Weekend at Hunter's

The Rocky Mountain News runs this story featuring Hunter Thompson’s widow, who states matter-of-factily that she sees nothing abnormal about her husband shooting himself through the mouth at their kitchen table, how brave an act it was, and how she always knew that he would “go before her.” I guess the fact that she is 32 and he was 67 might have made the latter inevitable. How sweet it must have been for her and her loved ones to be standing around the kitchen, toasting Hunter’s life while his still warm corpse was sitting right there with them. I wonder, did they prop him up so they could see if he was smiling? Oh, and I love this part:

Upon seeing Hunter Thompson’s body, she embraced him. “Since he’d done this, I did not want to make it difficult for his spirit,” she said. “I wanted to make it loving.”

And this gem:

“His face did look calm and peaceful. He looked content. Like he wanted it.”

OK, all together now… FREAK! Crazy whacked out FREAK! Make that FREAKS! Hunter was just as big a loon as she is. Are we suppose to applaud this woman for her bravery, her dedication to her husband or what? For the life of me, I don’t get this at all.

Update: Of course, suicide is always good for business.

Comments

  1. Alan Kellogg says:

    People do romanticise the damndest things. Vampires for example. Or socialists.

    Want to know where Thompson is right now? Unless he’s called for help, he’s in Hell.

    1953: I’m a young soldier serving in Korea. We’re off the coast of South Korea going through exercises. We’ve been making progress against the North Koreans and Red Chinese, and it looks like they’re starting to crumple. The plan is to make small scale landing along the North Korea coast to winkle out the enemy and speed up progress in out offensives.

    On that day I got a letter from my sweetie. A “Dear John” letter. As I’m standing there, stunned, word comes down; we’re doing a landing craft exercise.

    So it’s gather up your gear and head for the cargo nets. Less then halfway down I tell myself, “Hell with this.” and let go. I hit the water in full gear and quickly slip under. I made no effort to save myself.

    The world goes dark. Then I’m back. It’s still dark. But now I’m rooted, unable to move. And it hurts. Not a physical pain, an emotional pain. The pain of loss and despair. An all encompassing pain that I cannot escape. Not until I cry out for God’s help.

    And with that cry comes another darkness. But the pain is gone. Then birth and a new life.

    I learned two things from this. 1; God wants to send you back for another go-around, you’re going back for another go-around. 2; You don’t kill yourself, period.

    I’ll die when I die, but I’m not going to rush it. As for Hunter S. Thompson, if he hasn’t asked for forgiveness/assistance, I hope he does so soon.

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