Graphic Artists - your mad Skillz requested!

[Duc L'Smart]

Oh, and here's the story you were looking for - "Song of the Sausage Creature"

http://www.latexnet.org/~csmith/sausage.html

I want to be HST when I grow up...

[fastwin]

Ryan, I've got a couple of those lines in my profile crap... see below. My friend and I had the pleasure of attending a "lecture" by the good Hunter S. Thompson at the LBJ School of Public Affairs at UT/Austin in the early 70s. The exact date is a little IZ_. I do remember him being late and lecturing from the podium with a towel drapped over his head the whole time. Not really sure what the topic was about... seemed a little disjointed and wandering for some reason. May have been because he was more stoned than the entire collective audience. At least that what I was told the next day when I woke up in someone's closet. Anyway, we all seemed to have survived the 70s. I'm sorry he didn't see fit to survive longer than he did. Teeth like baseballs and eyes like jellied fire!! Gonzo journalism at its best.

[♣ McKraut ♣]

The exact date is a little IZ_.

i'm sure he was the *only* one a little stoned, right?

I want to be HST when I grow up...

i'm kind of sorry to hear that, man.  you know, all things considered...

[never2loud]

About 20 years ago, a friend our's asked if I'd read Hunter S. Thompson's, "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," and I replied with something witty like, "Never heard of him..."  Naturally, I was badgered into reading the book and it is, to this day, my favorite book ever.

His suicide was  shocking but I never could, come to think of it, see him simply fading into that sweet good-night     RIP

[NorDog]

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.