What was Charles thinking?

So, I trekked out to the Arizona desert to hang with Charles Bukowski. Surprise! He whipped up a feast of haggis and octopus. Yup, you read that right.

He bragged that the Amish built his house. Naturally, I asked why his walls were as bare as a monk's fridge. He gave me the silent treatment and then booted me out.

Before I left, he suggested I drop by his neighbor Steve Martin's place. Apparently, Steve was busy penning a horror novel to settle some old score with Stanley Kubrick. Drama, much?

Steve started venting about his family invading his desert hideout with their RVs, sticking around like a bad cold.

I gently suggested he set some boundaries, and the next thing I know, he's sobbing like a soap opera star.

So, I did the only sensible thing: commandeered an RV from one of his lingering relatives and made my great escape.

Good Morning!