Hunter S. Thompson, 65 or 67, snuffs self

The Gonzo journalist took his last and biggest drug in the form of a bullet to the head. For those old enough to remember, he was the voice of a generation who unashamedly broke the law, scarfed heroic amounts of drugs, and called Nixon the worst names you can imagine even before Watergate. He spent most of the time he was supposed to report on the Ali-Foreman "Rumble in the Jungle" attaching leeches to his head because it gave him a buzz. Like fellow-druggie Burroughs he loved guns. He loathed Nixon more than the angriest Democrats hate Bush. We need his hate today. Compared to the namby-pamby hate of the left for the Bushies, this man spouted fat projectile voms of rancid bile that were truly epic. If I were to call George Bush a heartless grind-the-poor draft-coward stoolie-for-the-rich Yale-preppie fake-Cowboy Hitler-big-lying Antichrist pond-scum dirt-bag who butt-fucks bunny-rabbits for breakfast, it wouldn’t come close to what Thompson called Nixon. Read the obit (the best one so far, from Australia for chrissake -- the New York Times obit sucks, you’d think they could do better with a fellow journalist who pioneered "New Journalism”), and read his classic Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, the wildest and funniest book of the last 50 years. Upset when Bill Clinton announced he had not inhaled a marijuana cigarette once handed to him, Hunter said: "It's just a disgrace to an entire generation."