PHST
ure writer is gone-zo

worked for me.

a person, but never turn your
when it’s waving a razor-sharp

bear under control. It’s not bad
igh—it’s good for them.

wild, drink whiskey, and drive
nothing in mind except falling
ested.

p police. The cops are not your
py thing.

  
  
  
   
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
  

er who considers your whole Life-
is not a happy prospect.

nting the most hateful kind of
ike fucking, which is only fun
dont do much gigeling.

el and shallow money trench,
ere thieves and pimps run free,
s. There’ also a negative side.

the weird turn pro.

whole world would be doing on
xis had won the war.

tvo-hundred million used car
ey we need to buy guns and no

 

 

qualms about killing anybody else in the world who tries
to make us uncomfortable.

[Americans] have become a Nazi monster in the eyes of
the whole world—bullies and bastards who would rather
kill than live peacefully. We are whores for power and oil
with hate and fear in our hearts.

The 2004 presidential election will be a matter of life or
death for the whole nation. We are sick today, and we will
be even sicker tomorrow if this wretched half-bright swine
of a president gets re-elected in November.

To say that this goofy child president [Bush] is looking
more and more like Richard Nixon in the summer of
1974 would be a flagrant insult to Nixon.

For every moment of triumph, for every instance of beau-
ty, many souls must be trampled.

Some may never live, but the crazy never die.

I would feel real trapped in this life if I didn't know I

could commit suicide at any time.

There he goes. One of God's own prototypes, Some kind
of high-powered mutant never even considered for mass
production. Too weird to live, and too rare twrdie.
$:

Sadly enough, the burial will have to be ‘accomplished
without the usual fanfare—trumpets, sobbing lovers, and
that sort of thing—and the ceremony will be brief and
without melodrama of any description. It will nonetheless

be final—and wild.

 

March 2/2005

a

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Good Doctor is “Out”

Hunter $. Thompson puts money, and
gun, where his mouth was

CF Miley, Opinions Editor

unter S. Thompson, writer, mad-

man, dreamer, and_ riverboat

gambler, died after shooting him-

self in the head in the evening

hours of February 20, 2005. There
are many rumours floating about the inter-
net right now as to why the author decided
to check out. And one that is mysteriously
not (yet).

Currently leading the pack is the idea
that Thompson wanted nothing to do with
old age and the inevitable problems it
brings. It’s a decent theory. Anyone even
remotely familiar with HST’s barbed wit
and cutting insight could see this being the
case. I mean, forgetting my friends and
family, shitting the bed, eating mush, driv-
ing like you’re stuck in reverse in the dead

  

of night with no working lights, it doesn’t
sound like much fun to me either, But sui-
cide is final, and I think there may well have
been another reason that Hunter did the
deed.

Did anyone else happen to notice the
date that he decided to leave this world? It
was February 20, the eve of yet another
“President’s Day” in the US. Thompson
was an insightful and brutal critic of US
politics—especially presidential politics,
with special attention given to crooks
named Nixon and idiots named Bush. I’m
contending that the timing of his death was
chosen as a last “Fuck you” to the president
he so hated.

According to wikipedia.org, “After
Nixon’s death in 1994, Thompson famous-
ly described him in Ro/ling Stone as a man
who “could shake your hand and stab you
in the back at the same time” and said “his
casket [should] have been launched into
one of those open-sewage canals that
empty into the ocean just south of Los
Angeles. He was a swine of a man and a
jabbering dupe of a president. Nixon was
so crooked that he needed servants to help
him screw his pants on every morning.
Even his funeral was illegal. He was queer
in the deepest way. His body should have
been burned in a trash bin.” Thompson
hated Nixon with a religious zeal.

Skipping ahead ten years to 2004, HST
wrote, “To say that this goofy child presi-
dent [Bush] is looking more and more like
Richard Nixon in the summer of 1974
would be a flagrant insult to Nixon.” The
depth of his disgust with Dubya was almost
infinite.

I’m thinking, among what I’m sure were
many layered and complicated reasons for
killing himself, Hunter S. Thompson just

couldn’t bear to see another President’s Day
during the reign of King Peon II,
Supporter of Life (so long as it hasn’t yet
been born). He put his money, and unfor-
tunately one of his many guns, where his
mouth was.

 

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