The Electric Typewriter

by Hunter S. Thompson

The best year to be a hippie was 1965, but then there was not much to write about, because not much was happening in public and most of what was happening in private was illegal. The real year of the hippie was 1966, despite the lack of publicity, which in 1967 gave way to a nationwide avalanche - in Look, Life, Time, Newsweek, the Atlantic, the New York Times, the Saturday Evening Post, and even the Aspen Illustrated News.

(Scroll to the bottom of the page for the HST text).

by Hunter S. Thompson

We were about 40 minutes out of San Francisco when the crew finally decided to take action on the problem in lavatory 1B. The door had been locked since take-off, and now the chief stewardess had summoned the copilot down from the flight deck. He appeared in the aisle right beside me, carrying a strange-looking black tool, like a flashlight with blades or some kind of electric chisel. He nodded calmly as he listened to the stewardess’ urgent whispering. “I can talk to him,” she said, pointing a long red fingernail at the OCCUPIED sign on the locked toilet door, “but I can’t get him out.”

by Raoul Duke

Weapons are my business. You name it and I know it: guns, bombs, gas, fire, knives and everything else. Damn few people in the world know more about weaponry than I do. I’m an expert on demolition, ballistics, blades, motors, animals — anything capable of causing damage to man, beast or structure. This is my profession, my bag, my trade, my thing… my evil specialty. And for this reason the editors of Scanlan’s have asked me to comment on a periodical called The Police Chief.

by Hunter S. Thompson

There are some things nobody needs in this world, and a bright-red, hunch-back, warp-speed 900cc cafe racer is one of them - but I want one anyway, and on some days I actually believe I need one. That is why they are dangerous.

by Hunter S. Thompson

Richard Nixon is gone now, and I am poorer for it. He was the real thing - a political monster straight out of Grendel. 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.

by Hunter S. Thompson

Ever since World War II, California has been strangely plagued by wild men on motorcycles. They usually travel in groups of ten to thirty, booming along the highways and stopping here are there to get drunk and raise hell.

by Hunter S. Thompson

(via Cmonstah)

Ruben Salazr is a bonafide martyr - not only in East L.A., but in Denver and Santa Fe and San Antonio, throughout the Southwest. The length and breadth of Aztlan - the “conquered territories” that came under the yoke of Gringo occupation troops more than 100 years ago, when “vendito politicians in Mexico City sold out to the US” in order to call off the invasion that Gringo history books refer to as the “Mexican American War.” 

By Hunter S. Thompson

Going to Hollywood is a dangerous high-pressure gig for most people, under any circumstances. It is like pumping hot steam into thousands of different-size boilers. The laws of physics mandate that some will explode before others—although all of them will explode sooner or later unless somebody cuts off the steam.

by Hunter S. Thompson

I got off the plane around midnight and no one spoke as I crossed the dark runway to the terminal. The air was thick and hot, like wandering into a steam bath. Inside, people hugged each other and shook hands…big grins and a whoop here and there: “By God! You old bastard! Good to see you, boy! Damn good…and I mean it!”

By Hunter S. Thompson

A collection of rare, early Dr. Gonzo. Scanned in their original layouts (click images to see them full size).