r.i.p., h.s.t.

The infamous outlaw prince of gonzo journalism, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, is dead, and our world is exponentially poorer for it.

Hunter Stockton Thompson, 1937-2005

I could usually give two tugs of a dead dog's cock when a celebrity dies, but this, given the nature of his death...this is horrible.

Words fail. The books written by the man pictured above have been ingrained in my psyche since high school, and I wouldn't want to imagine a world where those books hadn't been written. If you've never read his Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, you owe it to yourself to do so. (And no, watching the movie doesn't count.)

After all, you don't think a dumb guy like me came up with a slick phrase like "two tugs of a dead dog's cock" on his own, do you? That's all the good Doctor.

At least one Justo Juez santaria candle will burn in your honor tonight, Doc. Wherever you are or aren't, as the case may be.