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A Gonzo Eulogy for Hunter S. Thompson

24.09.09

Thirty-three years after Orion S. Thompson took us on a trip to Las Vegas for the frightful funeral of the American Dream, he placed a well-aimed Colt .45 bullet in his perceptiveness, saying farewell in a typically loud attitude. Four years later, the cracks in the national realistic are big enough for even the most deluded person to see, and it seems as though they’re spreading.

So. An whack on my dead hero and his dead American delusion. How depressing. Must I make my second trip to the hard stuff store in eighteen hours? No—Thompson, the charmer-song of your Too-Much-Goddamn-Fun personality cult would set off me devastated on the rocks once again, you rat bastard, you perverted swine. I request I had your gift for adjectives so my insults would ring as sweetly devoted as yours did. I’ve been reading his books, listening to this ghost give utterance for weeks, counting down the years, the months, the weeks until the bullet’s in your head, the last celebrated, twisted trip you took us on. But the deadline looms, and I cudgel one's brains if, in order to do this thing any justice at all, I’ll shortage to get some Wild Turkey.

Source: PopMatters