. . . and it was then that I realized he was my equal.
He knew it and I knew it, yet there I was, drunk, drinking whiskey and eating bits of salami and cheese and throwing him the occasional morsel like I was Henry the 8th or some shit when really I was just another drunken asshole with a dog who loves him and looks up at you thinking, "Really? Again?"
George Carlin was right, it's their eyebrows that get you.
(a stream of consciousness while reading 'Post Office' by Bukowski)
Ken Owen Van Niddy Press August 2016