out of the car and ran right up to where all the pups were playing. He saw a white beagle playing the mouth-harp. The pup had a black spot on one side and black ears, a little pot belly and a big muzzle. Charlie pointed out the cur with one chubby finger and that was that. . .“This God damned dog.”
Charles Branaski worked the crank of the cheap metal can opener and watched the can of dog food slowly rotate. He cut his finger on the lid, just like he always did, and cursed and sucked on it as he dumped the slop into the dog’s bowl.
He carried the bowl outside and thumped it down outside the doghouse. Snoopy was, as usual, sleeping up on the roof, not a care in the world. He smelled the food and sat up and yawned, hopped down and started eating.
“You’re a real piece of work,” said Charlie. “You stupid dog, you get invited out every night, stay out till all hours, come home when you please. It’s enough to drive me crazy. You don’t care a lick about me, cooped up in my shack drinking alone all night.”
The dog finished his supper and disappeared into the doghouse. A minute later, he walked out wearing a leather jacket and dark glasses and padded right past Branaski and out the gate.
“You ungrateful son of a bitch. I oughta let you starve.”
Peppermint Patty
“Hey, Chuck! Long time no see!”Patty barged her way into the apartment. Charlie shut the door behind her and they sat down on a couple of chairs in the living room.
“Got anything to drink? I’m dying of thirst here, Chuck.”
“I’ve got whiskey.”
“Sure, Chuck. Whatever you’re drinking.”
Charlie poured a couple of tall drinks of whiskey. Patty knocked hers back in a single, prolonged swallow. “Jesus, but that hits the spot! You got any beer, Chuck? Nothing like a good cold beer. God o mighty, I’m thirsty!”
Charlie had some beer in the icebox. Patty pulled one out and started sucking at it. They went ahead and drank, it was as good a night as any. She was a real piece of work, all right. Everyone said she made it with the ladies, but Charlie didn’t care. She had this one dyke piece down at the factory named Marcie. Marcie and Charlie didn’t get along okay because Patty was sweet on Charlie as well.
Pretty soon Patty was drunk, and she was letting Charlie know she wanted it. “Look here, Chuck, I know you want to give me that thing.”
“Listen, Patty. It’s getting pretty late. I’ve got too much work to do.”
“Work! Work! You’re real dull, Chuck! Let’s screw!”
“Sorry, babe, but tonight’s not the best. Listen, I’m sick. I think you’d better go.”
Charlie stood up and went to the door and opened it.
“You’re an asshole, Chuck,” she said. “You’re too wishy-washy. Maybe I’ll go get a drink with that funny-looking kid with the big nose. That would make you jealous, wouldn’t it?”
She grabbed her purse and stormed out.
Charlie closed the door and went back to cutting up newspapers. Jesus, he thought. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.
Via boingboing.
