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Kingdom of Fear (and Mourning)
Feb. 21st, 2005 11:32 am"We have become a Nazi monster in the eyes of the whole world--a nation of bullies and bastards who would rather kill than live peacefully. We are not just Whores for power and oil, but killer whores with hate and fear in our hearts. We are human scum, and that is how history will judge us....No redeeming social value. Just whores. Get out of our way, or we'll kill you.
Well, shit on that dumbness. George W. Bush does not speak for me or my son or my mother or my friends or the people I respect in this world. We didn't vote for these cheap, greedy little killers speak for America today--and we will not vote for them again in 2002. Or 2004. Or ever.
Who does vote for these dishonest shitheads? Who among us can be happy and proud of having all this innocent blood on our hands? Who are these swine? These flag-sucking half-wits who get fleeced and fooled by stupid little rich kids like George Bush?
They are same ones who wanted to have Muhammad Ali locked up for refusing to kill gooks. They speak for all that is cruel and stupid and vicious in the American Character. They are the racists and hate mongers among us--they are the Ku Klux Klan. I piss down the throats of these Nazis.
And I am too old to worry about whether they like it or not. Fuck them.
-Hunter S. Thompson
Kingdom of Fear, 2002
Its snowing here. The sky is gray and bleak and what light is coming in through the windows has a flatness, a quality to it that says "This is the day I've given you. Take it or leave it." This seems like a turning point, though I can't quite put my finger on why. The world is smaller, weaker, saner, less truthful, scarier, calmer, greener and more terrifying. We are on a bus tour in Hell and the guide has mysteriously left us.
I had big plans for the day. Things I was going to do. Straighten. Neaten. Clean. Sort. Those things seem random and slightly meaningless now. The busy work of the suburban life. The things we do to bring order to our spaces, so we can ignore the fact that what we really yearn for is chaos, adventure, disorder, anarchy.
These are my icons who are gone: Lennon (murder) Ginsberg (cancer) Hoffman (suicide) Strummer (heart attack) Vicious (overdose) Henson (pneumonia) Wellstone (plane crash) Gray (suicide) Thompson (suicide)
Someone on the internet wrote "And now is not the time to be idle, now is the time to realize that this he is gone because he could no longer help us, and it's time to fucking help ourselves."
Well, shit on that dumbness. George W. Bush does not speak for me or my son or my mother or my friends or the people I respect in this world. We didn't vote for these cheap, greedy little killers speak for America today--and we will not vote for them again in 2002. Or 2004. Or ever.
Who does vote for these dishonest shitheads? Who among us can be happy and proud of having all this innocent blood on our hands? Who are these swine? These flag-sucking half-wits who get fleeced and fooled by stupid little rich kids like George Bush?
They are same ones who wanted to have Muhammad Ali locked up for refusing to kill gooks. They speak for all that is cruel and stupid and vicious in the American Character. They are the racists and hate mongers among us--they are the Ku Klux Klan. I piss down the throats of these Nazis.
And I am too old to worry about whether they like it or not. Fuck them.
-Hunter S. Thompson
Kingdom of Fear, 2002
Its snowing here. The sky is gray and bleak and what light is coming in through the windows has a flatness, a quality to it that says "This is the day I've given you. Take it or leave it." This seems like a turning point, though I can't quite put my finger on why. The world is smaller, weaker, saner, less truthful, scarier, calmer, greener and more terrifying. We are on a bus tour in Hell and the guide has mysteriously left us.
I had big plans for the day. Things I was going to do. Straighten. Neaten. Clean. Sort. Those things seem random and slightly meaningless now. The busy work of the suburban life. The things we do to bring order to our spaces, so we can ignore the fact that what we really yearn for is chaos, adventure, disorder, anarchy.
These are my icons who are gone: Lennon (murder) Ginsberg (cancer) Hoffman (suicide) Strummer (heart attack) Vicious (overdose) Henson (pneumonia) Wellstone (plane crash) Gray (suicide) Thompson (suicide)
Someone on the internet wrote "And now is not the time to be idle, now is the time to realize that this he is gone because he could no longer help us, and it's time to fucking help ourselves."
