Hunter S. Thompson
~ Hunter S. Thompson on arriving in Gotham City
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005) was an American Hero—a true American Hero—not the kind of weasely hero the flashy periodicals try to sell you along with some new pharmaceutical that'll make your dick harder than Chinese algebra, no, not like the type they teach pimply-faced schoolkids to adore because they kept America from being a Communist Russian Resort, no, more like the type that should have his ever-lovin' mug carved on Mount Rushmore, a true American that loved his country and loved its guns. Big guns, little guns, guns that shoot the shit out of anything that moves or gets in the way, those kind of guns for that kind of hero.
Yes, kids, this does mean your guidance counselor failed to explore all feasible career options for you. You could have been a goddamned American Hero. Instead, his sad legacy is simply of a man whose writing is to be forever pathetically imitated by students of American creative writing and literature. (Like all the contributors to this article - this piece needs to rewritten from the ground up by the unsmitten - then it might have some content worth reading. As it stands it's a public circle jerk.)
- 1 Vomit in the morning
- 2 Better living through chemistry
- 3 Early Years
- 4 Hell's Angels
- 5 Deep-seated-not-so-borderline homosexual obsession with Nixon
- 6 Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
- 7 Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail
- 8 Further borderline homosexual obsessions with other political leaders
- 9 Suicide
- 10 See also
Vomit in the morning
There is only one thing a true hero knows how to do, and that involves undoing part or all of what you have already done. You rise, you run, you bow before the receptacle of life that allows you to spew all the incredible thoughts and savaged deeds and miraculous plans you had the night before into it. You howl with delight as you perform the puke-infested ritual—certain phonetic utterances that resemble the name of some God: a God no doubt with a sick sense of humor as you just spent what would feed some poor little bastard in Mexico for a week on a whore and a half gallon of scotch. But, damn, it feels good! You feel like the fucking hero you are, not like some lame spoiled Connecticut born George W. Bush-oil-sucking-sap that can't handle the surging pressure and has to rebuke the precious distilled way of life. How could one become forced to sustain himself on food and water? No, a true hero forsakes such madness. And then he makes his way to the bar.
Better living through chemistry
If God had not intended us to be blithering idiots he wouldn't have given us pharmacology. Who else but God could have invented a perfect system of extraordinary colors and shapes to help you remember what you've taken without having to read or even look at the bottle? The pink round ones make you feel sick. The pink oval ones make you feel sicker. The pink square ones are the ones you take after you've taken too many of the pink oval ones and not enough of the pink round ones. Genius. Pure fucking genius. Only some superintelligent pharmacist from another dimension would have the cojones to produce such an immaculate device. And then there are the blue ones. Feel free to take any of the blue ones you like. Except that one - that one's mine. Get your fucking hands off of it. Now, or I'll shoot. I'm not kidding. Ah, shooting - if you've never done it, how can I explain it? You just point at something and send it straight to hell - blow the fucking smithereens out of it and then point at it again and blow the fucking smithereens out of whatever's left of it. Just point and shoot. Point and shoot. Goddamned omnipotence in your very fucking hands. That's American. That's as American as Teddy Roosevelt's testicles on the charge up San Juan Hill. Red, white and blue.
Oh, blue. That's where I was. And white, try the white. There is such a variety of experience in the white ones you could write volumes on it. But, then some fricken journalistic critic would try to tell you it's not funny and you ought to be writing something about sticking kittens up your ass and that's when I call old Mr. Smith N.W. and say, "You talkin' to me? You talkin' to me? Motherfuckeryoutalkintome?" Point and shoot - just point and shoot. I keep the green ones over there, right next to the red and the brown ones. GODINCHRIST!! DID YOU SEE THAT?! We'd better lay low until that shit passes...
The next morning, he woke up to find a 60-year-old woman passed out in the bed of his motel room. He thought she was dead, barely remembering their romp the night before, so he ran around furiously trying to find a garbage bag. While looking, he found a half-drank bottle of scotch, good scotch, so he knew she must have bought it, and poured some into a glass and cracked a couple ice cubes into it, and forgot entirely what the point was.
The severely hungover woman was found by motel workers, who rushed her to the county's general hospital. It was there 9 months later the vile doctors cut her open with a rusty knife and pulled out a baby she would name Hunter.
Thompson excelled in school. By fifth grade, he was drooling at an undergraduate-level proficiency. By eighth grade, he was expelled for spending an entire grading period working the word "savaged" into every sentence he wrote in a savaged English class. After being savaged emotionally by being expelled, he drifted westward across the savaged Rockies, until at last he fell down, exhausted from the savaged walk and began to experiment with savaged drug use. After a savaged hour of trying to make his savaged face move, he decided he was dead, and began to dream of Mickey Mouse leading a savaged SS Girl Scout troop on a march into the savaged White House.
After his dishonorable discharge from middle school, Thompson soon realized his published book painted the Angels in a bad light, labeling them as "dirty criminals" instead of the misunderstood miscreant Christian fundamentalists they truly were, leading them to steal motorcycles and start a Soviet-worshipping-leather-clad organized crime syndicate.
Deep-seated-not-so-borderline homosexual obsession with Nixon
In 1968, Thompson had the opportunity to help orchestrate the liberal propaganda campaign against Republican presidential candidate Richard Nixon. Thompson decided Nixon was a goddamned decrepit and dangerous person after realizing that Nixon's tough position on crime probably meant fewer drugs to consume. Thompson went apeshit when a slightly sober Bob Dylan, appearing as Christ waving a swastika flag, explained that short supply would also mean higher prices.
"Goddamit, Bob. I'm going to ruin that man," Thompson told Dylan.
Thompson started his savage campaign against Nixon by dropping acid and watching westerns where the fucking savage red Indians massacre white women and children. Eventually, Thompson became afraid that a lizard was sitting behind his couch waiting for him to touch his bottle of beer. Paralyzed with fear, Thompson did not move until February 1969, by which time Nixon had already been elected president.
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
In 1970, Thompson was contracted to cover a unicycle race outside Las Vegas. Being a sensible sort, the always logical Dr. Thompson did what any sportswriter on assignment would do: he gathered his lawyer, Oscar Acosta, and two suitcases full of over-the-counter speed and toiletry samples. After consuming all of the alcohol-containing toiletry products, the two men conducted a savage burn on the hotel, ruining the entire place and not paying the bill.
No one is really solid on who won the race.
Thompson sat down to tell all the events. He decided to frame the story as a mentally retarded version of the book On the Road with a working title called On the Drugs. He eventually refashioned it around a book title from Søren Kierkegaard, aka Raoul Duke, a Danish writer who wrote a book titled Fear and Trembling , a study of Christian existentialism.
This novel turned out to be one of the most influential novels ever, more so than the bible and/or Dr. Phils memoires of how he survived a night in San Francisco running from crazed liberals, fresh from a saveged drug-addled homosexual rave. The novel also served as the inspiration for a reclusive group of old men to start their own religion- these men are constantly high on Adrenochrome- this constant state of intoxication has led to these men being known only as the "Chromerz".
It was during this time that Thompson invented Ethernet as an alternative form of Ether, for going on Ethernet Binges.
Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail
In 1972 it dawned upon Thompson that Nixon was still president. By 1972, the Democratic Party was so thoroughly beaten back it ran George McGovern, a known member of the Communist Party of the United States of America who came to fame by performing illegal back-alley abortions and training grade school kids to manufacture drugs in their parent's basements. McGovern's veep choice flipped out when he was caught with the blood-covered body of a ten-year old boy after a night of drinking ouzo with Thompson. This proved detrimental to the candidate's character.
It was during this time Thompson believes he shot Jack Kennedy. Conspiracy buffs generally excuse the disjointed timeline by saying that Thompson probably killed Kennedy in an alternate reality while fleeing from lizards during a drug-induced state.
Needless of being said, Nixon brutally routed the Democrats. McGovern carried one state, his home of South Dakota, although records later proved this was a clerical error because someone forgot to carry a one.
Further borderline homosexual obsessions with other political leaders
Thompson disappeared for most of the 1980s after cloning himself in Doonesbury in the 1970s, although rumors abound that he briefly appeared on a sitcom with puppets lampooning President Ronald Reagan.
Thompson eventually regained his erection in 1992, when his loyalties were split between the Degenerate Party candidate Bill Clinton and a mentally ill person named Ross Perot who attacked Larry King with a chart while explaining his candidacy. Thompson nearly died twice during the campaign as his heart failed repeatedly while trying to take in the possibility of Americans fighting to elect either a degenerate or a fucking paranoid wacko.
In 2000, America decided to forgo the degenerate president and elected a speed freak named George W. Bush, (Ronald Reagan's aborted fetus). Thompson could not stand Bush. Bush was the same type of crumbling, idiotic, degenerate freak savaged by drug use that Thompson was.
This angered Thompson, who had once failed to be elected sheriff of some podunk town in Colorado to such a degree that he finally was elevated to the rank of Bat Fuck Insane. Thompson made it his goal to ruin George Bush for being everything Thompson never could be.
Bush successfully started multiple wars, did enormous quantities of drugs, destroyed his enemies and pretty much everything Thompson would have done had he been elected president.
When Bush was re-elected, Thompson became distraught, realizing that he had bought into the media hype and actually believed that John "Swiftboat" Kerry was the better candidate. He knew he needed to be put down and committed suicide. Johnny Depp snorted his remains and punched a horse during the funeral.
In recent years it has been discovered that Dr. Thompson's suicide was a hoax, thought up after Hunter ate no less than 100 hits of LSD, 75 pellets of mescaline and at least half a pound of heroin.. Hunter now lives in Chingchongchichin, Cambodia where he lives in a grass hut and consumes at least $49,345,345 in marijuana, guns, and hand lotion daily. He is rumored to make frequent prank phone calls to the White House about gin and extract from pig organs, asks for Obama and then laughs maniacally.