Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

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Jaeger
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Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

Post by Jaeger » Sun Feb 20, 2011 10:07 am

Posting this up on the anniversary of HST shuffling off his mortal coil. We miss ya, Dr. Gonzo... but if you can see what's going on nowadays I'm sure you're torn between laughing and puking.

Song of the Sausage Creature
by Hunter S. Thompson


There are some things nobody needs in this world, and a bright-red, hunch-back, warp-speed 900cc cafe racer is one of them - but I want one anyway, and on some days I actually believe I need one. That is why they are dangerous.

Everybody has fast motorcycles these days. Some people go 150 miles an hour on two-lane blacktop roads, but not often. There are too many oncoming trucks and too many radar cops and too many stupid animals in the way. You have to be a little crazy to ride these super-torque high-speed crotch rockets anywhere except a racetrack - and even there, they will scare the whimpering shit out of you... There is, after all, not a pig's eye worth of difference between going head-on into a Peterbilt or sideways into the bleachers. On some days you get what you want, and on others, you get what you need.

When Cycle World called me to ask if I would road-test the new Harley Road King, I got uppity and said I'd rather have a Ducati superbike. It seemed like a chic decision at the time, and my friends on the superbike circuit got very excited. "Hot damn," they said. "We will take it to the track and blow the bastards away."

"Balls," I said. "Never mind the track. The track is for punks. We are Road People. We are Cafe Racers."

The Cafe Racer is a different breed, and we have our own situations. Pure speed in sixth gear on a 5000-foot straightaway is one thing, but pure speed in third gear on a gravel-strewn downhill ess-turn is quite another.

But we like it. A thoroughbred Cafe Racer will ride all night through a fog storm in freeway traffic to put himself into what somebody told him was the ugliest and tightest decreasing-radius turn since Genghis Khan invented the corkscrew.

Cafe Racing is mainly a matter of taste. It is an atavistic mentality, a peculiar mix of low style, high speed, pure dumbness, and overweening commitment to the Cafe Life and all its dangerous pleasures... I am a Cafe Racer myself, on some days - and it is one of my finest addictions.

I am not without scars on my brain and my body, but I can live with them. I still feel a shudder in my spine every time I see a picture of a Vincent Black Shadow, or when I walk into a public restroom and hear crippled men whispering about the terrifying Kawasaki Triple... I have visions of compound femur-fractures and large black men in white hospital suits holding me down on a gurney while a nurse called "Bess" sews the flaps of my scalp together with a stitching drill.

Ho, ho. Thank God for these flashbacks. The brain is such a wonderful instrument (until God sinks his teeth into it). Some people hear Tiny Tim singing when they go under, and some others hear the song of the Sausage Creature.

When the Ducati turned up in my driveway, nobody knew what to do with it. I was in New York, covering a polo tournament, and people had threatened my life. My lawyer said I should give myself up and enroll in the Federal Witness Protection Program. Other people said it had something to do with the polo crowd.

The motorcycle business was the last straw. It had to be the work of my enemies, or people who wanted to hurt me. It was the vilest kind of bait, and they knew I would go for it.

Of course. You want to cripple the bastard? Send him a 130-mph cafe-racer. And include some license plates, he'll think it's a streetbike. He's queer for anything fast.

Which is true. I have been a connoisseur of fast motorcycles all my life. I bought a brand-new 650 BSA Lightning when it was billed as "the fastest motorcycle ever tested by Hot Rod magazine." I have ridden a 500-pound Vincent through traffic on the Ventura Freeway with burning oil on my legs and run the Kawa 750 Triple through Beverly Hills at night with a head full of acid... I have ridden with Sonny Barger and smoked weed in biker bars with Jack Nicholson, Grace Slick, Ron Zigler and my infamous old friend, Ken Kesey, a legendary Cafe Racer.

Some people will tell you that slow is good - and it may be, on some days - but I am here to tell you that fast is better. I've always believed this, in spite of the trouble it's caused me. Being shot out of a cannon will always be better than being squeezed out of a tube. That is why God made fast motorcycles, Bubba....

So when I got back from New York and found a fiery red rocket-style bike in my garage, I realized I was back in the road-testing business.

The brand-new Ducati 900 Campione del Mundo Desmodue Supersport double-barreled magnum Cafe Racer filled me with feelings of lust every time I looked at it. Others felt the same way. My garage quickly became a magnet for drooling superbike groupies. They quarreled and bitched at each other about who would be the first to help me evaluate my new toy... And I did, of course, need a certain spectrum of opinions, besides my own, to properly judge this motorcycle. The Woody Creek Perverse Environmental Testing Facility is a long way from Daytona or even top-fuel challenge-sprints on the Pacific Coast Highway, where teams of big-bore Kawasakis and Yamahas are said to race head-on against each other in death-defying games of "chicken" at 100 miles an hour....

No. Not everybody who buys a high-dollar torque-brute yearns to go out in a ball of fire on a public street in L.A. Some of us are decent people who want to stay out of the emergency room, but still blast through neo-gridlock traffic in residential districts whenever we feel like it... For that we need Fine Machinery.

Which we had - no doubt about that. The Ducati people in New Jersey had opted, for some reasons of their own, to send me the 900ss-sp for testing - rather than their 916 crazy-fast, state-of-the-art superbike track-racer. It was far too fast, they said - and prohibitively expensive - to farm out for testing to a gang of half-mad Colorado cowboys who think they're world-class Cafe Racers.

The Ducati 900 is a finely engineered machine. My neighbors called it beautiful and admired its racing lines. The nasty little bugger looked like it was going 90 miles an hour when it was standing still in my garage.

Taking it on the road, though, was a genuinely terrifying experience. I had no sense of speed until I was going 90 and coming up fast on a bunch of pickup trucks going into a wet curve along the river. I went for both brakes, but only the front one worked, and I almost went end over end. I was out of control staring at the tailpipe of a U.S. Mail truck, still stabbing frantically at my rear brake pedal, which I just couldn't find... I am too tall for these new-age roadracers; they are not built for any rider taller than five-nine, and the rearset brake pedal was not where I thought it would be. Mid-size Italian pimps who like to race from one cafe to another on the boulevards of Rome in a flat-line prone position might like this, but I do not.

I was hunched over the tank like a person diving into a pool that got emptied yesterday. Whacko! Bashed on the concrete bottom, flesh ripped off, a Sausage Creature with no teeth, fucked-up for the rest of its life.

We all love Torque, and some of us have taken it straight over the high side from time to time - and there is always Pain in that... But there is also Fun, the deadly element, and Fun is what you get when you screw this monster on. BOOM! Instant take-off, no screeching or squawking around like a fool with your teeth clamping down on our tongue and your mind completely empty of everything but fear.

No. This bugger digs right in and shoots you straight down the pipe, for good or ill.

On my first take-off, I hit second gear and went through the speed limit on a two-lane blacktop highway full of ranch traffic. By the time I went up to third, I was going 75 and the tach was barely above 4000 rpm....

And that's when it got its second wind. From 4000 to 6000 in third will take you from 75 mph to 95 in two seconds - and after that, Bubba, you still have fourth, fifth, and sixth. Ho, ho.

I never got to sixth gear, and I didn't get deep into fifth. This is a shameful admission for a full-bore Cafe Racer, but let me tell you something, old sport: This motorcycle is simply too goddamn fast to ride at speed in any kind of normal road traffic unless you're ready to go straight down the centerline with your nuts on fire and a silent scream in your throat.

When aimed in the right direction at high speed, though, it has unnatural capabilities. This I unwittingly discovered as I made my approach to a sharp turn across some railroad tracks, saw that I was going way too fast and that my only chance was to veer right and screw it on totally, in a desperate attempt to leapfrog the curve by going airborne.

It was a bold and reckless move, but it was necessary. And it worked: I felt like Evel Knievel as I soared across the tracks with the rain in my eyes and my jaws clamped together in fear. I tried to spit down on the tracks as I passed them, but my mouth was too dry... I landed hard on the edge of the road and lost my grip for a moment as the Ducati began fishtailing crazily into oncoming traffic. For two or three seconds I came face to face with the Sausage Creature....

But somehow the brute straightened out. I passed a schoolbus on the right and got the bike under control long enough to gear down and pull off into an abandoned gravel driveway where I stopped and turned off the engine. My hands had seized up like claws and the rest of my body was numb. I felt nauseous and I cried for my mama, but nobody heard, then I went into a trance for 30 or 40 seconds until I was finally able to light a cigarette and calm down enough to ride home. I was too hysterical to shift gears, so I went the whole way in first at 40 miles an hour.

Whoops! What am I saying? Tall stories, ho, ho... We are motorcycle people; we walk tall and we laugh at whatever's funny. We shit on the chests of the Weird....

But when we ride very fast motorcycles, we ride with immaculate sanity. We might abuse a substance here and there, but only when it's right. The final measure of any rider's skill is the inverse ratio of his preferred Traveling Speed to the number of bad scars on his body. It is that simple: If you ride fast and crash, you are a bad rider. And if you are a bad rider, you should not ride motorcycles.

The emergence of the superbike has heightened this equation drastically. Motorcycle technology has made such a great leap forward. Take the Ducati. You want optimum cruising speed on this bugger? Try 90mph in fifth at 5500 rpm - and just then, you see a bull moose in the middle of the road. WHACKO. Meet the Sausage Creature.

Or maybe not: The Ducati 900 is so finely engineered and balanced and torqued that you *can* do 90 mph in fifth through a 35-mph zone and get away with it. The bike is not just fast - it is *extremely* quick and responsive, and it *will* do amazing things... It is like riding a Vincent Black Shadow, which would outrun an F-86 jet fighter on the take-off runway, but at the end, the F-86 would go airborne and the Vincent would not, and there was no point in trying to turn it. WHAMO! The Sausage Creature strikes again.

There is a fundamental difference, however, between the old Vincents and the new breed of superbikes. If you rode the Black Shadow at top speed for any length of time, you would almost certainly die. That is why there are not many life members of the Vincent Black Shadow Society. The Vincent was like a bullet that went straight; the Ducati is like the magic bullet in Dallas that went sideways and hit JFK and the Governor of Texas at the same time.

It was impossible. But so was my terrifying sideways leap across the railroad tracks on the 900sp. The bike did it easily with the grace of a fleeing tomcat. The landing was so easy I remember thinking, goddamnit, if I had screwed it on a little more I could have gone a lot farther.

Maybe this is the new Cafe Racer macho. My bike is so much faster than yours that I dare you to ride it, you lame little turd. Do you have the balls to ride this BOTTOMLESS PIT OF TORQUE?

That is the attitude of the new-age superbike freak, and I am one of them. On some days they are about the most fun you can have with your clothes on. The Vincent just killed you a lot faster than a superbike will. A fool couldn't ride the Vincent Black Shadow more than once, but a fool can ride a Ducati 900 many times, and it will always be a bloodcurdling kind of fun. That is the Curse of Speed which has plagued me all my life. I am a slave to it. On my tombstone they will carve, "IT NEVER GOT FAST ENOUGH FOR ME."

Image


--Jaeger


Bigshankhank wrote:The world is a fucking wreck, but there is still sunshine in some places. Go outside and look for it.
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Trav
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Post by Trav » Sun Feb 20, 2011 5:14 pm

buy the ticket, take the ride. cheers to the man, and the legacy!
"With the engine running in the neutral position, disengage the clutch (pull in-clutch lever), press down on the shift lever until low gear is engaged, remove foot from shift lever, increase engine speed slightly, slowly release clutch lever while advancing throttle. Repeat procedure for remaining gears."

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Post by Sisyphus » Sun Feb 20, 2011 5:47 pm

I remember that story when it was first printed. It was before I even owned a bike, but it really set the hook in me.
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Post by calamari kid » Sun Feb 20, 2011 11:24 pm

To H.S.T., who taught me how to think about the world. Head full of acid or otherwise.
"Go soothingly on the grease mud, as there lurks the skid demon." -Honda manual circa 1962

"Being shot out of a cannon will always be better than being squeezed out of a tube. That is why God made fast motorcycles, Bubba...." -Hunter S Thompson

"A psychotic is a guy who's just found out what's going on." -William S. Burroughs

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Post by Zer0 » Wed Mar 02, 2011 12:35 pm

A tip of the bottle, pipe, syringe, 12 ga. shotgun barrel, or whaytever apprpriate medicine delivery device in the Dr.'s direction:

Here's some of my favorite motorcycle-related writing--the closing pages of H.S.T.'s Hell's Angels:


Months later, when I rarely saw the Angels, I still had the legacy of the big machine—four hundred pounds of chrome and deep red noise to take out on the Coast Highway and cut loose at three in the morning, when all the cops were lurking on 101. My first crash had wrecked the bike completely and it took several months to have it rebuilt. After that I decided to ride it differently: I would stop pushing my luck on curves, always wear a helmet and try to keep within range of the nearest speed limit . . . my insurance had already been canceled and my driver’s license was hanging by a thread.

So it was always at night, like a werewolf, that I would take the thing out for an honest run down the coast. I would start in Golden Gate Park, thinking only to run a few long curves to clear my head . . . but in a matter of minutes I’d be out at the beach with the sound of the engine in my ears, the surf booming up on the sea wall and a fine empty road stretching all the way down to Santa Cruz . . . not even a gas station in the whole seventy miles; the only public light along the way is an all-night diner down around Rockaway Beach.

There was no helmet on those nights, no speed limit, and no cooling it down on the curves. The momentary freedom of the park was like the one unlucky drink that shoves an unwavering alcoholic off the wagon. I would come out of the park near the soccer field and pause for a moment at the stop sign, wondering if I knew anyone parked out there on the midnight humping strip.

Then into first gear, forgetting the cars and letting the beast wind out . . . thirty-five, forty-five . . . then into second and wailing through the light on Lincoln Way, not worried about green or red signals, but some other werewolf loony who might be pulling out too slowly, to start his own run. Not many of these . . . and with three lanes on a wide curve, a bike coming hard has plenty of room to get around almost anything . . . then into third, the boomer gear, pushing seventy-five and the beginning of a windscream in the ears, a pressure on the eyeballs like diving into water off a high board.

Bent forward, far back on the seat, and a rigid grip on the handlebars as the bike starts jumping and wavering in the wind. Taillights up ahead coming closer, faster, and suddenly—zaaapppp—going past and leaning down for a curve near the zoo, where the road swings out to sea.

The dunes are flatter here, and on windy days sand blows across the highway, piling up on thick drifts as deadly as any oil-slick . . . instant loss of control, a crashing, cartwheeling slide and maybe one of those two-inch notices in the paper the next day: “An unidentified motorcyclist was killed last night when he failed to negotiate a turn on Highway I.”

Indeed . . . but no sand this time, so the lever goes up into fourth, and now there’s no sound except wind. Screw it all the way over, reach through the handlebars to raise the headlight beam, the needle leans down on a hundred, and wind-burned eyeballs strain to see down the centerline, trying to provide a margin for the reflexes.

But with the throttle screwed on there is only the barest margin, and no room at all for mistakes. It has to be done right . . . and that’s when the strange music starts, when you stretch your luck so far the fear becomes exhilaration and vibrates along your arms. You can barely see at a hundred; the tears blow back so fast that they vaporize before they get to your ears. The only sounds are wind and a dull roar floating back from the mufflers. You watch the white line and try to lean with it . . . howling through a turn to the right, then to the left and down the long hill to Pacifica . . . letting off now, watching for cops, but only until the next dark stretch and another few seconds on the edge . . . The Edge . . . There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. The others—the living—are those who pushed their control as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, or slowed down, or did whatever they had to when it came time to choose between Now and Later.

But the edge is still Out there. Or maybe it’s In. The association of motorcycles with LSD is no accident of publicity. They are both a means to an end, to the place of definitions.
'74 R90/6--Thor
'05 Sportster 1200--FrankenRat
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Post by Trav » Wed Mar 02, 2011 1:50 pm

Ah man, that's great! I read that book, and I do recall especially enjoying that part. Thanks for posting it.
"With the engine running in the neutral position, disengage the clutch (pull in-clutch lever), press down on the shift lever until low gear is engaged, remove foot from shift lever, increase engine speed slightly, slowly release clutch lever while advancing throttle. Repeat procedure for remaining gears."

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Post by Beemer Dan » Wed Mar 02, 2011 7:55 pm

That last page of Hell's Angels is the best part of the book, pure fucking poetry. Here's to you HST.

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Post by Flat_Black_Rat » Wed Mar 02, 2011 9:10 pm

I love "The Song of the Sausage Creature," though I have noticed it reads differently to me now than it first did. When I first read it, it read to me like a manifesto, it embodied the way to live and ride. I rode accordingly. Now years later it is more of a fond reminder of those crazier days.
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Jaeger
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Re: Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

Post by Jaeger » Wed Feb 20, 2013 7:01 am

Bumping up on the anniversary of Dr. Gonzo's death.

Glad you're not here to see the stupidity, but goddamn I'd love to hear ya bitch about it, Hunter.

--Jaeger
Bigshankhank wrote:The world is a fucking wreck, but there is still sunshine in some places. Go outside and look for it.
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Re: Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

Post by red » Wed Feb 20, 2013 11:20 am

Jaeger wrote:Bumping up on the anniversary of Dr. Gonzo's death.

Glad you're not here to see the stupidity, but goddamn I'd love to hear ya bitch about it, Hunter.

--Jaeger
+1

Crazy, it doesn't seem like it was 8 years ago.

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Re: Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

Post by DerGolgo » Wed Feb 20, 2013 11:36 am

What a timely coincidence of timing. I just finished (the audiobook version of) "The kitchen readings", a book written by a pair of Dr. Thompson's friends. Some great anecdotes. Especially how some fed friends of his (ATF I think it was. They liked him. Not a joke, actually good friends, apparently) helped him hide his stash from the sherrif. And how his good friend, the sherrif, helps him hide his stash from the feds. It was all a bit confusing, but I'm fairly certain it was on different occasions. Or how he'd go "Are you sure I wrote that?" when someone would read back to him something he wrote in a doped up, drunken stupor twenty years previously. I dunno about reading it, but as an audiobook, I recommend it. It's not Dr. Thompson's quality of prose, but just the stories regaled therein are worth it.
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Re: Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

Post by piccini9 » Wed Feb 20, 2013 11:55 am

I need to ride. Bad.
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Re: Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

Post by SSCAM » Wed Feb 20, 2013 1:49 pm

When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.
de•moc•ra•cy
\di-ˈmä-krə-sē\ n. 1.Mob Rule, whereby fifty-one percent of the people may vote away the rights of the other forty-nine. 2.Tyranny by majority.

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Jaeger
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Re: Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

Post by Jaeger » Wed Feb 20, 2013 1:56 pm

SSCAM wrote:When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.

Amen, Br'er Matt.

--Jaeger
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Re: Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

Post by roadmissile » Wed Feb 20, 2013 3:16 pm

Image

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Re: Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

Post by Zim » Wed Feb 20, 2013 4:04 pm

^^ That is just... great.
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Re: Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

Post by AZRider » Thu Feb 21, 2013 3:56 am

Brilliant....deranged.....just the kind of man these times require.

At least we have Jon Stewart.
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Re: Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

Post by DerGolgo » Thu Feb 21, 2013 4:59 am

AZRider wrote:Brilliant....deranged.....just the kind of man these times require.

At least we have Jon Stewart.
Jon Stewart is Hunter Thompson, only so much funnier and nicer because he's sober.
Matt Taibbi is Hunter Thompson, only so much more thorough and persistent because he's (mostly) sober.
Things would get very interesting if either one of them ever turned "pro" like the Doc.
If there were absolutely anything to be afraid of, don't you think I would have worn pants?

I said I have a big stick.

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Re: Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

Post by AZRider » Thu Feb 21, 2013 5:46 am

I have always held that the reason it was so hard to make a decent HST movie was that he walked the same streets, saw the same things we see. But he had ripped away the normal brain's filter that sees all of the awful, all of the absurd, all of the cruel, and finds a way to excuse it with the phrase, "Oh, it's just..." We survive by filtering our world through that phrase. He shocked us by writing what it was like to be body-checked from one encounter to another without that phrase to hide behind. Even to sit in a bar with HST was probably not like reading about the same evening in the same bar. Because even with him there to narrate, it would be so natural to raise our filters and excuse that which we don't wish to be forced to examine.

I am amazed he held on for as long as he did.
"The hell with the zombie apocalypse, the douchebag apocalypse is upon us and their numbers are growing."-Mean Chuck
"Don't sweat the buckshot." - Buttzilla
"--Really.. I AM a nice guy by preference. I do, however, have other options." - Merlyn

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Re: Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

Post by goose » Thu Feb 21, 2013 4:05 pm

DerGolgo wrote:
AZRider wrote:Brilliant....deranged.....just the kind of man these times require.

At least we have Jon Stewart.
Jon Stewart is Hunter Thompson, only so much funnier and nicer because he's sober.
Matt Taibbi is Hunter Thompson, only so much more thorough and persistent because he's (mostly) sober.
Things would get very interesting if either one of them ever turned "pro" like the Doc.
Wow, you need to read much more Hunter. While I like John Stewart, he's not even in the same league as Hunter S. Thompson. He's not even in the minor leagues in comparison. Stewart is sitting the bench on the JV squad, Hunter was a pro!
Drink triples til you're seeing double, feeling single, and looking for trouble! -Johnny Nitro, RIP

"British bikes of that era are made of a special alloy known as Brittainium. It is the only metal known to be able to rust even when fully submerged in oil. It also corrodes microscopic passages through itself whenever it makes contact with any known gasketing material." - AZ Rider

Re: Husaberg Build: "I pictured it more like the heroin addicted ex that keeps turning up, the bleeding you dry, breaking your heart, and crushing your soul, but you keep taking her back because it's the most fun ride you've ever had..." Bo-9

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"I said THREE motorcycles worth of Fuck You!"
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Re: Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

Post by AZRider » Thu Feb 21, 2013 6:00 pm

goose wrote:
DerGolgo wrote:
AZRider wrote:Brilliant....deranged.....just the kind of man these times require.

At least we have Jon Stewart.
Jon Stewart is Hunter Thompson, only so much funnier and nicer because he's sober.
Matt Taibbi is Hunter Thompson, only so much more thorough and persistent because he's (mostly) sober.
Things would get very interesting if either one of them ever turned "pro" like the Doc.
Wow, you need to read much more Hunter. While I like John Stewart, he's not even in the same league as Hunter S. Thompson. He's not even in the minor leagues in comparison. Stewart is sitting the bench on the JV squad, Hunter was a pro!
Nobody writes like Hunter. The comparison was simply about peeling back the polite layer of bullshit and exposing the raging blatant lies that millions of people fail to notice.
"The hell with the zombie apocalypse, the douchebag apocalypse is upon us and their numbers are growing."-Mean Chuck
"Don't sweat the buckshot." - Buttzilla
"--Really.. I AM a nice guy by preference. I do, however, have other options." - Merlyn

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Re: Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

Post by Zer0 » Thu Feb 21, 2013 8:59 pm

goose wrote:Hunter was a pro!
Jon Stewart's balls are no bigger than any of ours. Realize Hunter did all his crazy shit while having to lug two bowling balls between his legs the whole ride through. No wonder he was such an asshole.
'74 R90/6--Thor
'05 Sportster 1200--FrankenRat
My boy D when he was 4 wrote:Bones aren't important--we like motorcycles.
High Kommand wrote:That's the problem with giving a bike a girl's name. Too much temptation to lay it down to examine the undercarriage...

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Re: Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

Post by DerGolgo » Thu Feb 21, 2013 11:11 pm

I did say Stewart is nicer than Thompson ... he's polite and doesn't pile on much, being sober good natured and all. He's funnier in a fun, harmless sort of way. Funnier as in "Haha!" rather than Doctor Thompson's much deeper and more significant manner. Dr. Thompson makes you laugh, but with jokes that bite and then shake you around and don't let go until the life drains out of you. That's a different league, a different sport even from just fun. I agree that I must read more Thompson, but reading is a problem right now.
If there were absolutely anything to be afraid of, don't you think I would have worn pants?

I said I have a big stick.

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Jaeger
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Re: Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

Post by Jaeger » Wed Feb 19, 2014 5:03 pm

Bump.

Mañana will be 9 years.

Fuck me, has it been that long?

Actually finished watching THIS not too long ago, and was struck at how... old he'd grown. They showed vids of him in the late years, and it was obvious what a brilliant fiend he'd become, albeit diminished from his glory days...

But imagine what he'd say if he saw the shit now?

It didn't take long to realize (at least for me) that he'd partly checked out because he couldn't take any more... He lived to see and comment on what'd become of us after 9/11...

Shame I'll never get to read his editorials on the NSA Fiasco.

Go read Song of the Sausage Creature again.

--Jaeger
Bigshankhank wrote:The world is a fucking wreck, but there is still sunshine in some places. Go outside and look for it.
<<NEUTIQUAM ERRO>>
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Re: Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

Post by Jaeger » Fri Jan 17, 2020 6:32 am

Here's the original link to the McSweeney's article, but for those too lazy to click through...

https://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/the ... -las-vegas
McSweeny's wrote:January 16, 2020
The Muppets Take Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas
by Rebecca Saltzman


We were somewhere east of Fraggle Rock when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like, “I feel a bit light-headed, Miss Piggy. Maybe you should drive.” And suddenly there was a terrible sound around us, and the sky was full of what looked like alien squids going, “Yip yip yip! Uh-huh. Uh-huh,” swooping all around the car, which was going 100 miles per hour with the top down to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming, “Holy Jesus! What are these fucking puppets?”

Then it was quiet again. Miss Piggy, my attorney, had taken her top off and was pouring beer on her chest to prevent her felt from pilling.

“What the fuck are you yelling about, Gonzo?” she asked. I rubbed my long blue nose.

It was almost noon and we had more than 100 miles to go. My editor had given me $300 cash, most of which was already spent on extremely dangerous puppeteering supplies. We had two bags of grass (the cellophane kind they put in Easter baskets, green); 75 pellets stuffed with stuffing (cotton, unbleached); six packages of jumbo pipe cleaners (multi-colored); and a salt shaker full of glitter cocaine (holographic).

Miss Piggy saw the hitchhiker before I did. “Let’s give this frog a lift,” she said, and before I could mount any argument, she had stopped, and this poor Okie frog was hopping up to the car with a big grin on his face saying, “Hot damn! I never rode in a convertible before!”

“Helloooo,” said Miss Piggy, batting her big felt eyelashes.

“Hello?” he said. “Last night you never even said goodbye. You lied to me! You used me!”

“Oh Kermie, let me explain,” she said.

“I saw you dancing with that mangy cookie thief, you sow,” he said.

“Sow? HI-YAHHH!” she shouted, nearly smacking him right out of the car.

Now, I’ve spent enough time in Muppet Country to know most of them lead pretty dull lives. Eat. Sleep. Fuck. Teach toddlers the alphabet. No wonder some of them drift over the line into cheap thrills once in awhile. But eventually, you start burning out the marionette strings like a 440-volt blast in an inflatable kiddie pool.

Maybe I’d better have a chat with this frog, I thought.

“How about some ether?” I said. “Helium? Perler beads?”

The only thing that worried me was the helium. There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a puppet in the depths of a helium binge.

Kermit shook his head. His mouth fell open, as though he were a puppet with a limited number of ways to simulate human emotion.

Miss Piggy was now fumbling with the salt shaker containing the glitter cocaine. Opening it. Snorting it. Spilling it. Then screaming and grabbing at the air, as our fine iridescent dust blew up and out across the desert highway. A very expensive, very sparkly twister rising up from the convertible.

Her snout had more spangles than Abby Cadabby after a night working the pole at Brought To You By The Letter XXX.

“You’re a fucking narcotics agent!” I shouted. “I was on to your stinking act from the start, you pig!"

And suddenly she was waving a fat black .357 magnum hot glue gun at me. One of those snubnosed ones they sell at Jo-Ann Fabrics. "You flammable lint ball! You polyester turkey! I’ll glue your fucking eyes shut!”

“You swine!” I said. "I’ll cut you into felt bacon strips! Some kid will be frying you on a plastic stove in their Christmas jammies.”

The frog was climbing out of the back seat. “Thanks for the ride,” he yelled. "Thanks a lot. It isn’t easy being green, that’s for fucking sure.” His big webbed feet hit the asphalt and he started hopping back towards Fraggle Rock.

Out in the middle of the desert, not a tree in sight. We continued on to Vegas.
--Jaeger
Bigshankhank wrote:The world is a fucking wreck, but there is still sunshine in some places. Go outside and look for it.
<<NEUTIQUAM ERRO>>
2018 Indian Scout -- "Lilah"

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DerGolgo
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Re: Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

Post by DerGolgo » Fri Jan 17, 2020 1:07 pm

Ah, man. We needed and need him, still.
15 years. That is crazy.

I think one of the reasons he punched out was that he saw the madness that was coming. And just didn't want to deal with that shit.
But I also think that he wouldn't have foreseen Orange Thunder™.
If there were absolutely anything to be afraid of, don't you think I would have worn pants?

I said I have a big stick.

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Jaeger
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Re: Hunter S. Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005)

Post by Jaeger » Sat Jan 18, 2020 10:33 am

DerGolgo wrote:
Fri Jan 17, 2020 1:07 pm
Ah, man. We needed and need him, still.
15 years. That is crazy.

I think one of the reasons he punched out was that he saw the madness that was coming. And just didn't want to deal with that shit.
But I also think that he wouldn't have foreseen Orange Thunder™.
Agreed on all points.

It'd be interesting and entertaining to hear his take on the current state of the world, though I seriously doubt it would be in the least bit comforting. :L

--Jaeger
Bigshankhank wrote:The world is a fucking wreck, but there is still sunshine in some places. Go outside and look for it.
<<NEUTIQUAM ERRO>>
2018 Indian Scout -- "Lilah"

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