Great Shark Hunt by Hunter S. Thompson

Author:Hunter S. Thompson [Thompson, Hunter S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Language Arts & Disciplines, Linguistics, General, History, Literary Criticism, American, Sociology, Biography & Autobiography, United States, Journalism, Editors; Journalists; Publishers, 20th Century
ISBN: 9780446314404
Publisher: Warner Books
Published: 1979-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

PRESIDENT ADMITS WITHHOLDING DATA

TAPES SHOW HE APPROVED COVER-UP

Every half-hour on the half-hour, WXRA -- the truckers' station over in Alexandria -- keeps babbling more and more hideous news of "rapidly dissolving" support in the House and the Senate. All ten members of the House Judiciary Committee who voted against the articles of impeachment on national TV last week have now reversed themselves, for the record, and said they plan to vote for impeachment when -- or if -- it comes to a vote in the House on August 19th. Even Barry Goldwater has leaked (and then denied) a UPI report that he thinks Nixon should resign, for the good of the country. . . and also for the good of Goldwater and everybody else in the Republican party, such as it is.

Indeed. The rats are deserting the ship at high speed. Even the dingbat senator from Colorado, Peter Dominick -- the GOP claghorn who nominated Nixon for the Nobel Peace Prize less than two years ago -- has called the president's 11th-hour admission of complicity in the Watergate cover-up "sorrowful news."

We will not have Richard Nixon to kick around much longer -- which is not especially "sorrowful news" to a lot of people, except that the purging of the cheap little bastard is going to have to take place here in Washington and will take up the rest of our summer.

One day at a time, Sweet Jesus. . . That's all I'm askin' from you. . .

And now the Compton Brothers with a song about ". . . when the wine ran out and the jukebox ran out of tunes. . ."

Jesus, we need more ice and whiskey here. Fill the bag with water and suck down the dregs. The rain is still lashing my window, the dawn sky is still black and this room is damp and cold. Where is the goddamn heat switch? Why is my bed covered with newspaper clips and U.S. Government Printing Office evidence books from the Nixon impeachment hearings?

Ah. . . madness, madness. On a day like this, not even the prospect of Richard Nixon's downfall can work up the blood. This is stone, flatout fucking weather.

On another day like this, a long time ago, I was humming across the bridge out of Louisville, Kentucky, in an old Chevy and three or four good ole boys who worked with me at a furniture factory in Jeffersonville, Indiana. . . The tires were hissing on the wet asphalt, the windshield wipers were lashing back and forth in the early morning rain and we were hunkered down in the car with our lunch bags and moaning along with a mean country tune on the radio when somebody said:

"Jesus Christ. Why are we going to work on a day like this? We must be goddamn crazy. This is the kind of day when you want to be belly-to-belly with a good woman, in a warm bed under a tin roof with the rain beating down and a bottle of good whiskey right next to the bed.

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