Friday, November 21, 1997

Sex and Pork Rinds

(to the tune of Marcy Playground's "Sex and Candy") 


Hangin' round at the local ice cream shop
Had me a cone
But I know just when to stop
And there she was
A massive fatass pudge
Yeah there she was
Like Crisco double fudge
I smell sex and pork rinds
Who's that breaking …
The back of her poor chair?
Who's that casting devious stares
At my confection?
Mama this surely is a dream



Monday, November 3, 1997

Fear and Loathing at Yuletide

9:00 A HUNTER S. THOMPSON FAMILY CHRISTMAS. Friends old and new gather at the Thompson freehold to celebrate the season -- and the end of all things.

EXT, THOMPSON RANCH - NIGHT
Drifts of white powder almost covering the walkway to the enormous double entrance doors . The camera tracks up to the doors -- which magically open! We enter ...

INT, THOMPSON RANCH
...a vast open space with roaring fireplace and enormous Christmas tree wherein HUNTER S. THOMPSON celebrates with a festive crowd of friends and hallucinations. The BURL IVES SNOWMAN, patrolling with a shotgun vigilante-style, JESUS, BUDDHA, the WHORE OF BABYLON and BOB MARLEY.

SAMOAN LAWYER: Goddamn -- that angel on the top of the tree? There's fucking blood coming out, man. Jesus Christ!

JESUS: What?

LAWYER: Forget it. (to THOMPSON) So whaddya want for Christmas?

THOMPSON: Nothing...

BUDDHA smiles.

THOMPSON: I already had my fucking Christmas present.

VIGILANTE SNOWMAN: (Burle Ives-ish) Which was...?

THOMPSON: The death of John Denver.

The room applauds.

THOMPSON: I killed John Denver.

BOB MARLEY: I shot the Sherrif.

THOMPSON: Witchcraft. Scientific witchcraft.

MARLEY: But I did not shoot no Deputy.

THOMPSON: Fucker's up in his little, fag ultralight. Me? I'm riding my scooter...bringing him down. Just like Damien. Just got on my little Big Chief scooter and went round and round and round in circles -- widdershins -- counterclockwise, for the uninitiated, turning time back against itself like he did, murder not being murder, as Maggot pointed out...

TELLY SEVALAS: (sucking Tootsie Pop) Who loves ya, babe?

THOMPSON: ...when you're an instrument of the Lord's vengeance on that unaborted, pink-ass, baby-faced, moonpie, shitsucking, countryboy, fake-fucking, est-hole WINDOW into the direct cognition of emptiness before sunyatta, the void. Got that torque going...Coriolis effect. I created a vortex, see? A shearing factor. Fucker went down. He brought me down...he went down. Into the void. A mathematical expression of karma worthy of Dante on a six-day windowpane binge.

VIGILANTE SNOWMAN: But why'd you kill him?

THOMPSON: He's a toad...that's in the Book of Revelations, the part the fucking Gideons rip out where they print the answers in the back of the fucking book -- the Toad of Babylon! I wanted to kill him and lick the back of his head and see what it did to me.

MARLEY: Makes sense.

THOMPSON: (holding up JOHN DENVER'S severed head -- he licks it) Nothing.

WHORE OF BABYLON: Me some too!

She takes the head. Licks it.

MARLEY: Don't bogart that head.

BOGART: I won't.

They pass the head around...

VIGILANTE SNOWMAN: What's say we sing a song?

EVERYBODY: Let's do!

The VIGILANTE SNOWMAN maneuvers about the room on his spherical fundament. He sings -- and everybody else joins in...

To the tune of "When Christmas Time is Here" from the "Rudolph the Rednose Reindeer Christmas" special ...

SNOWMAN...

Some acid for Molly, a hashpipe for Sue
A-dren-e-chrome cocktail
Well how-do-you-do?
When Christmastime is here...
We'll get fucked for the rest of the year!

VARIOUS WASTED, DECADENT PARTYGOERS...

I like to smoke reefer
I like to sniff glue
I do lots of coke...
And then I just screw!
When Christmastime is here...
We'll get fucked for the rest of the year!

The eyes on JOHN DENVER's head open. He begins merrily singing too as the song fades out and the VIGILANTE SNOWMAN rolls up to us...

VIGILANTE SNOWMAN: (putting on top hat as he begins to roll away from the celebration) Well, this charming ditty continues through a fairly comprehensive catalog of illicit substances, too numerous to get into at this time. Hunter S. Thompson is now in possession of an automatic weapon, by which he holds off the gate-crashing skeleton army as the Whore of Babylon goes down on him and the partygoers get up a lively game of soccer with John Denver's head. Sad to say, I must leave these revelers for now -- as I'm off to fight corporate crime in the gritty streets of a degenerate, post-Apocalyptic America! But remember this, kids... (eyes twinkling) The party's only over when you stop...

He rolls away.

The camera pulls back from the ranch.

Bright, bright powder falls.


Chickenshit Disclaimer: Drugs are bad, kids. This is a satire. Specifically, a satire of Hunter S. Thompson's overheated gonzo prose and those creepy Rankin/Bass stop-motion animation Christmas specials. Like, two great tastes that go great together, dig? But for the record: If you lick the back of John Denver's severed head, you will get seriously high.

Merry Christmas.