Hey, Hunter, just do it
Dear Editor:(This letter was originally addressed to Hunter S. Thompson)Just learned from your “Hey Rube” column at http://www.espn.com that you have a new book out called “Hey Rube.” Apparently the book is really just a compendium of the online columns you’ve occasionally posted there concerning sports (mostly), gambling, and visits from Johnny Depp.How nice. I suppose congratulations are in order. Another book in your curriculum vitae can’t help but be a good thing, eh? You bet, Bubba. And why not? Hell, if the bloodthirsty savages who are your fans will actually buy such recycled pap, throw them a pork chop, right?Well, I ain’t buyin’ it, Mister. I’ve bought everything else with your name on the spine and read many of them several times, but “Hey Rube” can rot on the vine, for all I care. This “book” about bad picks and the funny way a football bounces is just the scat of wolverines on a pissed-on trail, Hunter. And you know it.”Fine,” I can hear you say. And maybe, “What the f— do you want? Don’t you realize that I’ve given my all, and that I’m now old and tired? And that maybe someone else should step up and carry the [expletive] torch.”I appreciate those sentiments, Hunter. I really do.But to answer your (imagined) first question, what I want is for you to book a flight to Key Biscayne, inform the front desk that you would like a dozen grapefruits and six bottles of Chivas Regal delivered to your suite immediately, then I want you to kick in the chained, padlocked door to gain entry, one last time, to the National Affairs Desk.I want you to arrange nebulous and far-reaching accounts billable to Jann Wenner and/or Rolling Stone (or, perhaps, Drudge). Something tells me he has more money. Esquire? Playboy? I want you to plug in an IBM Selectric and a fat, old, still-wholly-functional FAX machine. I want you to make late-night calls to George McGovern and Bill Clinton from your suite – both will still be awake. I want you to publish White House denials for a press pass to the daily briefings, then sneak in anyway. (It shouldn’t be all that difficult, and Helen Thomas would be pleased to have you nearby.) I want you to take Tucker Carlson fishing, on an off-night perhaps when the candidates are catching their breath somewhere between Topeka and Pittsburgh, making sure that his hook has no barb and that your bow tie, carefully tended by Ashante (bless her heart) is aligned. I want you to ask John Kerry why his facial expressions never change, no matter what he says, and I want you to ask George W. Bush what he thinks about the fact that half the country considers him an evil simpleton who might have more success were he to drink again. I want you to torment the secret service in Baltimore; I want you to shag Tom DeLay for three consecutive days for the fun of it; I want you to compliment Jenna Bush on her nipples during an accidental meeting at the Watergate.In short, Hunter, I want you to cover this election for real. Who else is gonna do it? P.J. O’Rourke? Molly Ivins? Sean Hannity? I know it’s a savage chore, but your country needs you. Come on! One last time! Pack a small bag, make arrangements for the peacocks, contact your favorite attorney, and just do it. Please.Jay WindsorOjai, Calif.
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