Hunter Stockton Thompson (July 18, 1937 – February 20, 2005) was an American journalist and author, and the founder of the gonzo journalism movement.
“No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun – for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax – This won’t hurt.”
Football Season Is Over
-Hunter S. Thompson
“He was in a marriage prison on top of other things. No way out that didn’t involve losing his guns, his drugs or his fun.”
-Clayton Luce
When pressed for more Clayton explained. For the sanity of those left alive, for the honor and fond memory of Hunter, these are things better left written about by others. The poem above was no suicide note as claimed. Hunter was in front of his typewriter and the word “counselor” was typed out on the page before him when he died. This is a sad lesson in the American Dream of just what happens when you abuse drugs and alcohol with firearms around.
Believing Hunter decided to check out reminded me of men in prison doing natural life; they get about 10 years of it behind those walls and then they take a bundle of dope and do the whole thing O.D.ing in the process. I heard it told that when Nixon died he took a little piece of Hunter with him. I believe it. Towards the end Hunter was played out. America sold Hunter out. He’d become a fucking brand.
A cartoon.
I wouldn’t be surprised to find out there is an action figure somewhere. Tell me about what makes you so sick and I’ll tell you what makes it Gonzo. Build a theme park with a Fear and Loathing ride replete with bats and too many drugs. For a look at Hunter’s more compassionate take on humanity just step over to the geek pit with this here live fuckin’ chicken!
“C’mon, everybody get close. Not quite as much fun as a lynching but if chicken’s all ya got, well then chicken is all ya got.”
EDITORS NOTE: That chicken part may have been complete gibberish. We can’t make any sense of it…
That’s the flavor of suicide.
When the thought of taking your own life is more comforting than anything else you can think of. And yet suicide is selfish. It wreaks havoc on family and friends. It leaves a horrendous mess sometimes screwing with people’s heads for years and years. People in families of suicides are more likely to commit suicide. My brother killed himself. He was a tortured schizophrenic and took a walk off an 8 story building in Boston. Ten years later I almost hung myself in the basement.
I was lucky and didn’t let the idea take hold.
I quietly realized that something was wrong with me and asked for help. But that choice. That edge. The option was totally viable almost not even mattering one way or the other. I could literally have cared less if I lived or died. I can’t think of any other way to say it. I just didn’t give a fuck anymore.