|Ed Bradley & the stigma of bull worship|
By Hunter S. Thompson
Page 2 columnist
Hi, folks. My name is still Thompson, and I am still a flagrant sportswriter -- despite those jackass rumors out of Salt Lake City. No. I have not converted to Mormonism or any other power-sect. And I have never worshipped bulls. It is not in my nature -- and I was not born to live in the dismal grip of Utah, under any circumstances.
Nor was I born to live in the rotten month of February, which is almost over, and good riddance. It is an evil month, with evil energy. Everything about it is Wrong.
Whoops! The storm is moving in. This might be our last chance to speak rashly for the public record -- or at least the last time until March. ... Why not? My W-L numbers are too good to release, frankly, and showing off is always bad Karma.
Why am I thinking about the Washington Wizards when I stare at this typewriter? Why do I hear these voices saying: "The Wizards will never make the NBA playoffs in any even-numbered year."
And why do I believe it?
For a few bizarre hours last night, I even swore to it -- with Ed Bradley as a witness, along with a fixer from Georgetown named Curtis.
Sunday croaked the 2002 Winter Olympics, and also the Maryland-Wake Forest game. It snowed heavily all day, blowing sideways from time to time, and the sun was never visible. On a scale of 1-10, Sunday was a flawed Three, with wild fluctuations from midnight to midnight, when the queasy spectacle in Utah flamed out with the utter humiliation of the U.S. hockey Dream Team.
Whoops again! Hold the presses; things have changed. The weather outside has gone berserk, right in front of our eyes. This is what they call a Blizzard, folks, a king-hell brute of a blizzard. ... Indeed, this is terminal weather. Visibility outside my windows is less than 8 feet, down from 8 miles on most winter days -- except, of course, for the evil month of February.
"Nonsense," Bradley scoffed. "Are you chicken?" He had been wide awake since dawn, skiing feverishly on the hill, and by nightfall he was feeling groggy from what he said was a profoundly intense three-hour massage in his villa. I put my arm around Anita and hooted at him, then abruptly changed the subject back to the dismal fate of the Wizards.
Ed stays away from sports on "60 Minutes," but in truth he is a blue-chip fanatic about big-time sports of every ilk -- except perhaps Bowling and Spanish Cliff-diving.
Ed kicks ass. He is cool. He is also a Charter Member of the Woody Creek Rod & Gun Club, which is super-naturally cool. Take my word for it, folks: I am the executive Director of the Woody Creek A.C., as they say in less-informed circles.
The club is little-known to the public, and we like it that way. Formal announcements and/or Position-papers are so rare as to command attention whenever it happens. One of these appeared on the back page of the Aspen Times in January 1989, drawing considerable world-wide attention. It was headlined "TURBO MUST DIE: Champion Bull Doomed in $10 million Sperm-Bomb Sacrifice at Famous sporting Club," under the disturbing "Raoul Duke" Byline. Here it is:
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson's books include Hell's Angels, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72, The Proud Highway, Better Than Sex and The Rum Diary. His new book, Fear and Loathing in America, has just been released. A regular contributor to various national and international publications, Thompson now lives in a fortified compound near Aspen, Colo. His column, "Hey, Rube," appears each Monday on Page 2.