How to F#@k a Human Jackal: A Love Letter to Hunter S. Thompson

Originally published at on April 13, 2017.

Author’s note: As a fake journalist, I never imagined I would miss a real deadline. My apologies for the tardiness of this story, which should have been posted weeks ago. Although I am tempted to prevaricate and mutter something about “alternative deadlines,” such excuses would only further obfuscate our foggy national ethos. Clear, accurate reporting remains the goal.

— J-Man

Dear Dr. Thompson,

I’m sorry, but this letter is going to be a bummer, as you would say.

For my money, there is nothing you, a bottle of Wild Turkey, and a typewriter cannot conquer, especially when faced with a dark and slippery adversary. As such, I write with an urgency I believe warrants interrupting whatever currently has your attention on the other side.

In short, the sum of my confession is this: a small army of despised “greedheads” has descended upon your turf, Aspen, which you once insisted was a battle-ground of culture in America. That theory is being tested, Dr. Thompson, as the Trumps and their entourage play in your well-fortified snow.

I keep thinking about the second edict of your Thompson for Sheriff campaign, when you referred to Aspen investors as “land-rapers” and “human jackal”:

These swine should be fucked, broken, and driven across the land.

I am compelled to consult the OED to parse a few of your bon mots, so as to be sure exactly what we’re dealing with. First, there are the jackals. OED says they are dog-like, bushy-tailed, and hunt in packs. Sounds relatively innocuous, but you follow this jab with “swine,” a word the OED doesn’t seem to like very much: “an adult pig; a hog; a lascivious, coarse person, esp. a man.” The identity of the latter goes without saying, and the former are land-raping your paradise, which no longer has the protection of you or your words.

But words don’t matter to this clan, whose general sentiment of unreality pervades so much of American life in the early twenty-first century. Our disillusionment seems to parallel yours after Nixon’s reelection in ’72, when you echoed your summation of the Sheriff’s race:

The American Dream really is fucked.

Today we are living out your most fantastic nightmares about American greed, power, and political ambition — the Nixonian dark side, as you would say, of our young experiment-of-a-country’s soul. Nevertheless, the U.S. still refuses to acknowledge an open secret regarding its national spirit: in part, we have always been a country of land-rapers, greedheads, and human jackals.

But as you noted nearly fifty years ago, the U.S also possesses immense potential to be a “fantastic monument,” a society future generations might not look back on with total disgust, if only we’d found a way to stop another “greedy little hustler” from getting into the White House. And this buffoon has half the brain and twice the ambition of your nosy nemesis. We are dealing with a huckster who has bullshitted his way through existence. Now he is bullshitting his way through the American Presidency. Even a casual glance at the official White House narrative leads thoughtful, humane citizens to absurd, tragicomic despair.

And the news gets worse, for while the Trumputians pillage your home-base, Trump himself has been on the other side of the country, kicking Hu Bian for the first time since he began having it administered rectally. Something’s up with the Asian market, and he can’t take any chances with his Russian sources right now. He had no choice but to kick. So the president locked himself in the Oval Office and began to sweat and shit out all the Hu Bian he’s been jamming into his body since the Inauguration.

The administration is still denying the reports, which claim that sometime around 3 AM, Secret Service agents heard strange noises coming from the Oval Office: grunts, moans, and even a few glut-clenching “Ugghhh”s. When agents finally broke down the door, they found Trump face-down with a note stuck to his bare orange ass. As of now, the scrawl circulating on social media news sites remains “unofficial.” Here is the transcription:

I have lost my way, and I don’t remember how I got here. I know I don’t like it. It feels like a market for pain, full of labels and psychotic-sounding brand-names. It’s a hellishly lit supermarket, and I remember wandering these aisles last night — a little bit of this, a little bit of that, and a lot of . . . yep, that’s what got me here. But why isn’t there anyone in the store? Is this place even open? I remember doing business here last night, and it didn’t feel like a shivering emptiness. Last night I was all eyes, and my smile was stretched like a Russian —

Here the note becomes illegible in parts (an unfamiliar liquid appears to have blurred the president’s words) and shredded in others. It had Alejandro’s paw-prints all over it.

It seems, Dr. Thompson, that the big cat got to both Trump and his junkie-confession drivel. When I first read the note, I was tempted to believe there might be a Nero hiding in that over-sized suit, but then I realized it was the Hu-Bian-crash talking crazy on paper. In any case, caveat utior, as the Roman pushers used to say.

Predictably, Trump tried to skip recovery steps and get straight to “the deal,” but you could have warned him, Dr. Thompson: kicking is no deal.

There was round condemnation of the FBI’s handling of what it still refuses to call “evidence”: a tiger-jizz-stained note in Trump’s tiny handwriting, and Alejandro standing guard over Trump, who went timber onto the carpeted presidential seal, shaking violently as the secret service reached for the sticky paper. Of course, there was immediate media clamor that it be tested for Alejandro’s DNA, so that we would finally have the ocular proof that the President of the United States takes his Tiger Penis straight, like a real pussy-grabber.

But no one took any photos, so for now history is left to the twisted agenda of the president’s rabid animal farm, and we are left to imagine the scene.

All I hear is your mumbled wisdom rattling around 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in ovular echoes:

Seems clear to me: a Bengal Tiger is butt-fucking the president. I covered this story forty-five years ago.

We need you, Dr. Thompson. You knew how to deal with beasts.

Sincerely, and with manly love,