Eye bulging sweat dripping acid dropping vomit on the shoes pass out revive coffee cocaine blood vein exploding psychedelic mess.

Whew.

This is the first piece of fiction I’ve ever read that couldn’t possibly pass a urine test.

For years, I’ve been tempted to taste Hunter S. Thompson, the self-anointed Doctor of Gonzo Journalism. If gonzo means “skull busting drug addled bumbling disaster,” then I get it. If it’s supposed to signify a higher more significant level of literature, then perhaps I need another hit from the hypodermic.  Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is presumably Thompson’s most well known and commercially successful work. It is the story of a “journalist” and his “attorney” as they journey in search of the American Dream. Dreams are a little difficult to locate when you’re searching through bloodshot eyes rocked by the filth in your veins.

The story reads like a demolition derby of mescaline laced debris. Our heroes explore Sin City loaded up on cocaine, acid, alcohol, screamers, poppers, blotters, ground squirrel skulls, peat moss, epsom salts, and fluoride enhanced toothpaste. Nothing moves or crawls or squirts or spreads without being shot up, snorted, swallowed, or inhaled. The book’s main characters go all in, touring Vegas in a white Cadillac loaded down with a mobile pharmaceutical buffet.

Thompson’s writing is intriguingly sardonic, but after awhile the story just kind of meanders. It’s hard to decide if the drug use is a means of clarity, or if the characters just can’t take their mission sober. The book rides a centerline that divides slapstick and unnecessary overindulgence. After awhile, you just want to check yourself into rehab.

I’m thinking Thompson’s most popular work is not necessarily his best. I’m sufficiently intrigued that I’ll likely give him and his gonzo style another shot.

First, I need to dry out.