Proper Nomenclature - The Men Who Make People Better

" Each Life creates The Next - no wonder Time Lords and Buddhists get on so well. " 

- The Chorister

"The Old Man must die;

and The New Man Will Discover,

to his inexpressible joy,

that He has never existed...!"

- Buddhist/Time Lord Aphorism

K'Ampo Rimpoche

"This is above all Strangeness..."

" This Doctor keeps cropping up all over the place. 

Political diaries, conspiracy theories, even ghost stories. No first name, no last name, just The Doctor. 

Always The Doctor. 

And the title seems to have been passed down from Father to Son. 

It appears to be an inheritance.... "

- Clive Finch, 2005

Old Grandfather

The Cosmic Hobo

The Established Dandy

The Exception That is The Rule

The Chorister

The Colourful Jester

Time's Champion

Life's Champion

Intermezzo

"You were The Doctor on The Day it Was Impossible to Be The Doctor"

The Designated Survivor

Perfect 10

( The Life So Nice, I Lived it Twice )

The Chin

Dr. Disco - The Wait of The Whirled

The Wait of The Whirled: 

Sontarans! Perverting the Course of Human History! 

I Don't Want to Go. 

When The Doctor, When The Doctor Was Me. 

When The Doctor Was Me. 

It's starting. 

I'm regenerating. 

No! No! No! No! No! No! 

(The Regeneration stops, and The TARDIS has materialised.) 

The Wait of The Whirled: 

Where have you taken me? 
If you're trying to make a point, I'm not listening. 

I Don't Want to Change Again. 

Never Again! 

I Can't Keep on Being Somebody Else. 

Wherever it is, I'm staying. 

( He runs outside and the Cloister Bell sounds. )

[Snowstorm]

The Wait of The Whirled: 

No! 

( He plunges his hands into the snow with a sizzle - )

( HE HEALS THE EARTH )

( The Regeneration stops again. ) 

The Wait of The Whirled: 

I Will Not Change. 

Old Grandfather: 

I Will Not Change.

I Will Not!

No, no, no, no. 

The Whole Thing's ridiculous. 

The Wait of The Whirled: 

Hello? Is someone there? 

Old Grandfather: 

Who is that? 

The Wait of The Whirled: 

I'm The Doctor. 

(The elderly figure in checked trousers, cape, scarf and astrakhan hat comes into view.) 

Old Grandfather : 

The Doctor...? 

Oh, I don't think so. 

No, dear me, no. 

Old Grandfather : 

You may be a doctor, 

but I am The Doctor. 

The Original, you might say!

The Woman.

"The Old Man must die * ;

and The Woman Will Discover,

to Her inexpressible joy,

that She has never existed...!

...and so She says :

'Oh, brilliant...!' indeed, matey!

" To Sherlock Holmes she is always The Woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. 

It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer—excellent for drawing the veil from men’s motives and actions. 

But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. 

And yet there was but One Woman to him.

I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition...

*****

"What a Woman—oh, what a Woman!” cried the King of Bohemia, when we had all three read this epistle.

"Did I not tell you how quick and resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?”

“From what I have seen of The Lady, she seems, indeed, to be on a very different level to your Majesty,” said Holmes coldly.

[ He ain't kidding... ]

“I am sorry that I have not been able to bring your Majesty’s business to a more successful conclusion.”

“On the contrary, my dear sir,” cried the King; “nothing could be more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire.”

“I am glad to hear your Majesty say so.  [ Because I failed - She beat me.  And She knows that She did. And then didn't rub my nose in it by gloating over having humiliated and emasculated me (and The King) in front of my client and employer - who is The King. And a Fool. ]”

“I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can reward you. This ring—” He slipped an emerald snake ring from his finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand.

[ What a Tool... ]

“Your Majesty has something which I should value even more highly,” said Holmes.

“You have but to name it.”

“This photograph!”

The King stared at him in amazement.

“Irene’s photograph!” he cried. “Certainly, if you wish it.”

“I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the matter. I have the honour to wish you a very good morning.” He bowed, and, turning away without observing the hand which the King had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers. 

And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a woman’s wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honourable title of The Woman. 

"Something is added to cricket by the angle of the sun as it stands at four o'clock in early September. 

The shadows are longer, there's a suggestion of colder days approaching, of Circular Time, of aspects of our lives dying away and returning. 

The other sort of time is called Linear Time -- Life is hard and then one dies.... if that's something one is liable to do. 

Cricket, to me, seems to stand for The Former and against The Latter. 

It's something that dies but returns and writes mortals into History, in stories and statistics. Perhaps that's why it appeals to me. 

I, also, die and return, like a hardy perennial. 

However, Linear Time is currently impinging on the Hampshire town of Stockbridge in the form of an end-of-season struggle to avoid relegation from the top-most league of village cricket. 

They're raging against the dying of the light, they need wins not draws. They need umpires to take the brightest possible view of those stormy skies overhead. 

They need to play in horizontal rain if they have to. I've seen them do just that in the last couple of weeks, but I've joined them so late this year that I may not be much help...."

[ * Letting go, as He does so, to thelast  physical renmant of the mourning of The Memory of Prof. River Song ]

Brand X on the March to Nowhere - "Love" spoken backwards is "Vole"

Phone-in Caller, 1984 : 

I was wondering what your opinion was regarding Lyndon H. LaRouche...?

Dave Emory, 1984 :

I know almost nothing about Mr. LaRouche, but I have noticed that he appears to have rather a lot of money.

‘He discredits leftwing thought’: Russell Brand addresses anti-austerity demonstrators at a rally in London in June. Photograph: Rex Features

"The rich can buy anything in Britain, and they have now brought us their own opposition. Russell Brand is the voice of the discontented wealthy. He tells us that money can’t buy you love – which I already knew – and that only the complete overthrow of the existing system and embrace of mysticism can take us from “the shallow pool of the known” to the “great untamable ocean” beyond.

I was prepared to dismiss Revolution as the swollen ramblings of a jaded celeb. Brand leaves you in little doubt that he is trying to escape the ennui that follows trying everything once except incest and folk dancing. “It’s only because I decimated my life by aggressively pursuing eating, wanking, drinking, consuming and getting famous that I was forced to look at spiritual alternatives.” Inspiring a revolution – for such is his ambition – is one of the few thrills to have escaped him. “The revolution cannot be boring,” he says as he encapsulates his thoughtlessness in one phrase. “We’d all be a bit disappointed if utopia and ditching capitalism boiled down to ‘We want to be a bit more like Germany’ – fuck that.”

His writing is atrocious: long-winded, confused and smug; filled with references to books Brand has half read and thinkers he has half understood. At one point, he discusses whether our perception of reality is a mentally constructed illusion (don’t ask me why). “So,” Brand says in a conclusion worthy of a Thought for the Day vicar, “when Elton John said Marilyn Monroe was ‘like a candle in the wind’ he was probably bloody right, and if he wasn’t we’ll never know.” At another, Brand argues that spirituality is the road to revolution, a belief that would have baffled every revolutionary leader in modern European history. 

“We’re all doing the same thing, dreaming the same dream, in the words of Belinda Carlisle,” he announces in a sentence that is so syrupy a Barbie doll might have written it, and worse – much worse – misquotes Ms Carlisle."

This is the exact same thinking behind mindless, suicidal statements like "The Interests of the United States and Israel are one and the same - they are identical", or produces acronymical, pneumonic groupings such as "LGBTQ", as if they political, needs, demand and agenda of Lesbians, Transgender persons and Bi-Curious males teenagers were one and the same, and must unite together in common struggle - just as the greatest enemy and the greatest threat to Judaism and people of the Jewish religion is Zionism, the greatest threat to homosexuals, bisexuals, transgender persons and those who are simply not sure is The Gay Community, radically politicised (mostly male) homosexuals - and one place that politics has no place, is during sex.

Many decades ago, the Zionist Movement, represented by the Zionist International and the World Zionist Congress (in Geneva, right next door to all those Nazi  bank vaults and Allan Dulles' ratline for Der Spinne - doesn't appear to have been an issue, Mein Herr), infiltrated and took effective control of every major Jewish Organisation in existence - they did not bother to inform the Jews.

30 or 40 years ago, political homosexuality infiltrated every university and college campus  where homosexuality is practiced, pondered or considered, and began demanding things - increasingly unreasonable things, with the most radical conservative and fascist elements predominating. Whilst I was at Sheffield University, the LGB (they had not yet added the T or the B) successfully forced the Students' Union to ban the music of Eminem from ALL Union club nights and from all events held on Union premises - all of my gay friends at the time loved Eminem and thought this was both stupid and embarrassing, but were not sufficiently angered or disturbed by it to actually feel the need to correct it; in fact, at that time, I was briefly involved in an abortive attempt, via entryism to infiltrate the LGB, table a reversal motion, and then (potentially) table a secondary motion to disband the LGB for to remainder of the academic year.

It was at that time, I came into contact with those forces who were in effective control of the LGB, the elite Fascist, counter-revolutionary (all White, all super-rich) vanguard.

They did not, and never have, demanded a ban on SkrewDriver (for instance), since SkrewDriver's music is not only racist, sexist and homophobic, it's also awful and not popular. 

Eminem was popular, but also funny, witty, populist and often polemical - M was a great mobiliser, especially of disconnected and disillusioned White Youth - he was investigated and questioned by both the FBI and Secret Service when he brought out Mosh, suggesting that assassinating Bush might be an effective means of either exacting penance or forcing a back down from the ongoing Iraq War in 2004 - something the New Left never would have advocated;  no-one from that camp would have seriously advocated the assassination of Nixon or Reagan, for instance. 

They just refuse to wash and then sing at them.

Another example : Wonder Woman is a feminist icon; Wonder Woman appeared on the front cover of women's liberation rag Ms., edited by Gloria Steinham, who effectively married into the CIA.

But Wonder Woman was created to celebrate and promote female submission.

"Confinement to WW and the Amazons is just a sporting game, an actual enjoyment of being subdued. This, my dear friend, is the one truly great contribution of my Wonder Woman strip to moral education of the young. The only hope for peace is to teach people who are full of pep and unbound force to enjoy being bound. Women are exciting for this one reason – it is the secret of women's allure – women enjoy submission, being bound. This I bring out in the Paradise Island sequences where the girls beg for chains and enjoy wearing them."

“A really efficient totalitarian state would be one in which the all-powerful executive of political bosses and their army of managers control a population of slaves who do not have to be coerced, because they love their servitude.”

― Aldous Huxley, Brave New World

Here, Huxley defines the essence of Utopian culture; and of Utopian Counter-Culture :

"'Even Epsilons are useful'! So am I. And I damned well wish I weren't!"

Lenina was shocked by his blasphemy. "Bernard!" She protested in a voice of amazed distress. "How can you?"

In a different key, "How can I?" he repeated meditatively. "No, the real problem is: How is it that I can't, or rather–because, after all, I know quite well why I can't–what would it be like if I could, if I were free–not enslaved by my conditioning."

"But, Bernard, you're saying the most awful things."

"Don't you wish you were free, Lenina?"

"I don't know what you mean. I am free. Free to have the most wonderful time. Everybody's happy nowadays."

He laughed, "Yes, 'Everybody's happy nowadays.' We begin giving the children that at five."

To rebel against ones conditioning is not enough - Brand X evokes Huxley in that he seeks to have the masses perceive it as a goal in and of itself.

It's intrinsically Oedipal, and so has total, resonant appeal to callow youth, who don't know anything, seeking to find an identity. The Dupe-a-Mob.

Give them some money, some flags and some drugs and you have a colour revolution, based on nothing, corralling mass mobilisation from people who don't believe in anything and don't know what they want, other than to oppose.

My Best Enemy - Magnificent Bastardy

"Why, That's My Best Enemy!

He likes to be known as The MSc., don't you..?

Oh, my, my, my - but you've changed..."

- The Established Dandy

"You Can All Ways Judge a Man By The Quality of His Enemies..."

- Time's Champion

" Some of my best friends have hated Nixon all their lives. 

My mother hates Nixon, my son hates Nixon, I hate Nixon, and this hatred has brought us together.

Nixon laughed when I told him this. "Don't worry," he said, "I, too, am a family man, and we feel the same way about YOU."

- Dr. Hunter S.Thompson

"[The Forces of] Organised Money... are Unanimous in their Hatred of Me - and I WELCOME Their  Hatred..!"

- FDR, 1936

"Margaret Thatcher was blessed by having all the Right Enemies : a Fascist South American Dictator, and a Militant Radical Marxist Head of the National Union of Mine Workers -

O, how I could wish to have such enemies..."

- Neil Kinnock

He Was a Crook

MEMO FROM THE NATIONAL AFFAIRS DESK

DATE: MAY 1, 1994
FROM: DR. HUNTER S. THOMPSON
SUBJECT: THE DEATH OF RICHARD NIXON: NOTES ON THE PASSING OF AN AMERICAN MONSTER.... HE WAS A LIAR AND A QUITTER, AND HE SHOULD HAVE BEEN BURIED AT SEA.... BUT HE WAS, AFTER ALL, THE PRESIDENT.

"And he cried mightily with a strong voice, saying, Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit and a cage of every unclean and hateful bird."
---Revelation 18:2

Richard Nixon is gone now, and I am poorer for it. He was the real thing -- a political monster straight out of Grendel and a very dangerous enemy. He could shake your hand and stab you in the back at the same time. He lied to his friends and betrayed the trust of his family. Not even Gerald Ford, the unhappy ex-president who pardoned Nixon and kept him out of prison, was immune to the evil fallout. Ford, who believes strongly in Heaven and Hell, has told more than one of his celebrity golf partners that "I know I will go to hell, because I pardoned Richard Nixon."

I have had my own bloody relationship with Nixon for many years, but I am not worried about it landing me in hell with him. I have already been there with that bastard, and I am a better person for it. Nixon had the unique ability to make his enemies seem honorable, and we developed a keen sense of fraternity. Some of my best friends have hated Nixon all their lives. My mother hates Nixon, my son hates Nixon, I hate Nixon, and this hatred has brought us together.

Nixon laughed when I told him this. "Don't worry," he said, "I, too, am a family man, and we feel the same way about you."

It was Richard Nixon who got me into politics, and now that he's gone, I feel lonely. He was a giant in his way. As long as Nixon was politically alive -- and he was, all the way to the end -- we could always be sure of finding the enemy on the Low Road. There was no need to look anywhere else for the evil bastard. He had the fighting instincts of a badger trapped by hounds. The badger will roll over on its back and emit a smell of death, which confuses the dogs and lures them in for the traditional ripping and tearing action. But it is usually the badger who does the ripping and tearing. It is a beast that fights best on its back: rolling under the throat of the enemy and seizing it by the head with all four claws.

That was Nixon's style -- and if you forgot, he would kill you as a lesson to the others. Badgers don't fight fair, bubba. That's why God made dachshunds.

Nixon was a navy man, and he should have been buried at sea. Many of his friends were seagoing people: Bebe Rebozo, Robert Vesco, William F. Buckley Jr., and some of them wanted a full naval burial.

These come in at least two styles, however, and Nixon's immediate family strongly opposed both of them. In the traditionalist style, the dead president's body would be wrapped and sewn loosely in canvas sailcloth and dumped off the stern of a frigate at least 100 miles off the coast and at least 1,000 miles south of San Diego, so the corpse could never wash up on American soil in any recognizable form.

The family opted for cremation until they were advised of the potentially onerous implications of a strictly private, unwitnessed burning of the body of the man who was, after all, the President of the United States. Awkward questions might be raised, dark allusions to Hitler and Rasputin. People would be filing lawsuits to get their hands on the dental charts. Long court battles would be inevitable -- some with liberal cranks bitching about corpus delicti and habeas corpus and others with giant insurance companies trying not to pay off on his death benefits. Either way, an orgy of greed and duplicity was sure to follow any public hint that Nixon might have somehow faked his own death or been cryogenically transferred to fascist Chinese interests on the Central Asian Mainland.

It would also play into the hands of those millions of self-stigmatized patriots like me who believe these things already.

If the right people had been in charge of Nixon's funeral, his casket would have been launched into one of those open-sewage canals that empty into the ocean just south of Los Angeles. He was a swine of a man and a jabbering dupe of a president. Nixon was so crooked that he needed servants to help him screw his pants on every morning. Even his funeral was illegal. He was queer in the deepest way. His body should have been burned in a trash bin.

These are harsh words for a man only recently canonized by President Clinton and my old friend George McGovern -- but I have written worse things about Nixon, many times, and the record will show that I kicked him repeatedly long before he went down. I beat him like a mad dog with mange every time I got a chance, and I am proud of it. He was scum.

Let there be no mistake in the history books about that. Richard Nixon was an evil man -- evil in a way that only those who believe in the physical reality of the Devil can understand it. He was utterly without ethics or morals or any bedrock sense of decency. Nobody trusted him -- except maybe the Stalinist Chinese, and honest historians will remember him mainly as a rat who kept scrambling to get back on the ship.

It is fitting that Richard Nixon's final gesture to the American people was a clearly illegal series of 21 105-mm howitzer blasts that shattered the peace of a residential neighborhood and permanently disturbed many children. Neighbors also complained about another unsanctioned burial in the yard at the old Nixon place, which was brazenly illegal. "It makes the whole neighborhood like a graveyard," said one. "And it fucks up my children's sense of values."

Many were incensed about the howitzers -- but they knew there was nothing they could do about it -- not with the current president sitting about 50 yards away and laughing at the roar of the cannons. It was Nixon's last war, and he won.

The funeral was a dreary affair, finely staged for TV and shrewdly dominated by ambitious politicians and revisionist historians. The Rev. Billy Graham, still agile and eloquent at the age of 136, was billed as the main speaker, but he was quickly upstaged by two 1996 GOP presidential candidates: Sen. Bob Dole of Kansas and Gov. Pete Wilson of California, who formally hosted the event and saw his poll numbers crippled when he got blown off the stage by Dole, who somehow seized the No. 3 slot on the roster and uttered such a shameless, self-serving eulogy that even he burst into tears at the end of it.

Dole's stock went up like a rocket and cast him as the early GOP front-runner for '96. Wilson, speaking next, sounded like an Engelbert Humperdinck impersonator and probably won't even be re-elected as governor of California in November.

The historians were strongly represented by the No. 2 speaker, Henry Kissinger, Nixon's secretary of state and himself a zealous revisionist with many axes to grind. He set the tone for the day with a maudlin and spectacularly self-serving portrait of Nixon as even more saintly than his mother and as a president of many godlike accomplishments -- most of them put together in secret by Kissinger, who came to California as part of a huge publicity tour for his new book on diplomacy, genius, Stalin, H. P. Lovecraft and other great minds of our time, including himself and Richard Nixon.

Kissinger was only one of the many historians who suddenly came to see Nixon as more than the sum of his many squalid parts. He seemed to be saying that History will not have to absolve Nixon, because he has already done it himself in a massive act of will and crazed arrogance that already ranks him supreme, along with other Nietzschean supermen like Hitler, Jesus, Bismarck and the Emperor Hirohito. These revisionists have catapulted Nixon to the status of an American Caesar, claiming that when the definitive history of the 20th century is written, no other president will come close to Nixon in stature. "He will dwarf FDR and Truman," according to one scholar from Duke University.

It was all gibberish, of course. Nixon was no more a Saint than he was a Great President. He was more like Sammy Glick than Winston Churchill. He was a cheap crook and a merciless war criminal who bombed more people to death in Laos and Cambodia than the U.S. Army lost in all of World War II, and he denied it to the day of his death. When students at Kent State University, in Ohio, protested the bombing, he connived to have them attacked and slain by troops from the National Guard.

Some people will say that words like scum and rotten are wrong for Objective Journalism -- which is true, but they miss the point. It was the built-in blind spots of the Objective rules and dogma that allowed Nixon to slither into the White House in the first place. He looked so good on paper that you could almost vote for him sight unseen. He seemed so all-American, so much like Horatio Alger, that he was able to slip through the cracks of Objective Journalism. You had to get Subjective to see Nixon clearly, and the shock of recognition was often painful.

Nixon's meteoric rise from the unemployment line to the vice presidency in six quick years would never have happened if TV had come along 10 years earlier. He got away with his sleazy "my dog Checkers" speech in 1952 because most voters heard it on the radio or read about it in the headlines of their local, Republican newspapers. When Nixon finally had to face the TV cameras for real in the 1960 presidential campaign debates, he got whipped like a red-headed mule. Even die-hard Republican voters were shocked by his cruel and incompetent persona. Interestingly, most people who heard those debates on the radio thought Nixon had won. But the mushrooming TV audience saw him as a truthless used-car salesman, and they voted accordingly. It was the first time in 14 years that Nixon lost an election.

When he arrived in the White House as VP at the age of 40, he was a smart young man on the rise -- a hubris-crazed monster from the bowels of the American dream with a heart full of hate and an overweening lust to be President. He had won every office he'd run for and stomped like a Nazi on all of his enemies and even some of his friends.

Nixon had no friends except George Will and J. Edgar Hoover (and they both deserted him). It was Hoover's shameless death in 1972 that led directly to Nixon's downfall. He felt helpless and alone with Hoover gone. He no longer had access to either the Director or the Director's ghastly bank of Personal Files on almost everybody in Washington.

Hoover was Nixon's right flank, and when he croaked, Nixon knew how Lee felt when Stonewall Jackson got killed at Chancellorsville. It permanently exposed Lee's flank and led to the disaster at Gettysburg.

For Nixon, the loss of Hoover led inevitably to the disaster of Watergate. It meant hiring a New Director -- who turned out to be an unfortunate toady named L. Patrick Gray, who squealed like a pig in hot oil the first time Nixon leaned on him. Gray panicked and fingered White House Counsel John Dean, who refused to take the rap and rolled over, instead, on Nixon, who was trapped like a rat by Dean's relentless, vengeful testimony and went all to pieces right in front of our eyes on TV.

That is Watergate, in a nut, for people with seriously diminished attention spans. The real story is a lot longer and reads like a textbook on human treachery. They were all scum, but only Nixon walked free and lived to clear his name. Or at least that's what Bill Clinton says -- and he is, after all, the President of the United States.

Nixon liked to remind people of that. He believed it, and that was why he went down. He was not only a crook but a fool. Two years after he quit, he told a TV journalist that "if the president does it, it can't be illegal."

Shit. Not even Spiro Agnew was that dumb. He was a flat-out, knee-crawling thug with the morals of a weasel on speed. But he was Nixon's vice president for five years, and he only resigned when he was caught red-handed taking cash bribes across his desk in the White House.

Unlike Nixon, Agnew didn't argue. He quit his job and fled in the night to Baltimore, where he appeared the next morning in U.S. District Court, which allowed him to stay out of prison for bribery and extortion in exchange for a guilty (no contest) plea on income-tax evasion. After that he became a major celebrity and played golf and tried to get a Coors distributorship. He never spoke to Nixon again and was an unwelcome guest at the funeral. They called him Rude, but he went anyway. It was one of those Biological Imperatives, like salmon swimming up waterfalls to spawn before they die. He knew he was scum, but it didn't bother him.

Agnew was the Joey Buttafuoco of the Nixon administration, and Hoover was its Caligula. They were brutal, brain-damaged degenerates worse than any hit man out of The Godfather, yet they were the men Richard Nixon trusted most. Together they defined his Presidency.

It would be easy to forget and forgive Henry Kissinger of his crimes, just as he forgave Nixon. Yes, we could do that -- but it would be wrong. Kissinger is a slippery little devil, a world-class hustler with a thick German accent and a very keen eye for weak spots at the top of the power structure. Nixon was one of those, and Super K exploited him mercilessly, all the way to the end.

Kissinger made the Gang of Four complete: Agnew, Hoover, Kissinger and Nixon. A group photo of these perverts would say all we need to know about the Age of Nixon.

Nixon's spirit will be with us for the rest of our lives -- whether you're me or Bill Clinton or you or Kurt Cobain or Bishop Tutu or Keith Richards or Amy Fisher or Boris Yeltsin's daughter or your fiancee's 16-year-old beer-drunk brother with his braided goatee and his whole life like a thundercloud out in front of him. This is not a generational thing. You don't even have to know who Richard Nixon was to be a victim of his ugly, Nazi spirit.

He has poisoned our water forever. Nixon will be remembered as a classic case of a smart man shitting in his own nest. But he also shit in our nests, and that was the crime that history will burn on his memory like a brand. By disgracing and degrading the Presidency of the United States, by fleeing the White House like a diseased cur, Richard Nixon broke the heart of the American Dream.

---

Copyright © 1994 by Hunter S. Thompson. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
Originally published in Rolling Stone, June 16, 1994.

The Reluctant Judge

" I Don't Want to Go to Ninevah - Those People are CRAZY! "

" The Book of Jonah is The Funniest Book in The Bible."

- Jordan Peterson