Among the many strange movies in the White House top-secret film library is a genuinely-wretched Hollywood classic titled "Squaw Man," which I happened to be watching last night when a wild-eyed gentleman burst into the house and screamed, "How do you like me now? You honky pimp! The Nuggets are in the Playoffs, and you're not!"
It was our old neighbor Omar, who still owes me $90,000 from a previous gambling disaster, which ended tragically in a long-ago bet involving his little sister and the New York Yankees and a rash of White Slavery accusations against me and Anita and everything we stand for. So the sudden appearance of Omar after all this time was not an entirely comfortable thing to see.
Anita seemed to feel the same way, saying nothing as she hurried out of the room and left me alone with the brute.
He wasted no time in small talk.
"Where is the Princess?" he whispered harshly. "I have the money now, and I have come to get my sister. Where is she? I want her now."
His words were fuzzy and slurred. I could see that he was about to lose consciousness, so I smiled calmly and offered him a pack of whiskey-soaked Camel cigarettes.
"What's your hurry?" I said. "We have all the time in the world, don't we? How about a snort of Absinthe. I have some wonderful stuff that Col. Depp just brought back from Turkey."
I reached for the bar near the fire and abruptly started laughing at him.
"The b---- is gone," I said. "She is gone where you will never find her."
Then his voice trailed off in a cackling noise that I remember so clearly from my days as a youth, when we first watched Old Will from up the street beginning to tear the head off a live squawking chicken as he slid to his knees and passed out.
Things are getting weirder and weirder in this country. I tried to call my friend Monk in Chicago last night to warn him about the coming pestilence of root-sucking beetles, but I somehow got connected to a guard station at the Illinois State Prison and found myself talking to a stern-voiced woman who said I sounded crazy and warned me never to call this number again or she would have me arrested.
"Nonsense," I said.
"I have your number right here in front of me on the screen," she replied. "What kind of fool are you to be calling a state correctional facility at this time of night and runnin' your mouth at me like a pervert?"
I was shocked and said nothing for a long moment. And neither did she. Somewhere on her end of the line, I thought I heard a bell ringing, and then a babble of angry voices. But I couldn't be sure.
"Pervert?" I wondered. Is Monk's daughter calling me a pervert? My brain was spinning frantically and I felt my natural confidence oozing away. So I hung up the phone and lit a short Davidoff cigar. Then I quickly punched redial.
"It's you again," said a voice so menacing that I felt my blood run cold. "Tell me your name again, dumbo. This is the end of the line for your crazy ass."
I told her meekly, expecting a knock on the door. Then I heard her giggling.
"I can't believe it," she shrieked. "Is it really Hunter S. Thompson, the famous sportswriter? Oh my God. I'm swooning. You're my hero! I read everything you write. How can I meet you?"
What? Meet me? At the Illinois State Prison? Am I having an acid flashback? Who is this woman? Is my phone cutting out again? Who else is on my line that I don't know about? The police? John Ashcroft? Kobe Bryant? J. Edgar Hoover? Is this really the end? Where is Bob Dylan when I need him tonight?
"Sorry," I said. "Wrong number. You're scaring me."
The Sacramento Kings lost more than a basketball game on Monday night. They lost their soul and their future, along with the No. 1 seed in the Western Conference playoffs and much of their already-wavering self-esteem. Anybody who can't beat the Denver Nuggets in a money game at the end of the season is a silly bet to go anywhere in the grueling NBA playoffs. They are either playing possum or coming apart at the seams, like the Lakers. Take your pick.
I think that Kevin Garnett's time has finally come, this time around, and the Minnesota Timberwolves will run the table this year.
I say that with the same certainty that I feel when I tell you that Kobe Bryant will never even go to trial in Eagle, Colorado, and that Vice-president Dick Cheney will not be on the GOP ticket in November. Take my word for it. I know these things. Good Luck.
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson was born and raised in Louisville, Ky. His books include "Hell's Angels," "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," "Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail '72," "The Great Shark Hunt," "The Curse of Lono," "Generation of Swine," "Songs of the Doomed," "Screwjack," "Better Than Sex," "The Proud Highway," "The Rum Diary," and "Fear and Loathing in America." His latest book, "Kingdom of Fear," 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 regularly on Page 2.