Hunter S. Thompson

I'm speechless. My friend Jim had this to say:

It should have read like this:
AP‹Noted author, and Doctor of Journalism, Hunter S. Thompson, was cut down in his prime in a suspected mob assassination this evening, and the world mourns his loss. Thompson's literary accomplishments are unquestionable. Despite his vigilant attention to the security of his compound in Aspen, Colorado, Thompson was apparently attacked by a small group of elite assassins who apparently were recruited for the job through ads in SOLDIER OF FORTUNE magazine and other classified outlets. Early information indicates that Donald Rumsfeld made the final call, saying, "This bastard has been mouthing off for too long. Let's put a sock in his mouth. Permanently!"

But that's not what happened.

Is it?

Jeez, pal, isn't there something else you could've done?

What the fuck were you thinking?

Well, I know you'll never be able to answer that one, or any other questions, because you permanently concluded all contact with the rest of us, didn't you? Thanks. That's swell. Just when we were getting something going again. So out of the blue, you decide to remove yourself from everything permanently. With no warning or notice! Jeez!

I didn't see this one coming at all. You were yourself the last time we talked. What happened?

We'll all regret that you decided to leave the party permanently, and right now I've got to tell you that I'm pissed off that you did. Selfishly, of course. No more eloquently crazed rants in Rolling Stone, no more frantic e-mails about the Middle East, football, or nuclear doom.

I'll say goodbye to you before long, but right now I'm to angry to be empathetic. Meanwhile, I'll say this: Farewell my friend. I'm sorry to see you go away so soon.

Splunge.
Jim