Showing posts with label Hunter S. Thompson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hunter S. Thompson. Show all posts

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

Monday, January 14, 2013

A day in the life of Hunter S. Thompson

Found by Pablo Fanque, National Affairs Ed.

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Thursday, December 01, 2011

Dr. Hunter S. Thompson on the 99%

"In a nation ruled by swine, all pigs are upwardly mobile—and the rest of us are f***ed until we can put our acts together: not necessarily to win, but mainly to keep from losing completely. We owe that to ourselves and our crippled self-image as something better than a nation of panicked sheep."  —Dr. Hunter S. Thompson in The Great Shark Hunt, 1979

Monday, August 29, 2011

Fear and Loathing in the desert

Hanny, whose blog "The Stone In The River" I follow recently excerpted this key early passage from one of my favorite Hunter S. Thompson books, Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas. . .

"My attorney saw the hitchhiker long before I did. 'Let's give this boy a lift,' he said, and before I could mount any argument he was stopped and this poor Okie kid was running up to the car with a big grin on his face, saying, 'Hot damn! I never rode in a convertible before!'

"'Is that right?' I said. 'Well, I guess you're about ready, eh?'

"The kid nodded eagerly as we roared off.

"'We're your friends,' said my attorney. 'We're not like the others.'

"O Christ, I thought, he's gone around the bend. 'No more of that talk,' I said sharply. 'Or I'll put the leeches on you.' He grinned, seeming to understand. Luckily, the noise in the car was so awful--between the wind and the radio and the tape machine--that the kid in the back seat couldn't hear a word we were saying. Or could he?

"How long can we maintain? I wondered. How long before one of us starts raving and jabbering at this boy? What will he think then? This same lonely desert was the last known home of the Manson family. Will he make that grim connection when my attorney starts screaming about bats and huge manta rays coming down on the car? If so--well, we'll just have to cut his head off and bury him somewhere. Because it goes without saying that we can't turn him loose. He'll report us at once to some kind of outback nazi law enforcement agency, and they'll run us down like dogs.

"Jesus! Did I say that? Or just think it? Was I talking? Did they hear me? I glanced over at my attorney, but he seemed oblivious--watching the road, driving our Great Red Shark along at a hundred and ten or so. There was no sound from the back seat."