Happy Birthday Hunter S. ThompsonJuly 18, 2009 at 9:21 am | Posted in blogging | 14 Comments
Tags: don't ask me who F. is anymore, Hunter S Thompson
Hunter was a writer worth loving for many reasons. He understood that journalistic objectivity was a fraud, that everything is propoganda. And he loved whiskey and guns.
Very few writers admit to liking guns these days. William S. Burroughs also loved guns. Arthur Rimbaud himself became a gunrunner in Africa. If you know any other gun-loving writers, let me know in the comment box.
There’s lots of other things I could rewrite about Hunter S Thompson to pretend I’m cleverer than you but you can google him if you’re interested. Let’s just say that when it came to self-mythologising, there weren’t many better. (Oh and if you’re a friend of mine and occasionally tire of my bombardment by email, did you know Hunter wrote over 20,000 letters to friends?)
So crack open that bottle, pop a few little purple pills, load up that big double barrelled shottie and don’t forget your sunglasses. Let’s hear it for the late great, I want my body blown out of a huge fucking cannon when I die too, Hunter S Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005) Happy Birthday, Duke!
“It never got wierd enough for me.” Hunter S. Thompson.