NewsFlash: Hunter S. Thompson Dies of Something Other Than Drugs

Hunter S. Thompson survived Hell's Angels, Nixon, a generation of swine and a scary amount of ether (as if there's a non-scary amount) only to shoot himself because of a second Bush term? Okay, I don't know if that's the reason. A lot of us will be irresponsibly throwing around speculation in the next few weeks, and I just want to be ahead of the pack. Like Hunter was.

Personally, I though Dr. Gonzo would be happy to live in a world where President Bush is finally on tape talking about his drug use. It's not at a fear and loathing level or anything, but at least he can't refuse to acknowledge it anymore.

Also, in memoriam, I'm having a Write a Hunter S. Thompson Paragraph contest. I'll go first:

"Listen here, you leperous pig. If you insist on interrupting these delicate negotiations, at least take some morphine," I said, seizing on the momentary darkness to shovel most of the pills onto the bonfire. "As your attorney, I advise you to stick what's left of those up your ass," he said, but silenced himself when I glanced ominously at the pistolero.

Moving Right Along

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Thanks, Amanda Egge, for commenting on the S.U.V. post and allowing us to end our long blog-wide nightmare of non-posting.

Also, this is too funny not to share. Respect.

Come On, People

I can't write anything new until SOMEONE comments on the "Socially Unconscious Vehicle" post. Why aren't people responding to this? Is the mock-abbreviation (S.U.V., get it?) too clever for itself? Or too obvious? I seriously thought coffee houses would be abuzz by now with this hilarious expression, which I believe I coined. I really thought this was gonna be my big break.

P.S. If you have the means, I really recommend walking on your local frozen lake and maybe even lasering a figure 8 in the ice. It just feels good!

Socially Unconscious Vehicle

So today I'm writing from a region rich in country-western music. What got me writing this was a new song by someone named Chely Wright, who's brother is a Marine. So far so good. The song, "The Bumper of My S.U.V.," is about how she slapped a Marines sticker on the bumper of her -- you guessed it -- and received a rude gesture from a fellow Nashville motorist.

Chely figures that this motorist was some kind of misguided peacenik who assumes all Marines are warmongers. Chely says that's unfair, and asks this woman to remember that Marines are fighting to protect us, which is true a lot of the time:

"So I hope that lady in her minivan turns on her radio and hears this from me, as she picks up her kids from their private school and drives home safely on our city streets or to the building where her church group meets," Chely sings. "Yeah, that's why I've got a sticker for the U.S. Marines on the bumper of my SUV."

But I think Chely may be missing the woman's point. Chely didn't put the Marines sticker on "The Bumper of My Mid-Sized Sedan." She put it on the back of an S.U.V. that sucks up twice as much oil as a regular car. And that puts Marines, and perhaps even regular folks like Chely, in danger.

I could make an argument here about how U.S. oil consumption props up totalitarian Middle Eastern governments, leading many misguided young men to seek justice through terrorism. But I can make an even more direct link between S.U.V. driving and terror.

Your oil dollars are going to Saudi Arabia, which gives them to madrasas, where students are taught to reject modernity and hate Americans. Okay? When you buy oil, and especially when you buy enough oil for an S.U.V., you're paying to educate poor, desperate Muslim kids about the supposed evils of America. And those kids grow up to hate and sometimes kill Americans, especially Marines.

So Chely, the woman who gave you the finger might have agreed with you about supporting our troops. Maybe she just thinks you're a hypocrite, and that your disingenous bumper sticker is the most obscene gesture of all.

My Secret Identity

Since I started writing about traveling Europe, many people have written to ask (complain) about how I get around undetected. "Isn't it a little tough for a laser-powered baby wolf," begins a typical letter, "to get through customs?"

Yes and no. It would be incredibly difficult for a laser-powered baby wolf to go all the places I go. But it's easy for a dog.

I guess it's time to admit that I have a secret identity. I know a lot of people are saying, "Of course you do. You're a person pretending to be a wolf," as if there's a person alive who has my insight. No, my friends, my secret identity is Shabbat, the family dog of New York Times columnist Thomas Friedman.


"Dad"

Sure, Tom was good when he won all those Pulitzer prizes in Beirut and Jerusalam, but he's not such a genius when it comes to latching the back gate. This has allowed me to switch comfortably in the last few months between life with the Friedmans (including the excellent travel benefits) and writing this column from my secret Den of Democracy.

Sure, to show my thanks I occasionally whisper suggestions to Tom as he sleeps. ("Go to Spain. Take Shabbat for protection. Plus he's a great way to meet chicks.") But generally, to the Friedmans and the rest of the world, I am a simple mutt with spectactularly colored eyes.
I am back in America now, and am considering writing about life in the Red States. I wonder if Robert Novak has a dog?