Hunter Thompson is back from the grave, and writing1 something fun to read for the first time in — what? — fifteen years. Still, all his years lying in a vodka-soaked crypt, drifts of cocaine crunching everytime he twitched in his coma, seem like a bad dream now:
Kerry came into October as a five-point underdog with almost no chance of winning three out of three rigged confrontations with a treacherous little freak like George Bush. But the debates are over now, and the victor was clearly John Kerry every time. He steamrollered Bush and left him for roadkill.
Did you see Bush on TV, trying to debate? Jesus, he talked like a donkey with no brains at all. The tide turned early, in Coral Gables, when Bush went belly up less than halfway through his first bout with Kerry, who hammered poor George into jelly. It was pitiful. . . . I almost felt sorry for him, until I heard someone call him “Mister President,” and then I felt ashamed.
1 Of course, he might just have acquired a decent editor; but I’d rather have faith in miracles.