Fuck:

DENVER (AP) — Hunter S. Thompson, the acerbic counterculture writer who popularized a new form of fictional journalism in books like “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” fatally shot himself Sunday night at his Aspen-area home, his son said. He was 67.

Like many young, aspiring journalists, I was a huge HST fan in my college days. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas was what I aspired to. The closest I ever came was Search for the Perfect Long Island Iced Tea, a piece I co-wrote for my college magazine with my friend Larry. It was weird, but not nearly weird enough. We were amateurs playing grown-up.

Beyond the gonzo, though, Hunter was a fantastic journalist and writer. Hells Angels and Fear and Loathing: On The Campaign Trail ’72 are classics that I’ve read and re-read many times over the years and have always had a place on my bookshelf.

This news is hitting me really hard. I’m surprised by that, actually; it’s been a long time since I was an “active” fan. I think the last book of his that I rushed out to buy was The Curse of Lono, and that was back in the 80’s. Still, though, I’m close to tears now knowing that he’s gone — and how he went.

One of my heroes has died.

Myths and legends die hard in America. We love them for the extra dimension they provide, the illusion of near-infinite possibility to erase the narrow confines of most men’s reality. Weird heroes and mould-breaking champions exist as living proof to those who need it that the tyranny of ”the rat race” is not yet final.

— Hunter S. Thompson
7/18/1937 – 2/20/2005

Oh look, a Batesville Casket Company truck. Ah, memories of the Mojave Phone Booth and the mission into the desert to Hang It Up that Steve and I undertook.

In retrospect, I think I was wrong about that Batesville truck we encountered in the Denny’s parking lot. It wasn’t going to where the business was after all, it really was an omen: The Booth’s days were numbered.

Poking around in my webstats, it’s funny to see what search strings lead people here to deadpan. Having a blog here called “Diary of a SubUrban Housewife” that frequently uses words like “boob” and “breast” and “sex” and “fuck” and let’s not forget “housewife” in the title … well, you see where I’m going with it — it draws a certain class of websearcher. The one-handed typing kind.

But people have other things on their minds, too, and let me just say: Y’all are some weird googling motherfuckers. Here are some of the stranger keyphrases that have landed surfers at deadpan:

histosalpingogram
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mother-in-law s lingerie
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coughing up green chunks of phlegm
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And my personal favorite:

abscess forming on gumline after root canal

But you know what? I’m not picky, I’m happy to get readers any way I can. Like the song says, “I don’t care how you get here, just get here if you can.”