So late last night I received a mysterious email from someone addressing themselves as “Raoul Duke.” I know Hunter Thompson is dead so I’m not sure who it could be, all I was told was that it was urgent that this is published. Evidently my piece Fear And Loathing In Gunther Tootie’s Bagel Shop caught someone’s attention, which is why Mr. Duke came to Stitched Up instead of the New York Times or Boston Globe.
A MEMO FROM THE SPORTS DESK MAY 23 2016
From: Raoul Duke
To: Jann Wenner
Subject: Rolling Stone Endorsement of Hillary Clinton
You cowardly, decrepit, geriatric bastard. After attempting to completely isolate myself from American politics under some rock in the Southern outskirts of American Samoa, I happened across the March 16 addition of Rolling Stone in the waiting room of a veterinarian’s office while accompanying my new pet orangutang, who was set to undergo lasik eye surgery, as it were. The fucking thing was completely blind when I bought him from the owner of some strange night club not unlike the Circus-Circus. The fucker’s cost me a fortune in medical bills…but fuck all that.
I flipped the bastard open out of meager curiosity to see what type of foul gibberish you hack bastards were putting out these days, and was nearly sent into a frenzy of hysterical rage when I saw your god damn rotten endorsement piece. My orangutang, already naturally uneasy in the environment of a vet’s office, picked up on the heinous vibrations your piece of shit article evoked from me, and nearly attacked the poor vet’s secretary, a 300 pound Samoan woman who looked near identical to my former attorney, with the exception of the lack of (prominent) facial hair and (slightly) larger breasts. Jesus! She almost maced the two of us, and almost certainly would have if the vet hadn’t come out of his office at the exact right moment with a high powered, Smith and Wesson model tranquilizer gun and nailed my poor beast right in the neck in the nick of time as he savagely lunged at the poor woman from 15-feet away, flying through the fucking air like King Kong, or one of those god damn super-monkeys from Planet of the Apes.
You’re lucky I didn’t fly right to San Francisco and beat the shit out of you with my new Tailor Made 9 iron (I’ve picked up golf in my old age), you hag-ridden old bastard. And to think that my name is forever associated with Rolling Stone. You’ve driven that publication right into the fucking toilet Jann. If you had any sense at all you’d hand the helms over to Matt Taibbi at once, while there’s anything left to salvage, and release a public statement insisting that that foul, half-whit piece of Nazi propaganda was written under extreme duress, in the bowls of a nightmarish ibogaine trip, while looking down the barrels of several 10 gage shotguns wielded by Debbie Wasserman Shultz and her gang Humphrey-style fascists.
For Christ’s sake Jann what in the fuck has gotten into you, you terrible defeatist coward. Rolling Stone’s surrender to the old guard, status quo hacks that continue to corrupt the possibilities of the American dream was about as depressing as the French surrendering to Hitler. What in the fuck makes you think that after all these years, you have the authority, and the stupid, ill-conceived gaul, to wave the white flag on behalf of Rolling Stone, and surrender to the pragmatic forces of Old and Evil.
Jesus! You would have been much better off following my lead and just retiring to some remote corner of Earth, far away from all this madness that has clearly beaten you down to the point of cowardly surrender, and leaving the good fight to the youth of this country who still have the energy , passion, and good sense that’s been beaten out of you.
But no, instead, you actively hindered them, put up the middle finger and said “fuck you, give up, you naive radicals will never win, just give in, shut up, and let the corrupt forces of mainstream politics continue to fuck you in your ass deep into the 21st century. Don’t bother fighting for your future, or for something honest and worth a damn, it didn’t work in ’72, so just bend over and take the compromise of the smaller penis that’s about to be forcefully inserted into whatever’s left of the American dream. Jefferson be damned, it’s all over, you maybe little fools.”
That’s the crux of what I took away from your article, you yellow-bellied old bastard. You worthless old hacks seem to think that the establishment way of politics is like gravity, the law of conservation of energy, and taxes- natural constants. But they’re not Jann. They’re artificial constructs that are going to be washed away by the tides of dissent once you and all your old-guard cronies step aside and stop hindering real progress.
God damn it Jann. Don’t you remember the origins of your own damn publication? Rolling Stone was conceived in a very special period of time to me; a counter-cultural voice in a world run by old, corrupt forces. And for the first time, there was a group of people that were poised to do something about it, and I was a fucking part of it. And you’ve turned around in my absence and spired that sacred vision, you weak old bastard.
I remember saying something back in the Bush era that as far as I was concerned, “it’s a damned shame that a field as potentially vital and dynamic as journalism, should be overrun by dullards, bums, and hacks, hag-ridden with myopia, apathy, and complacence, and generally stuck in a bog of stagnant mediocrity.” Well old-pal, you’ve joined those ranks in my mind, for whatever it’s worth, you lame fucking geek. What in the hell is the point of Rolling Stone if you’re just going to use it as a platform to fall in line with the mainstream hacks. Jesus, we all know there’s enough of these worthless hacks without you joining their ranks, you scurvy little pig fucker.
It’s been over 50 fucking years since the two of us spoke about New Politics and New Journalism, and the possibilities of taking back the American dream, and what a tremendous monument to all the greatest instincts this country could be if we could simply keep it out of the hands of greedy little hustlers like Richard Nixon, and here you are endorsing the greatest greedy hustler of 21st century, in a Rolling Stone, undermining all the work people like myself, and for that matter Bernie Sanders have been trying to do for decades.
I find it inconceivable that when the best chance at finally breaking through this rotten god damn system since McGovern rolls around, you support his lame, disenigious, crony of an opponent. You might as well have just written in Hubert Humphrey, or even Nixon for fuck’s sake on your ballet, in private, and then returned to your nursing home in time for the 11:00 lunch special, and spared the rest of us that ill-conceived gibberish you subjected the whole fucking country too.
Anyway, enough of that heinous rambling, I trust I’ve gotten my point across and that you understand my point, even in your demented, Alzheimer’s riddled condition.
I’ve attached a copy of the bill from the American Samoan Animal Patrol Office, for expenses related to that fiendish episode your awful gibberish in the March 16 edition caused. The least you could do after all those years of haggling me for every fucking dime of expenses incurred in the process of giving Rolling Stone a fucking name, is to pay the fucker within any hassle, you cheap bastard.
In the meantime, for Christ’s sake, retire and give the magazine over to Taibbi, and get out of the fucking way.
Cazart, sincerely, with Fear and Loathing, your old pal Raoul.