>cnn-mistakes-buttplugs-dildos-isis-flag.html
imported immitation canadians just want to fit in hole >>16071813
>tard
for only $10.5 million a day batjoto can
>>> frolicking's in a cape with a butler
with starving israeli juws >>16072359
>>>and whine bout trannys
cause flesh eating tweaker nazis and faggot movie
>yuge gape in sodom and gamorhea plot
with a barge and an island
'Murica used to hire lawyers to shoot red coats
>In Britain crews of tanks are also called tankies.
elongapes should go copilot bannongapes gape now that is all tender and shit bout getting rejected
go build your temple in hell @homo
notice how the faggo babylon danielfaggot danvil presents its dogma and anounces itself through wince and grimace
even supplies devices and canned rhetoric
these oto tropes are soo annoying
boomer doomer groomers larps lube from gahyniggs in africa
more proof danielfaggot is a hobbit and not gay
remember when baalzebub crapped out esus at hacienda acres
serial killer whores
crusty old fehgul wants homos to envy its merch
around and impossible to ignore. You can't get away from TV. It is
everywhere. The hog is in the tunnel.
I was reminded of all these things, once again, when I finally limped
back home—after 15 days in the eerie confines of an airless cubicle in
a high-rise on Market Street—to find the TV business working overtime
in my front yard.
It was 9 o'clock at night, with a full moon, when we came up the
driveway in Weird John's cab from the airport, and I felt the chill of
winter. Daylight-savings time was over, the football season was half-
gone, and there was frost on all the windshields.
The Jeep and the Volvo were almost hidden in a maze of frozen
weeds, and a big blue peacock was squatting nervously on the trunk of
the Bavaria. There was no sign of the Range Rover, which meant that
Jay had probably gone off to Texas with the Nazis.
Years ago I made the decision to keep the whole place looking like
an abandoned sawmill—which has worked out well for the trapping and
disciplining of trespassers, but it is not a natural contexf for massive
high-tech machinery. . . .
So it was a serious shock to see THE DISH, a huge white saucer that
seemed suspended in midair and tilted up at the moon Uke a NASA
receptor on Mars. It was the tallest thing on the ranch, a 16-foot electric
white Birdview dish antenna, perched on a jagged, grassy knoll about
100 yards back from the main house and blocking my view of the mule
pasture.
Motorcycle tracks led back through the snow in the direction of the
cistern, then veered off sharply toward the raw mud and concrete base
of the new installation—which was in fact the full-bore all-channels 19-
satellite Earth Station that I'd ordered from the electric people, before
I went to San Francisco.
I am, after all, the media critic; and TV falls into that category, so I
thought I should have all the channels, including Spanish Reuters and
the morning news from Bermuda, which is as far across the Earth's
curvature as our commercial satellites can see.
This had been my problem, all along. I was living too far up in the
Rockies, with atavistic technology. The local cable company had refused
to even talk about running a line up Woody Creek—as a "special favor"
they said—for me or anyone else. My two closest neighbors are Don
Henley the musician and ABC sportscaster Bob Beattie … and we
have our own professional reasons for needing total TV at all times,
and especially on weekends for the games. But the cable company said
"NO."
"Never," the man told Beattie. "You people are too far away, and
there's not enough of you. We need a hundred hookups for every two
miles of line. You only have seven. Forget it. You will never qualify."
Which was true. The cable had passed us by; the dish was the only
hope, and eventually we were all forced to turn to it. By the summer
of '85, the valley had more satellite dishes per capita than an Eskimo
village on the north slope of Alaska.
Mine was one of the last to go in. I had been nervous from the start
about the hazards of too much input, which is a very real problem with
these things. Watching TV becomes a full-time job when you can scan
200 channels all day and all night and still have the option of punching
Night Dreams into the video machine, if the rest of the world seems
dull.
This was the situation I found at my house when I got back from San
Francisco. My friend Cromwell had installed a whole galaxy of wires
and motors and screens and stainless steel TVRO with red lights and
green lights and baffling digital readouts to compute things like spatial
polarity and the uplink angle from London. I had all the latest equipment
to watch any channel I wanted.
"Not quite," said Cromwell, when he stopped by later that night to
drink whiskey and give me his bill. "There's one more thing—the de-
scrambler. It's going to run you about $500, plus at least $100 a month
for the rest of your life."
"That's ridiculous," I said. "How can they charge me for signals I
pick out of the sky with all this fantastic new equipment?"
"It's easy," he said. "They will scramble their signals, beginning on
Jan. 15 of next year, and you will need a special 'decoding' machine to
see anything that matters. The channels will cost you $12.95 a month
each, and you will naturally want at least 10—or maybe 30 or 40, for a
man with a job like yours."
"What are you saying?" I screamed at him. "That all this overpriced
junk that you've installed in my house is useless?"
"Of course not. There's a whole raft of things that you'll still be able
to get—the 700 Club, the Vast Brokers TV Auction," he said as he
smiled in the manner of a raccoon. "And also Jimmy Swaggart and the
big-time wrestling specials."
46 Generation of Swine
I smacked him on the side of the head with a roUed-up thick, wet
towel from the Communications Club, on Turk Street, where I had
recently been involved in a wedding. It would have croaked a weaker
man, but Cromwell was still laughing as he staggered down the driveway
to his power wagon. "Call me when you get smart," he yelled. "I could
get all the machinery you need from Bob Arum."
maybe swordy can rub his prime bilbo on your tucker fill feels
The Worst People in the World
JVlemo to my editor: It was the morning after Election Day when I
finally made the decision to apply for the journalist-in-space program.
I stayed up all night and drove down to the post office at dawn to pick
up the official application form. There was only one press seat, according
to the people at NASA, and the competition would definitely be fierce.
Walter Cronkite was the natural choice, they said, but he was far too
old for the weight training and his objectivity was suspect.
Ten years ago, or more, Walter had taken a profoundly personal
interest in whatever he perceived at the time to be the "U.S. space
program," and the boys at NASA had long since adopted him as a very
valuable ally and in fact sort of a team mascot. Walter was a true
believer: He was "on the team," as they say in places hke Lynchburg,
Va., and he was also the most trusted man in America.
I'm waiting for the phone call from the politicians of NASA. I know it
will come at night. Most nights are slow in the politics business, but
only lawyers complain. Never answer your phone after midnight, they
say. Other people's nightmares are not billable time, and morning will
come soon enough. Leave it alone, if you can; the slow nights are the
good ones—because you know in your nerves that every once in a while
a fast one will come along, and it will jerk you up by the roots.
Hunter S. Thompson 47
There are many rooms in the mansion, and weirdness governs in most
of them. Politics is not just elections, and telephones are not just for
reaching out and touching someone.
If the telephone call doesn't come from NASA and they send Cronkite
instead of me into space, then it will be time to deal with my notion of
taking Vanessa Williams to Johannesburg for a casual Saturday night
of dinner and dancing, which the Examiner contemptuously rejected
for what I took to be blind-dumb reasons with roots in a classic psycho-
expenso syndrome.
Which is not bad thinking, for a comptroller, but it is going to get in
the way if we ever plan to start justifying the Examiner's "next gen-
eration" format and the oft-implied promise of "a thinking man's news-
paper" for the '80s.
That would be a major move in any decade, but in this one it makes
a certain amount of at least theoretical sense because we have what
looks to me Hke a genuine Power Vacuum on our side.
The Washington Post jumped The New York Times in the '70s, mainly
on Watergate, but the chaos of success and the natural human weirdness
of life at the Post (Janet Cooke, Bob Woodward, etc.) led to a kind of
dysfunctional stalemate that is still a big factor in contemporary jour-
nalism, where the prime movers now are in television.
"Sixty Minutes" can rock your boat worse than the Times and the
Po5r combined, and minute-to-minute judgments made at the CNN news
desk in Atlanta have more effect on morning newspaper headlines all
over the country than anything else in the industry except maybe a five-
bell emergency bulletin on the AP wire.
The only other newspapers that have caused any functional excitement
in the business are the L.A. Times and the Boston Globe, and I think
we should pay attention to both of them. They are nothing alike, on
the surface, but in some ways they share the same giddy instincts that
we are just beginning to flirt with.
They are both stockpiling talent at top-dollar rates, and planning to
amortize their investment by reselling their talent—and the leverage
that supposedly comes with it—via national or even international syn-
dication arrangements, which in theory is not bad business. It harks
back to the basic difference between "vertical" and "horizontal" cor-
porations: i.e.. Ford and General Motors.
48 Generation of Swin&
Jesus! And all I wanted to do here was make a pitch for going to South
Africa, where TV cameras have suddenly become useless and print
journalism has been elevated, by default, to a bizarre and critical level.
I assume you've been following these ominous developments on TV
—
(as I have, thanks to my recently installed TVRO "Earth Station")
—
which have effectively shut down all coverage of public violence in South
Africa by our colleagues in the video press. The South African govern-
ment has made it punishable by up to 19 years in prison (that's PRISON,
in SOUTH AFRICA) for using a TV camera or even a sound recorder
at any scene of violence.
It is an impossible situation for the kinds of people charged with TV
coverage in what amounts, now, to a war zone. They are the storm
troopers of journalism, for good or ill. And in the main, they are very
tough-minded neo-dimensional people whose only Hnk to the mandates
of traditional journalism is to get the story and get the story out.
That is going to cause them trouble in South Africa. It is like telling
fish to stay out of water, and the Afrikaners are serious. They are
universally recognized—even among non-political travelers—to be The
Worst People in the World.
November 11, 1985
48 Generation of Swin&
Jesus! And all I wanted to do here was make a pitch for going to South
Africa, where TV cameras have suddenly become useless and print
journalism has been elevated, by default, to a bizarre and critical level.
I assume you've been following these ominous developments on TV
—
(as I have, thanks to my recently installed TVRO "Earth Station")
—
which have effectively shut down all coverage of public violence in South
Africa by our colleagues in the video press. The South African govern-
ment has made it punishable by up to 19 years in prison (that's PRISON,
in SOUTH AFRICA) for using a TV camera or even a sound recorder
at any scene of violence.
It is an impossible situation for the kinds of people charged with TV
coverage in what amounts, now, to a war zone. They are the storm
troopers of journalism, for good or ill. And in the main, they are very
tough-minded neo-dimensional people whose only Hnk to the mandates
of traditional journalism is to get the story and get the story out.
That is going to cause them trouble in South Africa. It is like telling
fish to stay out of water, and the Afrikaners are serious. They are
universally recognized—even among non-political travelers—to be The
Worst People in the World.
November 11, 1985
The Beast with Three Backs
JVlontreal—All nights are cold in Montreal. The last time I was here
was in the spring—for the first Duran-Leonard fight—and the downtown
streets were like sheet ice. Harold Conrad was dancing crazily in an
after-hours club on St. Catherine Street, and when we went outside for
some air, a French whiskey sot in a Z-28 Camaro ran over two people
in the narrow street outside the club and then tried to flee—but he
panicked and crashed into a bread truck and an outraged mob chased
Hunter S. Thompson 49
him down and whipped him until he confessed. There was no need for
police, until later.
I was part of the mob, for some reason, along with Bill Murray and
Bob Arum and a dozen or so punk rockers shouting things like "Bas-
tarde! Bastarde!" and "J'accuse!"
Nobody knows who did the actual beating, but I'm sure it was none
of the fight crowd, although Arum later tried to take credit for it, and
Murray had blood under his fingernails for the next two days. "I tripped
on the curb," he explained. "All I remember is clawing at the legs of
people running over me."
Nobody believed either one of them, but in the end it made no dif-
ference. All memories are gray when the time comes to start sorting
out details of mob violence. The truth is that we had gone temporarily
wild like the others, behaving like beasts and borne along by a frenzied
crowd . . . and in fact there were no real injuries, not even to the original
hit-and-run victims. The only certified loser was the driver of the bread
truck, who had his whole load of croissants scattered like popcorn all
over the street.
But that was a long time ago, and we have all become older and wiser
since then—even Sugar Ray Leonard, who lost to Duran in Montreal,
then redeemed himself in New Orleans a year later.
This time I was in town for very different reasons. The underlying
theme was still violence, but now it had to do with Ronald Reagan and
Mikhail Gorbachev and the threat of a nuclear war between the United
States and Russia that seriously worries the Canadians—and whether
Richard Nixon would become president in 1988.
This was the subject of a talk I was scheduled to deliver the next day
at Concordia University, and I was met at the airport by a student
committee of two—Doug and Terrence.
Terrence is bright and ambitious, but he is cursed with a dark and
twisted curiosity that all too often characterizes Canadians. I'd forgotten
that trait since my last trip across the northern border, but it only took
a few minutes with Terrence to remind me.
In the course of our conversation on the way from the airport, I
mentioned to him that I was on leave from my job as night manager of
the O'Farrell. This piqued his interest more than anything I'd said, and
he insisted we pay a visit to Montreal's foremost adult theater to compare
style. Like any responsible administrator, I agreed to go and check out
the competition.
was it deep or dumb?
all for a larp to mordor
https://www.faketwats.gov/jacksfronthole/=?4057903w47502945t90
"erhmahgurd, old faggot tunnels feels"
the winds of rump are blowing up his danielfaggot skirt fo sho
but mah fake twat snadwich
JFK is such a macho pedo cuck faggot fo sho
oswald should of touched cruz in the book depository
diaper prices are too damn high
frontbutt trannys caught whoneing online
epic pelicanfaggot suicide hitman nails two rothschild moths in one tarmac
>epic pelicanfaggot suicide hitman nails two rothschild moths in one tarmac
>>epic pelicanfaggot suicide hitman nails two rothschild moths in one tarmac
gitmo $2 ppv
>>>epic pelicanfaggot suicide hitman nails two rothschild moths in one tarmac
now just paint a littlte faggo babylon trying to homo
rump abandoned hope at casino
and then the complex scam had to lick foreskins in the dark and whine and lie for another six thousand years of fake history
> complex scam had to lick foreskins in the dark and whine and lie for another six thousand years of fake history
in little foreskin hats
>> complex scam had to lick foreskins in the dark and whine and lie for another six thousand years of fake history
>in little foreskin hats
rub peanut butter on his aunts butthole
for only $10.5 million a day batjoto can
>>> frolicking's in a cape with a butler
with starving israeli juws >>16072359
>>>and whine bout trannys
cause flesh eating tweaker nazis and faggot movie
>yuge gape in sodom and gamorhea plot
with a barge and an island
does that mean we can shoot at him and not feel bad ?