A Homage to Hunter S. Thompson
He spent ink on paper like he blew through lines of cocaine in between shots of Jameson and packs of Dunhills. Prolific, vicious in his capture of human perversity and thorough in his description of a mind pushed past the edge of sanity; what a lifetime of drug abuse will do to a man. As destructive as a force of nature in the ferocity with which he expressed his abhorrence for square society and the powers that be.
Hunter personified the American Dream in the way he lived, despite his endless pursuit of it, and rode the crest of the high and beautiful wave of West Coast hippy radicalism and rebellion only for it to peak, break, and roll back as America gradually surrendered to decadence, excessive consumerism, and narrow-minded patriotism beneath its government’s continued persistence at playing God.
Hunter loved his superbikes and drugs and guns, namely his Vincent Black Shadow, high-powered blotter Acid and Smith Wesson Model 27 the latter with which he would occasionally engage in gunfights with his neighbor.
Despite his death on the 20th of February 2005, this author likes to believe he is still out there, gunning his 650 Lightning across the Bay Bridge at a hundred miles an hour wearing L.L Bean cargo shorts and a Butte Shepherds jacket, booming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond with a head full of acid at 3 in the morning, on his way to score some mescaline from the hippies who camp out in Buena Vista park in Haight-Ashbury.
He lived life to the fullest, accomplished all he set out to and then some, had a loving family that understood his character and died by his own hand, all according to his plan of what he conceived to be happiness. It is this author’s personal belief that it was the best fitting end for him rather than grow old and pathetic or die from accidental overdose as he often could have.
Hunter S. Thompson killed himself, because he’s the only one who deserved to kill Hunter S. Thompson and end a life of Fear and Loathing, a life of destruction and creation, a life of insanity and violence, a life of depravity and perversity, a life well lived for a madman like him.
A Homage to Hunter S. Thompson
He spent ink on paper like he blew through lines of cocaine in between shots of Jameson and packs of Dunhills. Prolific, vicious in his capture of human perversity and thorough in his description of a mind pushed past the edge of sanity; what a lifetime of drug abuse will do to a man. As destructive as a force of nature in the ferocity with which he expressed his abhorrence for square society and the powers that be.
Hunter personified the American Dream in the way he lived, despite his endless pursuit of it, and rode the crest of the high and beautiful wave of West Coast hippy radicalism and rebellion only for it to peak, break, and roll back as America gradually surrendered to decadence, excessive consumerism, and narrow-minded patriotism beneath its government’s continued persistence at playing God.
Hunter loved his superbikes and drugs and guns, namely his Vincent Black Shadow, high-powered blotter Acid and Smith Wesson Model 27 the latter with which he would occasionally engage in gunfights with his neighbor.
Despite his death on the 20th of February 2005, this author likes to believe he is still out there, gunning his 650 Lightning across the Bay Bridge at a hundred miles an hour wearing L.L Bean cargo shorts and a Butte Shepherds jacket, booming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond with a head full of acid at 3 in the morning, on his way to score some mescaline from the hippies who camp out in Buena Vista park in Haight-Ashbury.
He lived life to the fullest, accomplished all he set out to and then some, had a loving family that understood his character and died by his own hand, all according to his plan of what he conceived to be happiness. It is this author’s personal belief that it was the best fitting end for him rather than grow old and pathetic or die from accidental overdose as he often could have.
Hunter S. Thompson killed himself, because he’s the only one who deserved to kill Hunter S. Thompson and end a life of Fear and Loathing, a life of destruction and creation, a life of insanity and violence, a life of depravity and perversity, a life well lived for a madman like him.
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