I was expecting something witty and intelligent, what I got was violent, crude, misogynistic and highly unpleasant, in the beginning at least. After a few tens of pages it settles down into a more, well mostly, stable narrative; almost like Bukowski wanted to put off the reader from delving further into the book. Beneath the vulgarity, self-loathing and woman hating, there is a glimmer of something. Perhaps it is, as the reviews on the back cover suggest, about the futility of life. It could be just the authors’ alter-egos desire for self harm. Maybe it is a commentary on the depths to which a down-and-out (or if you prefer a poor unfortunate who has had some bad breaks) will sink in order to avoid the real world. Or perhaps it is just the rabid ranting of an old fart of a poet trying to shock. It didn’t light my world on fire.