A message from Hunter S. Thompson to Charlie Sheen
Charlie,
You are a vortex, howling outrage to dark stars,
habitually loaded with potent intoxicants and
a skull full of Beethoven-grade egomania.
I like you.
We are both a maze of complex behavioral experiments
our parents find hard to explain.
So, if you’re looking to be a Freak Power candidate,
if you’re looking to get Gonzo, my boy, here’s how:
Equip yourself with a proper firearm.
Perhaps a .454 Magnum pistol.
Or perhaps not.
That gun really is too much, unless
you want to destroy a Buick at 200 yards.
Get locked into a serious drug collection.
Push it as far as you can.
Child, I was banging seven-gram rocks in grade school.
I have railed things far more hazardous than Charlie Sheen
from the dirty porcelain rim of a dive-bar urinal
without my face melting off.
If you’re looking to plumb your own animalic depths,
you’ll need at least:
two bags of grass
seventy-five pellets of mescaline
five sheets of high-powered blotter acid
a salt shaker half full of cocaine
a quart of tequila
a quart of rum
a case of Budweiser
a pint of raw ether
two dozen amyls
and a whole galaxy of
multicolored uppers, downers, screamers, and laughers.
I speak with some experience here.
Young man, make a beast of yourself.
This will rid you of the pain
of being human.
But ho ho ho. Let’s not get carried away here.
Freedom was yesterday in this country.
Charlie, you live in an empire
controlled by errand boys for a
vengeful, bloodthirsty cartel of
raving Jesus-Freaks and super-rich money mongers.
Tread carefully. They love you
as their performing monkey on CBS, but
make no mistake.
Speak too candidly, and an execution behind the woodshed
becomes the best of possible outcomes.
I have seen you, screaming your gibberish to
the world wide web, your agent on speaker-phone,
that you are WINNING!
I ask you son: is it wise to add up the Score right now?
What if you come out a Loser?
Ye gods, let’s be careful about this.
We wander into dangerous territory.
Charlie, I ate the business end of a 12 gauge shotgun for breakfast,
had Johnny Depp fire my ashes into the stratosphere
from a cannon of my own design,
so you see, my boy, I’ve already beaten you at my own game.
Even with Tiger’s Blood in your veins
you’ll never get as high or seem so depraved
as I did that day, post mortem.
Tread carefully Charlie.
No matter how inevitable your sense of victory
over the Old and Evil,
you may yet find yourself, riding
the crest of a high and beautiful wave
as it finally breaks, rolls backward
into oblivion.
