It’s not the Chivas or the huge amounts of cocaine that Hunter S. Thompson did each day that gets me. I’m still stunned that he ate as much as he did and yet still lived to be 67.
I mean, FETTUCINE ALFREDO IN A HOT TUB.
If the right people had been in charge of Nixon’s funeral, his casket would 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.
These are harsh words for a man only recently canonized by President Clinton and my old friend George McGovern — but I have written worse things about Nixon, many times, and the record will show that I kicked him repeatedly long before he went down. I beat him like a mad dog with mange every time I got a chance, and I am proud of it. He was scum.
Let there be no mistake in the history books about that. Richard Nixon was an evil man — evil in a way that only those who believe in the physical reality of the Devil can understand it. He was utterly without ethics or morals or any bedrock sense of decency. Nobody trusted him — except maybe the Stalinist Chinese, and honest historians will remember him mainly as a rat who kept scrambling to get back on the ship.
Today would have been Richard M. Nixon’s 100th birthday, and today, one of the two major political parties in America is made in his bent image, rotten to the core and uninterested in that which it is elected to do: govern.
Hunter S. Thompson, from a cover letter written to the editor of the Vancouver Sun. The number of fucks HST appears to have given about his professional life, outside of the goals he set for himself, is zero.
(via Boing Boing)
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A vagabond who's made his home in the Pacific Northwest.×