Hunter S. Thompson was a great writer. He made images come alive inside your imagination to help you see the story he put down on paper, whether those images were good or disturbing is up to the reader’s interpretation. Last night something was said to me that left nothing to the imagination except bad, gross, horrible images that I am still trying to erase from my memory banks with a little help from beer and a sleeping pill. I get to work and it is kind of slow, so I am contemplating what to do in the slow time, when this nasty old bar hag pipes up and says “You look like you need to get laid! How about you pound a shot and we go to Vegas?” Keep in mind, this chick looked about sixty and was probably about fifty and acting like she was still twenty. Drugs do bad things to people’s looks that they don’t consider until it’s too late. I politely declined, stating that my wife wouldn’t think that was a good idea and quickly moved off to the other end of the bar where I tried to make myself look busy. She must have seen the look of terror on my face and figured out that I was not looking to finance a drug induced romp to Sin City, or at least a cheap bottle of hooch and a thirty-five dollar hotel room down the street and moved on to the next bar. All I have to say is thank you Baby Jesus.