It is raining and crappy out, I am sick as a dog, and Hunter S. Thompson is dead.
Shit.
by John Cole| 3 Comments
This post is in: Open Threads
It is raining and crappy out, I am sick as a dog, and Hunter S. Thompson is dead.
Shit.
Comments are closed.
The Sanity Inspector
Self-inflicted gunshot. Puh-thetic.
So much for “debauchery” = “living life to the fullest”.
I’ve known more magic in seven years of quiet, faithful marriage than that sanctimonious sybarite did in all the drugs he ever took.
I’m not totally insensitive to the loss that everyone’s inner anarchist has suffered with his death.
But this poster at Chicago Boyz pretty well sums it up: http://www.chicagoboyz.net/archives/002875.html#more
Declan
This is the man who labelled all conservatives as the new nazis. oh brother.
buh-bye buddy.
Kung Fu
I admired Hunter S. Thompson for the interesting character that he was. To quote John Donne:
“No man is an Island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the Continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.”
He will be missed by many. I’ll leave it at that.