Hunter S. Thompson submits a comment to Bed Bath & Beyond's website (2004):
|Dear Blood-sucking Sons of Whores,|
I bought some metallic bullshit to hang on the wall of Owl Farm at your festering cesspit of a store back in August. Imagine three mirrors the size and shape of anti-personnel land mines held together by a twisted wreck of brushed nickel like Satan tried to Chrome a New Orleans garden gate. I don't know what awful spirit of some godforsaken dead Indian came over me that made me buy this scrap metal for the hallway wall, but the junk won't stay hanging.
Wall hangers wouldn't hold the mess up long enough for me to turn my back and so I began a terrible odyssey through the world of carpentry nails. Your fucking devil-spawned yuppie trash sent me to this particular hell, and I hold you accountable as a corporation and trustee of the American Way to reimburse and compensate me for any wrongful injuries, wounds, scars, blemishes, dry-socket, or fucking wailing wake-up-in-sweat nightmares this horrible journey has visited upon my body and mind.
I don't want my money back. I wouldn't piss on thousand-dollar-bills from one of your registers. Take that 89 fucking dollars and 99 fucking cents, plus whatever tax the great state of Colorado saw fit to apply to the capitalistic equivalent of a sawhorse assfucking, in pennies. Take those pennies and melt them down in a cauldron. Pour that cauldron in your filthy fucking whore eyes you sons of bitches, and may visions of my face haunt your memories of sight.
May your children have tiny dicks and may all of your boots be filled with stinging scorpions, you yellow fucking cowards.
|Hey, Fruitloops or whatever you're called,|
I've got a great gum story and I could use ten grand. I don't know if it was Fruitloops gum in my story, but I don't see how it makes a difference so when you use my story just stick in whatever goofy name you homos want to use for the gum. Don't make a difference to me.
Third game of the World Series, I was laid up with a knee injury. I was being visited daily by Elsie, broad I used to see on and off. She wasn't no hooker but she was only about half a step away. You'd hold the car door open for her and ten minutes later she'd be trying to suck the bunions off your feet through your dick. Give her a Kaiser roll and a little butter and anything goes, no holes barred. She was that kind of gal. Real sweetheart.
So she was doing me a half-and-half (blow and screw) to keep my spirits up, but my ligaments and what have you were so torn up even getting on my good side and doing her up the rear was really hurting. A BJ suited me fine, but Elsie had one of them jaw conditions that drove her crazy if you took too long (or so she claimed, honestly there's no telling with broads when it comes to the meat flute) and considering the pain in my knee she'd work me like a piece of penny taffy and end up with bupkis .
She comes in on my third day in the hospital and she's snapping gum. She tries the half-and-half, but she's killing my leg and I have to tell her to give it a rest. She starts jacking me off, but hell, a guy can choke his own goat twice as good as a gal. Then she does something I ain't seen before or since. She blows a big bubble with this gum she's chewing and then lowers the bubble over the old bat. It sticks onto the top and it feels amazing. Just to be sure she sucks her thumb and then jams it where the sun don't shine.
Not two minutes later I blast the hugest nut I've ever blasted anywhere. Musta been nearly half a cup. Without pausing to think about it she pops my coffee stirrer into the bubble and drinks the whole thing. What a gal. I think she ended up getting beat to death years later by some colored fella from the Dodgers. Could have that wrong.
So you can send the 10 grand for that one to the address on the envelope. If you can let me know if you use it on the TV it would be appreciated.
|To thee of shadowed heart,|
What humours these pollute my plate? Oh, 'twas naught but Frigsby's Victuals. The veil of flavor shorn, the taste muted as by cotton. No firmament give up your potted goose heart, the bowels of sulphurous pit more likely be the source.
Were I to suckle upon a stone thrice the flavor would I find, ye widow's wombs. He test'd Job and Isaac, now He tests His faithful, William Blake, upon this cold stone of bland and nigh inedible pott'd meats. Back, ye, to the pit. Back, ye, to the flux-addl'd courtesan and her festering satchel.
May no warmth of the Kingdom shine upon Frigsby's. May it be ensconced in stinking clouds and beset by gnawing teeth of vermin big and small.
Frigsby's Potted Goose Heart Victuals shan't be commend'd to any but the bilge. Not worthy for bait nor meal for dogs. Frisgby's, at last, I bid thee perish, and be forgotten.
it's hard to shake the feeling that I've always got five stars in this Grand Theft Auto known as life.
Now, inexplicably, season three is looming over us like some sort of dome. Season one's plot asked whether or not the town could get out from under the dome. Apparently the answer was "no". Season two asked "I guess we're really stuck, huh?" and the answer was "yup".
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