Comments on the death of Hunter Thompson (at the request of Anonymous)

Famous writer and doctor of journalism Hunter S. Thompson decided a beautiful way to end his life would be to blow his brains out.

Shortly afterward, his family gathered around the room in which he committed this brave, triumphant act and shared stories over glasses of “his favorite elixir – Chivas Regal on ice,” according to The Rocky Mountain News.

Due to the large number of police present they were unable to indulge in his other favorite substances until later.

For those who are unfamiliar with Thompson, his quirky, satirical form of journalism won him fame and has been copied by many lesser writers since. Probably his most famous work (thanks to Woody Harrelson) is “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” in which he chronicles a drug-hazed trip to Vegas with his lawyer to cover a story (“Better get some golf shoes,” he advises his lawyer in a casino, “or we’ll never get out of here alive.”)

But alas he must have led a very sad life. As his wife, Anita, said, “He gave his body everything it wanted.” (i.e. mescaline, cocaine, heroine, a bullet in the mouth, etc.)

The 50-paragraph article tells the touching story of Hunter’s last day. To sum it up, in less than fifty paragraphs, he got in an argument with Anita and she went to the gym.

They talked for about ten minutes while she was at the gym, and he told her to come home afterward and they would work on a column. The conversation never ended.

Then he shot himself, with his son, grandson and daughter-in-law in the house (this supposedly made him at peace).

The rest of the story is filled with nonsense about how this is how he wanted to go, the environment is so loving for his spirit which is still around, he shot himself in the mouth so as not to ruin his face and create a mess for the family, this is triumph, yada yada yada.

How sad that the great minds are so often the tortured ones. I would rather be a mediocre writer and be able to say, “even so, it is well with my soul,” than be a Thompson, a Poe or a King (yes I think Stephen King is a great writer. I hate his stories but his prose are beautiful) and have all the success in the world but still the desire to shoot myself in the head.

You will never convince me that a 67-year-old man with a 30-something wife, huge success, and a pesky habit of using every illegal substance known to man was so happy he just thought a bullet in his head was the perfect goodbye.

What a twisted soul he must have had.