>>16090039 (lb)
>>>>>>>>I bet hesucks dicks with his butthole
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>grandma tranny still mad bout rental fag cause incest stopped
>hesucks dicks with his butthole
Hunter S. Thompson 51
As far as the French Separatists are concerned, with any luck at all,
Reagan will go belly up when he meets Gorbachev in Geneva this week
and Washington will be seized by a cabal of crazed generals in the style
of "Dr. Strangelove." The colossus to the South will be paralyzed by
fear and greed, paving the way for a takeover by truffle-eating wine-
sucking anarchists.
It was a hard and irascible attitude to deal with when I went up on
stage the next day to answer all the obvious questions about the U.S.-
Canadian political position vis-a-vis the Kremlin and the 1988 election.
It was a long afternoon, but finally a consensus emerged: Canada is
doomed to the status of a nuclear chattel, regardless of what happens
in Geneva. Reagan will use the summit conference as nothing more
than a flag-waving update of his TV commercials for GE in the good
old days, and the winter book favorite to win the 1988 election has to
be Richard Milhous Nixon.
I left for the airport immediately, feeling lucky to get out of the country
without being flogged.
Hunter S. Thompson 51
As far as the French Separatists are concerned, with any luck at all,
Reagan will go belly up when he meets Gorbachev in Geneva this week
and Washington will be seized by a cabal of crazed generals in the style
of "Dr. Strangelove." The colossus to the South will be paralyzed by
fear and greed, paving the way for a takeover by truffle-eating wine-
sucking anarchists.
It was a hard and irascible attitude to deal with when I went up on
stage the next day to answer all the obvious questions about the U.S.-
Canadian political position vis-a-vis the Kremlin and the 1988 election.
It was a long afternoon, but finally a consensus emerged: Canada is
doomed to the status of a nuclear chattel, regardless of what happens
in Geneva. Reagan will use the summit conference as nothing more
than a flag-waving update of his TV commercials for GE in the good
old days, and the winter book favorite to win the 1988 election has to
be Richard Milhous Nixon.
I left for the airport immediately, feeling lucky to get out of the country
without being flogged.
November 18, 1985
The Doctor N(1ll See You Now
"Call immediately. Time is running out. We both need to do something
monstrous before we die.
"
—Message from Ralph Steadman
1 don't get many letters from Ralph. He is not into small talk. But the
few that eventually reach me are always serious. His recurrent themes
are Death and Degradation, along with a lust for money so wild and
raw that its intensity would shame the gamekeeper in Lady Chatterley's
Lover.
Russell Chatham is the same way. Artists never write letters unless
they are desperate, and by that time their brains have seized up. They
lack the pure logic and focus of the literary life, and their eyes are
rheumy with drink.
I have had trouble with Russell before, and with Ralph for most of
my life. They are rich and famous artists, two of the major talents of
their time—but they would have long since been legally put to sleep in
any properly organized society.
Instead, they are paid huge fees for their twisted works and they are
honored all over the globe. Ralph lives like a caliph in a 44-room castle
about an hour south of London in the fashionable county of Kent, and
rides now and then to the hounds.
Russell carries a platinum American Express card, drives a Cadillac,
and lives generally in the style of Sam Coleridge—an existence that not
even his friends understand.
They are both shameless Sybarites, far gone in wanton abuse, but
who am I to make judgments? We all have weird friends. Some call
from jail at four in the morning and others write ominous letters.
I drove down to the post office the other day and found only two
envelopes in my box—Russell's and Ralph's, both of them crazy with
anger. I turned Russell's over to the sheriff, but Ralph's had the tone
of a serious medical bulletin, and it seemed to need a reply.
Dear Ralph. I finally got your letter from the intensive care ward at
Maidstone Hospital, but it was dated 20 March 85 and that was a long
time ago, considering that you mailed it from the very lip of the grave.
You sound like an old woman, Ralph. I'm tired of your bitching and
whining. Just because you got drunk and almost died is no reason to
come jabbering at me about royalties and the meaning of life.
Never mention either one of these things to me again, Ralph. Your
questions are dumb and ugly, but so what? We will take them one at a
time:
1) There are no royalties on anything and there never will be. It is
an ugly situation. My attorney will be in touch with you about the money
and the slander problem.
2) This gibberish about the meaning of life is a senile cop-out. You
are a full-blooded country squire, Ralph, a man of tweeds and art. Your
neighbors don't want to know what you do to those animals that you
catch in the spring traps; and they certainly don't want to think—when
Hunter S. Thompson 53
they see you roaming your hedgerows at night with something that looks
like a shotgun—that you have six fingers on each hand and your mind
is a raging inferno of contradictions.
They would have locked you up, Ralph, if they thought you were
desperately crazy . . . and they will, if you can't get a grip on yourself.
Take my word for it. Don't give them a handle. I know that man
Narley who runs the Maidstone Pub, and I've heard the crude gossip
he spreads. He is definitely not on your side.
But don't worry, Ralph. I have the answer. My own life has been
exceedingly strange, of late. I went through one of those giddy periods
where I believed what people told me, and naturally it ended in grief.
I went over there, as you know, to do the P/a>'^o>'/feminist-porno story,
but I ended up deeply involved and was arrested almost constantly, for
reasons I can't explain to you now, due to the numerous pending court
actions.
The Night Manager is running a bit behind schedule at this point,
because of my weakness for journalism. In addition to all my other jobs,
titles and responsibilities, I am now a sort of neo-syndicated columnist
for the San Francisco Examiner, the once-proud flagship of what was
known as "The Hearst Empire." Young Will, the heir, has decided to
make it "a thinking man's newspaper for the '80s," and of course I am
out on the point.
Why not? We have Warren on the night shift, whipping the police at
all times, and I suspect there is life in the project . . . which means, of
course, that you will have to fill one of the "Artists in Residence" slots,
a high-powered four-week gig that will cause you to move to San Fran-
cisco and actually work for a living for a while. You will be sent out on
routine assignments like an ordinary journalist and your work will be
treated like offal, but I think you can overcome it and perhaps do some
unusual work.
Let's look at Groundhog Day for your opening shot. We will get you
a flat in the Avenues, my old neighborhood, and your first assignment
will probably be the trial of Charles C. Ng, an alleged mass sex slayer
from Calaveras County who will soon be deported from Canada to stand
trial here in Fat City … or maybe in some rural jurisdiction where
they will treat us like decent people when we roll into town like the
Joad brothers.
You will have to trust me on this one, Ralph. I know it sounds strange.
"One ring to rule them all, One ring to find them, One ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them". #TheHobbit #LordoftheRings.
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie**bout>hesucks dicks with his butthole
**. One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them,
>In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows liebout>hesucks dicks with his butthole
>In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows liebout>hesucks dicks with his butthole. One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them,
But the presses were already rolling and the eight-
column headline said: HELL'S ANGELS GANG RAPE.
The Masons haven't had that kind of publicity since the
eighteenth century, when Casanova was climbing through
windows and giving the brotherhood a bad name. Perhaps
the Angels will one day follow the Freemasons into
bourgeois senility, but by then some other group will be
making outrage headlines: a Hovercraft gang, or maybe
some once-bland fraternal group tooling up even now for
whatever the future might force on them.
What is the trend in Kiwanis? There are rumors in
Oakland of a new militancy in that outfit, a radical ferment
that could drastically alter the club's image. In the drift and
flux of these times it is easy enough to foresee a Sunday
morning, ten or twenty years hence, when a group of
middle-aged men wearing dark blazers with Hell's Angels
crests on the pockets will be pacing their mortgaged living
rooms and muttering sadly at a headline saying: KIWANIS
GANG RAPE: FOUR HELD, OTHERS FLEE,
RINGLEADER SOUGHT.
And in some shocked American city a police chief will be
saying – as the Monterey chief said in 1964 of the Hell's
Angels – They will not be welcomed back, because of the
atmosphere created.
The Making of the Menace, 1965
2
The daily press is the evil principle of the modern
world, and time will only serve to disclose this fact with
greater and greater clearness. The capacity of the
newspaper for degeneration is sophistically without limit,
since it can always sink lower and lower in its choice of
readers. At last it will stir up all those dregs of humanity
which no state or government can control.
– Sören Kierkegaard, The Last Years: Journals
1853-55
The best thing about the Angels is that we don't lie to
each other. Of course that don't go for outsiders because
we have to fight fire with fire. Hell, most people you meet
won't tell you the truth about anything.
– Zorro, the only Brazilian Hell's Angel
It was part of the cover story.
– Arthur Schlesinger, Jr., explaining why he wapped
the press with a bogus explanation of the Bay of Pigs
Invasion
stfu marie
6,000,000 sex slaves leave egypt and forgot bout writing down the pyramid story all gahy AF with no greece lubes
>6,000,000 sex slaves leave egypt and forgot bout writing down the pyramid story all gahy AF with no greece lubes
with a fat dude that had horns and lied