P810 GORILLA 1 810 Mon 25 Jam 18:07/24



Hearing that via the gift of Gorilla Salad we could head out to the States to spend an all expenses paid evening in the company of our favourite Gonk Journalist, we literally travelled at the chance.Trouble is, when we got there, Hunter S. told us he didn't 'do TV no more'. We said we didn't want him to appear on it, just watch it. 'I know that, you shit-brained sons of bitches. That's what I mean. I don't 'do' TV. I 'do' drugs. I 'do' guns. I do not 'do' TV. It's just a bunch of rancid mind possessing pile of fucking horseshit, man.' So we just dragged out a video of an evenings British TV from the back of our camper van that we'd brought along for our own entertainment, then watched him burble and seethe...


A bizarre scheduling choice for the television channel whose very name summons up baggy stockings and end of pier pointlessness. This hypnotic and visually monochromatic film from David Lynch follows the adventures of 'Henry'... which is more than you'll be able to do. Amidst flying dust, a crying diseased marrow and ogling a singing dumpling behind a heater, Lynch finds time to turn his lead character's foot into a rubber. Arty.
Hunter says: Oh, Christ. I hate these goddamn French films. [We explain that the film was made by an American.] An American? Good God. Things are worse than I thought. I gotta tell you, this makes me wanna fucking weep, man. I thought all our films now were shallow and packed with sex and violence. Y'know? Life fulfilling. But this? This is... horrible. Look at this guy! If you wore a hairstyle like that round these parts they'd put fish hooks through your eyelids and drag you along behind a pick up truck until you'd learnt some general ideas about fucking respect. Look at his foot, for crying out loud. Horatio Alger would never have stood for this kind of shit.


John Suchet flaps his lips from ground and sky in various hues of high visibility clothing betwixt top shots of rapid metal.
Hunter says: What did he call that? A stinger? What's a stinger? A row of spikes for the tires? Not on my fucking ranch, bubba. The only way to deal with these bastards is with maximum violence, immediately. Draw up alongside 'em, throw a couple of mustard gas bombs through the driver's window and watch them stop real quick. Their pre-pubescent criminalised eyes turned yellow and weeping. If they still even have eyes, man. You give these fourteen year old joy boys a second chance the next thing you know they're carving up old Dan from the local store and spray-painting the walls with his blood. Your limey policemen are trying to hold back this dark tide of 'British naughtiness' with these far out looking hats on their heads? Jeez. It's no wonder you people don't know whether to respect them or lift them six foot in the air by their nuts.


Whilst some programmes only make heavy weather of programming, this offering also manages to make programming of heavy weather. Features things propelled through the air, knocked over or otherwise broken by the elements (primarily hydrogen).
Hunter says: This is all very well for the beginner, bubba. But when you've seen Nixon and Carter attacking each other with broken beer bottles and wearing necklaces made from the teeth of Hells Angels, damn well near destroying the Mexican bar they've been in for the past thirty six hours; then a mail box toppling over in a southerly gust of wind just don't cut the ice. But I chose this because of... wait... wait... THERE! You see that? You just saw another Kennedy tragically killed. I ain't fucking kidding you, man. That guy being swept off of the side of that,uh, that... [we venture to suggest 'escarpment']. Escarpment? What kind of crazy hippy talk is that? I don't wanna hear that kind of talk in my house. I've got children 'round here. And guns. The fucking slope man. The guy being swept off the slope was Milford Kennedy. He was disowned almost as soon as he came out of the womb. Fucker never grew any teeth and had some wierd allergy that meant he couldn't have regular false ones. He ended up with wooden teeth, like Washington. Do you know how hard it would be to make it in late twentieth century American politics with wooden teeth?


Lawyers display their legs and fetishes accompanied by a new silly dance each week.
Hunter says: Admit it. Admit it you limey cocksuckers. You're surprised, aren't you? You're surprised I chose this? You wanna know what the attraction is? You know like people play drinking games along to their favourite fucking programmes? Like people watch The Simpsons and down a triple bourbon every time Barney burps? Or like people watching 24 hour news for 56 straight hours will down a tab of acid every time some whore crazy republican comes on the screen with a face like some crazed wild boar and drives you half fucking crazy? [Hunter registers our blank looks.] Well, maybe that second one's just for me... But anyway, Ally McBeal? I like to shoot holes in the fucking wall just above the TV whenever one of those piss-weak fucking anthems comes on. Or I'll just wail like a fucking wolf whenever that creepy little shitface whistles through his nose. Y'know what I mean? Really fucking howl, man. I mean, obviously, for the first one of those I wanna be shooting the TV. But, y'know, the game kinda goes into decline very quickly if you play by those rules, bubba. And it ain't easy for an old man like me to carry a new 21" Trinitron up the dirt path to my fortress every fucking Saturday morning. Not anymore, bubba, oh no, not any more.


Hour long slot on CBS News 24.
I have to say that most of that shit I've been saying up until now is bull. I mean, y'know, I'm just trying to give you guys something to work with, here. But really I don't watch any of that crap. Hardly ever. This is what I crave. This is my lifeblood. The News. I can't get through the day without it, man. It keeps my blood pumping through my fucking temples. It keeps the saliva flying straight outta my mouth, man. If I couldn't get my dose of news each fucking day, God, I swear it, I'd have to go out and make my fucking own, know what I mean? Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas? You know what started that? Fuck some shithole editor telling me to go cover some crappy drag race, man. You know what really started it? My paper didn't get delivered that morning. Can you believe that? Can you believe that that started the whole thing off? They didn't deliver my early morning paper. Something about the delivery boy being whipped half to death by his deformed uncle on some Wild Turkey booze jag the night before. I couldn't stand it. The night before I'd had to shoot my TV for turning into a screaming death's head again. So I had no release, man. So I just sped out to LA in a rabid frenzy. The rest, as they say, is history... and a big fuckin' pay check.

At this, Hunter laughed maniacally for some time. We don't know how long. But it was long enough for us to reclaim our video and get back in the camper. We didn't hear about Hunter again until we got back to England. There were reports that he had become embroiled in some sort of Bucket O' Buffalo Wings incident with Calista Flockhart but police were still running tests on the ridiculously oversized napkins as we went to bed.

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