Today’s the day our favorite gun-slinging madman was birthed from a most likely tattered womb. Let us take a hefty gulp from our glasses, because simply lifting them would be a waste of precious time, and down whatever whisky, rum, or what-have-you fills your cup this evening/morning/whenever. And then refill that glass because this savage life is far too short for just one.
To the man who actually made me interested in journalism, the psychotic oaf who taught us that weirdness trumps all, the brilliant mind who tamed fierce words with a wooden chair and a broken bottle of Wild Turkey, the immortal legend who could be killed only by the hands of himself… the Master of Gonzo, Dr. Hunter Stockton Thompson. May your legacy live on, and your decrepit corpse rot in some semblance of peace.
Res ipsa loquitur.