DR. Gonzo.. especially Hunter S. and Raoul Duke 2016 in the swamps of D.C. the slime has congealed into a cesspool of weird; no towels at all. Has anybody seen the drain? Who will guard the plumbers? perhaps Nixon’s ghost.

As a fanboy of dry, ascorbic wit and brutal realism, I find myself missing the quintessentially American prophet, Hunter S. Thompson. His take on things was always right. He’s one of those people that ends up on many a Santa-Quanza-Jew God wish list; if only we could read what the good doctor would have to say, observing this foul year of our lord, 2016. His voice is greatly missed, compounded by the new journalistic style, a stylistic departure from anything I’ve ever seen to be sure. I guess it’s art. Why not take out the last shred of logic and replace it with a mired, frenzied desperate dry-humping format?   Journalistic is too good a word for them. Parrotistic. Yeah, that’s better. Shrill dog-killing chirps, gaps of logic so big, you find yourself jumping off your couch, ripping up hard to replace seat cushions, and combing the attic, looking through dust bunnies, for a muscle relaxer from the Reagan era.

Maybe it’s just me, but I’m pretty sure I learn statistically less about this country, and the world at large, every time I watch CNN. Not that I’m tuned in, giddy as a school-child, expecting to learn something. No, the purpose of the Big Wig News these days, is to use it as sort of a hot plunge, cold plunge, going back and forth between internet sources and newswire. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to having a stash of invisible designer drugs. Alien worlds, usually out-of-synch in different dimensions, but at other times, appear to recognize each other. Combative, basically incompatible, bickering divorcee’s, sharing custody badly, confusing the shit out of their poor kid, demanding loyalty with wildly different accounts of severely degrading stories.

I’ve superstitiously avoided FOX ever since last week. Instead of flipping past that smug box-head like I usually do, I found myself listening to Hannity, agreeing consistently with him for the entire 8 minute segment. Not gonna lie, I was scared to death. A few bourbons later, I was finally able to shake it off as just a skewed sense of judgement; that phenomenon that happens after twenty minutes of watching CNN, where anything you watch, see, or do next,  becomes a masterpiece.

I’ve been day-dreaming lately. Always, it starts the same way, I’m at NBC or CNN, looking for one of those cultist news reporters. Anyone will do. White-lash guy, where is he? Or that unassumingly slick geek Anderson on CNN, with a heart made of robot parts and battery Acid, all the while keeping an eye out for the hornet’s nest of screeching bimbos, to see if I can corner one of them, psychologically anyway. Physically, they’ll have all the space in the world to leave. Any one of these soft-serve carbon copy swine will do to glean a drop of fleeting satisfaction. Sure, go after big game, but be a realist. Small game hunting for the squirrels of the industry is a better story, then twenty years, in the bush, big game hunting, with, not a thing, entering your sight.

It always starts the same way,  “Sorry to bother you, Just hoping you’d autograph this old WAR record. I’ve been saving it for your signature specifically as a believably rabid fan of your news team.”

The plan is always to hold out on the vitriolic stuff for the end, and then insult them as long as you can. Start friendly, but with foreshadow.

“Take this with a grain of salt” A disarming compliment, a good view of the jugular.

“Great piece you did the other day, baby in car. Solid reporting. Bit of a fluff piece but,my standards have changed, I mean taken a real major hit, so can’t say for sure, and hell, we can’t all be Gary Webb, but um, as news goes these days, of all the nutrition-less, squacking nut-birds mindlessly reading deep-state cables, I just watch you. I truly admire your shamelessness. No really. Your convincingly sincere. Not everyone can pass absolutely any hogwash along convincingly as genuine opinion. It’s good therapy for me. Helps obscure the shamelessly blatant misdirection that passes for journalism’s ghost.”

Smile big. Stay friendly. Ask for more signatures.

“Wouldn’t you mind signing this for the wife? It’s a Ozzy Osbourne Texas county jail pic, special night for my wife, the night he pissed on the Alamo. She’s part Cherokee.”

Ahhh,  The quick pause. A reassuring gesture of basic sanity, but short enough to avoid an easy disconnect from the other party involved.

“Actually she asked me to tell you that she thinks your commentary is, bar-none, the most compelling, across the board. Yeah, pretty much if she’s not watching you, she’s on youtube watching footage of famous people peeing on landmarks. Anyway, I should let you go. Nice to see the young guns out there passing the corpse of good reporting around. Sometimes it’s hard seeing the ol’ thing decomposing face down in a passionless swamp of the modern news apparatus, not that she was ever much of a looker. Hell, we could have her camera-ready by tomorrow! Sure, a little vitamin E, a tannish skin glow. Wallah! Nothing like a little make-up and magic to distract from this increasingly Orwellian nightmare. Is there a tanning salon in town you’d recommend? Excellent, I’ll have my attorney call them post-haste for an appointment. I’ll be here same time tomorrow, just to get a John Hancock on their brochure. You know John Hancock was a taxidermist? True story. Myself, I just bleach rats. If I go hunting around the dumpsters late tonight, I may have a chance to show you my work, before i leave town. I sometimes give em out, as a, sort-of, impromptu, award ceremony for American Journalism. Little inside tip, but, a 4 minute segment of exploring whether the CIA is easy to incorporate with the tenants of Constitutional government, and, pretty much, you got one in the bag. It’s an inside tip, but without the Martha Stewart ending, more or less guaranteed. We’re protected by an even, newer, sleazier cabal, big time, but , play it like you will.”

Surrender. Cathartic release has become impossible; a thing of the past. Now a days, catharsis is government run. It’s a lot like the NY apple that used to fall every New Years, only it has a few pressure valves. Everything American these days feels molested. A Soros proto-american/German 3rd or 4th Reich sets the table on weekdays and by next year, the Tavistock think tank run the roost on weekends, and, hopefully by that time, every Oligarch’s retarded nephew will be on payroll instigating race wars, riots, and feverishly masturbating to parking meters, while officially, they’ll be hired to draw pictures of Miley Cyrus. The Swiss automated precision ungenerously releases a bare minimum of steam, even Jon Stewart will be fazed out soon as a relic of  a smarter, verboten era. Every 6 hours, or was it every 8, the pressure gracefully allows for a mild release, so pent-up Americans can play loving living games unconvincingly during lunchtime. My god, what is this place? We’ve been hit and redecorated. I guess no matter how much you prepare yourself, nothing prepares you for the day the flag reminds you of Red, White and communistic gulag ambience. Maybe time to read the very small print, lesson the surprise when  College Football becomes predictable, repetitive, running plays out of the Leninist playbook, with even the live games in black and white. At least, the trains run timely; enough to appease the Fuhrer anyway, who has designs on changing the American football and replacing it with a Gatorade-sponsored Maltese Cross. Welcome to the newer new American Century, a ruthless shakedown of people everywhere, where every name is blatantly disingenuous, like Obamacare.

What predictable horror. A wholly gutless, lost perversion of a country always going back to the same plastic surgeon, getting work done that just makes it a little bit uglier. Even the illusion of prestige and classiness has been removed. What’s left is like something you’d find at a dive bar, an unrecognizable gestalt that smells rancid, and never tips. Once in a while after a few drinks, you may  feel the impetus to say something nice, but you wisely say nothing, for fear of the electric chair, should your best delivery come off very disingenuous. The cannibals are out for good. Pull the curtain. Exit stage right. No point trying to put the genie back in the bottle. Say nothing to no one. Nod politely at requests to see your papers.

A moment of humility. I’m no stranger to calling the youth of today the biggest pussies that ever got indoctrinated on God’s green earth. But to be fair, coming of age in the terrible two’s, I don’t think I would have run for Sheriff, campaigning with a double-fisted thumb holding a peyote button. We had pioneers all around us. I guess I’m just trying to say, I was lucky enough to avoid whatever is contaminating the water supply that allows people to sleep easy knowing Uncle Sam is busy supporting women’s lib in Afghanistan, no one really has died, and it’s all worth it if Afghan women walk away with the right to express their metrosexuality. Ho Ho Ho. You sad sacks. But, who knows, born fifty years  later,  I might be a sorry statist too. It’s certainly possible, the good Dr. knows. I wonder, how many of the millennial generation truly surmise the absurdity of the 2016 “election”. Elections are what we had when things were mostly corrupt,but no total collapse of the rule of law. I can’t quite convince myself of what I saw. From the outside, it looked like a chaotic heap of wild dogs, a political train-wreck turned bloodsport. It felt outright dangerous. I wonder if I’ll ever make any sense of it at all. I wonder if after a few drinks, I’ll just shrug it all off as roadkill…. which reminds me..

It’s shy of 10am, and though I’m not in Woody Creek where Hunter fired off many a gratuitous round, I come armed with plenty of tequila, and his voice close enough to my chest, to at least give it the ol’ college try. Don’t think for an instant I have any illusions of filling the Great Dr. Gonzo’s shoes. I’m a fill in. A stooge. Just a man who misses Hunter enough to slop together something for the record, until the real Dr. Gonzo weighs in. It just comes back to that basic universal truth everyone knows; some times, finding a cheap hooker that looks like your ex works out better for your self-esteem, than the subtle shame of smelling an old pair of her socks, eh? … And as long as we’re convince ourselves, manipulated, bribed, cajoled.. shit man, baby, child, whatever you are. And whatever you need to do to forget what really took place what really happened that night at Michael Jackson’s house. Just believe Michael Jackson and you talked about spreads and gambling odds you’d take on the Chicago Bears. Peter Pan and Captain EO rolled into one. A perfect gentlemen minus the nose, who never not once, spent the entire evening chasing you all over the house, screaming I look just like Paris Hilton when it’s dark, and begging to touch you.

Sometimes I wonder how many Africans dream big of injecting every tainted vaccine in the Motherland back into the last blue-grey thing Bill Gates has resembling a vein. Those microchips went to his head, grossly underestimating the African’s awareness to put basic things together and know when it’s getting hosed. And by whom. He’s become as adored in Africa as “How Stella Got her Groove back” is in Yemen. Not at all. I doubt he’ll show his face in Africa again, thinking these third world savages would bypass America on the suspects list and trace it all back to Kali; clearly, it’s the West that has become so feeble minded, opting to send in nerd-boy with devotional trust, who, with all the grace of an elephant proceeded to blow his whole empirical wad  almost immediately. The crux of the International sleight of hand relied on the hope that Africans weren’t quick enough to put together why half the country had become sterilized, some paralyzed. Surely then, no scrutiny would come to the other Gates Foundation act of humanitarianism. Somehow a billionaire went an built, what was in the end deemed to be unhygienic for profit schools,  with dangerous structural flaws, no transparency as to their curriculum, secretive, and not so much as even a forged teaching credential amongst the entire “staff” The most obvious, historically lazy, clandestine failure, led by Caliguila Nerdboy; international relations disaster extraordinaire, with nothing to show for it, other than getting to play  James Bond for a day,instead of sticking to what he’s good at; being a repressed, sexless, billionaire computer nerd that needs to stay the fuck out of Africa. Who would approve of any of this? This is the fall of Rome mentality; a diabolical plan, hatched and implemented by three year olds, yet another black eye for America, just a rogue nation, with so little credibility, it’ll risk exposing itself as a terrorist state for a spy grooming network so glaringly obvious that it failed almost instantly. I can only imagine, any time America shows interest in anything these days,the local politicians just say thank you for the humanitarian aid, wait for America to leave, and make whatever it is they built go away. The Bill and Melinda foundation schools lasted shorter than Ishtar’s run on the big screen. Even the name is baffling. Why Bill has the hubris to make sure to bring his wife down unnecessarily as a two for one, i have no idea. Maybe because it really is a great charity. After all, it’s called a foundation, and that word hasn’t taken a P.R. hit lately. Not at all. How exactly does a billionaire make something unsanitary by African standards and still sleep at night? Don’t go back to Africa, Bill. Unless you enjoy being prodded with every vaccine from Madagascar to Mozambique, rendered an unrecognizable pin cushion by generally pleasant village people who plan on making it an annual event. No remorse for hoggish swine, snake-oil salesmen, just a hooker with a heart of Gollum. No remorse for this poorly scripted, humanitarian, shit- bag, eugenic-terrorist made for T.V. movie that merits sending them all back in a UPS box to face the music. For the rest of his life,  every extravagant classy dinner party Bill and Melinda throw should be stigmatized by law with something humbling and shameful, like mandatory  ice sculptures of Marky Mark skull fucking his wife, and staff legally bound to serve dinner wearing t-shirts depicting Bill Gates on all fours at the zoo, greased up and ready for it, desperately attempting to have the gayest sex ever, with a walrus wearing a bikini and tin-foil hat. Every year from now to eternity, he should be restricted to wearing wet naps as pants,  and be reminded that dumb, decadent billionaire types living through the fall of Rome can’t be trusted to remember how to lick his finger before checking the wind.

Ah but where was I now. somewhere. That much is certain. Clearly I digress, but no time to look back. On the yellow brick road.. the overwhelmingly blinding gold of buildings touched by the Donald. Maybe one day he’ll occasionally add the slightest tinge of mustard, just to keep them guessing.

A tribute to the late great Dr. Gonzo.. Next stop the Trumpicana… to be cont.. 

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IS there still good money in seeing a portrait of a saint in a taco shell?

Suppressing the willingness to critically analyze the world around us has always been a band-aid at best, an impossibility for some. Every stone too heavy to move eventually gets relocated by the mother of invention. She taught me Real Solace; the elusive skill of locating the esoteric veins, the high of maniacal irony and humor in the face of the darkest truths. That challenging checkpoint of the soul where only the depth of our lunacy and creative bursts of brilliance can bring the levity necessary to continue childishly approaching perception, knowing that darkness can only hide in shadows safe to the degree that a culture fails to embrace it’s collective adulthood. A handful of cosmic grandma’s wait for the flood; that profound moment of power, the sense of a mission or grand objective to overcome the infantility of protecting elaborate cocoons and fantastical myths. Waiting for a force of nature to rouse what to the laymen is the highest painful  sacrifice and to the practitioner is the beginnings of freedom; that place where belief systems shatter, and the heroes we all thought we needed exposed as cheap magick that kept us clinging to children stories, reassuring fictions while the mad men ran the world ragged.

Such exponential hubris, all those stories we argued as true, an agenda with no listening skills, from the days in the incubator, when I could barely comprehend the noise outside, how a drop added to a body of water that becomes the ocean that ends human bondage with a mandate, a numbers game won, a coalition of the awake and alive, finally standing at the abyss, nakedly and unflinchingly observing. The great catalyst, our hallmark of maturity, is simply the will to see, illuminating the beasts and shadows protected by our willful ignorance, lurking in the deepest recesses of our rabbit hole, built by mysterious architects, long neglected. Optimism’s twisted definition amounts to the lowly, un-esteemable death and decay that comes with a culture ignoring the escalating infestation of snakes. With each passing day, it begs for humanity to outgrow the need for fairytales, that draw us closer to a just, self-fulfilling prophecy, ensuring a more deeply considered, happier ending on paper then on earth.

… Pretty much the kind of baggage that makes all forms of sentient life galactically ban you and your time-travelling offspring for life from all the best interstellar watering holes, coupled with unapologetically bad seating out in the dark corners of the milky way, not a glance from anyone with less than 14 eyes, unable to interest even a Semi-Organic Cephelopod to join for a drink.

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