Late Monday afternoon I was struck in the head by a boulder. Actually, it was just a marvelous idea that bowled me over with overwhelming force.

I would hold a funeral party for Hunter S. Thompson. Immediately. I asked my boss for the day off work on Tuesday. "Why, what's up?"

"One of my heroes has died, and in honor of him, I must gather a few likeminded individuals and drink lots of whiskey."

He arched his eyebrow, looked sidelong at my other boss, and said, "Sure. Do what you feel is important. Who died?"

I quickly explained a man that cannot be quickly explained. Nothing seemed to get through until the part about the suicide. I work for good people. People that will give me a vacation day on very short notice for the express purpose of drinking whiskey on a Monday night.

I left the office and procured a modest quantity of cocaine. I told myself it was necessary to consume something illegal for this occasion, and I swore off marijuana consumption over a month ago. It went out the door with the cigarettes. Hallucinogens have been horribly unreliable to me for the past three years, so I wouldn't risk them being bunk or poison. Cocaine was the clear winner.

My small gathering of five proceeded to sniffle and quaff. The case of beer was gone in a little over an hour. The whiskey bottle died a noble death at about 3am. Nobody but me had the constitution or stomach steel for straight up Jim Beam, but I was not deterred. I finished it and belched with pride.

Passages were read from Kingdom Of Fear and from both books of letters. My former roomie even convinced me to record myself reading from this very online journal. I didn't like the results. He did. Blackmail will surely ensue.

Now I'm back at work, bright, chipper, and mumbling through celery and carrots liberally splashed in spicy peanut sauce. Life is good. Adios, Doctor. 9:38 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm