You Fucking Sentimental Sissies

"Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself."
-Philip Larkin

Hunter S. Thompson was a liar and a cheat, the worst kind of low-life scoundrel and I’m glad the poor, sad bastard is dead. I’m half-surprised he had the brass to do it in the first place. Probably a goddam accident. Sure as hell wouldn’t have been the first time he shot something by mistake. If he had any class at all he would have ended his hallucinated, glory-driven life long before this shit-storm of a millennium ever began. No class. No class at all. But what can you expect from a cracker-ass country boy from Kentucky who spent all his time shooting off his shit into the great abyss. Firearms, stolen motorcycles, careless rants and tirades blazing tirelessly, ceaselessly into the ether. And for what? Just another angry voice from the most commercialized generation. The saddest kind of old-man bastard, most wretched of the wretched, yearning to be free, scratching and clawing at it with every drug-soaked fiber of his being. Well you’re free now you depraved sonofabitch. I’ll drink grain alcohol and piss fire on your grave if it’s the last thing I do.