The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Let Your Head Hang Low Once More
Gonzos and Grovers,
Howl! Oh, howl! Sorrow hangs in the air today, and not merely over the loss of my cosmic-powered sideburns. One of the great ones has left us.
I unlocked the steel door to my Fortress of Fortitude today, the cave lair under my abode, with a fresh newspaper in hand, once more to change the newspaper lining under Bobo the Virgin Chimp’s cage. I’d barely had time to change into my self-contained biohazard suit when I noticed the headlines on the front page.
The Hunter was dead.
Hunter S. Thompson, the great founder of what we today call gonzo journalism, had killed himself with his own gun. The news was hard for me to believe. It wasn’t how I’d expected his tale to end.
But at least he outlasted Nixon.
So today we pay our respects to one of the greatest minds ever to have trashed a hotel room. We look back and appreciate the contributions of the man that was the very definition of “freedom of the press” itself. Thank you, Raul Duke, for blessing the world with the tales of madness that most of us ourselves would never experience. I’ll drink in your honor, with my glass raised high to the heavens in offering, and tonight will bed down, wrapped in the American flag.
As for the death, I’ll continue to have my suspicions. I’ll never be able to fully believe that it was Hunter that did himself in, especially considering the legion of angry souls he’d offended over the years. I’ve always believed Hunter’s pistol was intended for others. Maybe he’d gotten on Bush’s nerves. That’s a scenario I can get behind.
It seems fitting, in the passing of the great Gonzo, that Paris Hilton’s cellular phone has been hacked, and her many acquaintances harassed with unwelcome phone calls. I’d like to think that just maybe, it was one last act of mayhem caused by the departing spirit of the great Hunter, a side-trip, one last bit of mischief for us all to enjoy before he rode the great white shark into Heaven.
Be seeing you,
The Virgin Prince
Howl! Oh, howl! Sorrow hangs in the air today, and not merely over the loss of my cosmic-powered sideburns. One of the great ones has left us.
I unlocked the steel door to my Fortress of Fortitude today, the cave lair under my abode, with a fresh newspaper in hand, once more to change the newspaper lining under Bobo the Virgin Chimp’s cage. I’d barely had time to change into my self-contained biohazard suit when I noticed the headlines on the front page.
The Hunter was dead.
Hunter S. Thompson, the great founder of what we today call gonzo journalism, had killed himself with his own gun. The news was hard for me to believe. It wasn’t how I’d expected his tale to end.
But at least he outlasted Nixon.
So today we pay our respects to one of the greatest minds ever to have trashed a hotel room. We look back and appreciate the contributions of the man that was the very definition of “freedom of the press” itself. Thank you, Raul Duke, for blessing the world with the tales of madness that most of us ourselves would never experience. I’ll drink in your honor, with my glass raised high to the heavens in offering, and tonight will bed down, wrapped in the American flag.
As for the death, I’ll continue to have my suspicions. I’ll never be able to fully believe that it was Hunter that did himself in, especially considering the legion of angry souls he’d offended over the years. I’ve always believed Hunter’s pistol was intended for others. Maybe he’d gotten on Bush’s nerves. That’s a scenario I can get behind.
It seems fitting, in the passing of the great Gonzo, that Paris Hilton’s cellular phone has been hacked, and her many acquaintances harassed with unwelcome phone calls. I’d like to think that just maybe, it was one last act of mayhem caused by the departing spirit of the great Hunter, a side-trip, one last bit of mischief for us all to enjoy before he rode the great white shark into Heaven.
The Virgin Prince
