Hunter S. Thompson Did Not F*ck Around

Props to Julia Segal for digging up this old story in which the AP had Hunter S. Thompson’s biographer chronicle what Thompson’s typical day involved. As you can see, it was, well, about what you’d expect. And pretty much exactly how Danger Guerrero spends each day, only with less orange juice (much too healthy) and different hours.

This reminds me of a letter that surfaced a few years ago in which Thompson detailed his typical breakfast.

I like to eat breakfast alone, and almost never before noon; anybody with a terminally jangled lifestyle needs at least one psychic anchor every twenty-four hours, and mine is breakfast. In Hong Kong, Dallas, or at home—and regardless of whether or not I have been to bed—breakfast is a personal ritual that can only be properly observed alone, and in a spirit of genuine excess. The food factor should always be massive: four Bloody Marys, two grapefruits, a pot of coffee, Rangoon crêpes, a half-pound of either sausage, bacon, or corned-beef hash with diced chilies, a Spanish omelette or eggs Benedict, a quart of milk, a chopped lemon for random seasoning, and something like a slice of key lime pie, two margaritas and six lines of the best cocaine for dessert…Right, and there should also be two or three newspapers, all mail and messages, a telephone, a notebook for planning the next twenty-four hours, and at least one source of good music…all of which should be dealt with outside, in the warmth of a hot sun, and preferably stone naked.

Seriously though, how the hell did this f*cker live to be 67?! And to think that he took his own life, at that! If most of us ate like that for a week we’d gain 25 pounds and our blood pressure and cholesterol would shoot through the roof. Also, DIABEETUS! Jesus Christ. Dude was a genetic freak or something

And yeah, totally insane…

(Pic via)