Hey Rube

by Hunter S. Thompson

—September 24, 2001

  Stadium Living in the New Age

  If Washington Redskins owner Daniel Snyder thinks his life has gone south on him now, he is in for a series of frightening shocks when he gets a dose of the rage and despair building up in the hearts of his once-loyal football fans in the terrorized metro Washington area. It is a huge and far-flung fan base of millions of rabid supporters in the wealthiest per capita metropolitan area in the U.S.—and these people are extremely stirred up by the disastrous fate they feel Snyder has brought down on their once-beloved Redskins. Which is true. The Redskins are doomed, lost like pigs in the wilderness—a gang of squabbling losers with no pride and no shame and no hope at all of anything but failure for the next 20 years. In 3 games this season they have been outscored by 112–16.

  I was a Redskins fan, in the pre-Snyder days. It was impossible not to like a winning team led by rogues like Sonny Jurgensen and Billy Kilmer. They were wild boys, anarchists, boozers, and freaks who could win or lose on a whim and torture the hopes of their fans. Betting the Redskins to cover the spread on any given Sunday was like throwing your money to the winds of fickle chance, something only a common junkie would do—but there were many junkies, and not all were “common,” by any standard. They were big-time people—U.S. Senators, Presidents, evil pimps, and gold-plated whores from mysterious harems in Hong Kong, Turkey, and Liechtenstein. The power they wielded in the years after World War II was enormous. They traded in diamonds and rubies and atom bombs. They rarely slept, and their blood was always boiling. Those were wild and lawless years in the Capital District.

  Which brings us back to the much-despised Daniel Snyder.

  The Washington Redskins were whipped again like rabid skunks on Sunday, but only a few people cared. Brooding on the fate of the Redskins is no longer considered cool, in Washington or anywhere else in the English-speaking world. Not even the President of the United States gives a hoot in hell about the pitiful fate of the Redskins. They are the worst team in the NFL, and their owner is widely vilified.

  But that doesn’t bother Daniel Snyder. He is a rich and busy man. Public scorn and ridicule Don’t faze him.—Mr. Snyder is not a frequent flier to Afghanistan, these days. He is too busy owning the Redskins and the brand-new, state-of-the-art Federal Express stadium, where his team plays nine games each year.

  Snyder bought these properties in 1999 for eight hundred Million dollars, which some people said was too much. But Dan ignored their warnings and spent $100 Million more for “stadium improvements,” like creating new Luxury Suites and replacing new steel girders with newer glass ones, so that people in $100 seats could better see the field. The average price of a seat at FedEx Field is $92, the most expensive seat in the NFL, and that doesn’t include $12 hot dogs and $8 cups of beer.

  That is a very pricey ticket for a sports event—though not up there with bizarre things like Jack Nicholson’s seats for Lakers games and folding metal chairs in the Governor’s Box on Kentucky Derby Day. But those are the best seats in the house, and cheap at any price—particularly for real estate developers and shrewd Hollywood stars who need massive publicity for their movies but would rather not be seen on the Letterman show.

  Tell me, Britney, why did the chicken cross the road?

  Because he wanted to be seen. The chicken is smart, he is cool. He is making a sound investment in himself—unless he is drunk, and then he has no future. But he wins either way. If the chicken is Flamboyant as he crosses the road, he will soon be rich and famous. If he is bitchy and neurotic, he will be eliminated. This is the Law of the Road.

  But what is Daniel Snyder really up to? Is he as stupid as a chicken on a freeway? Is he a natural fool?

  No. The Redskins’ owner has been called many things—from a treacherous greedhead and a savage jackass to a leech and a whore-beast—but he is rarely called a fool. Snyder is a high-rolling businessman in Washington, DC, the crossroads of power and politics in a nation of dangerously frustrated warriors who love football and hunger for personal Security. It is a nervous climate for businessmen: they crave a solution—and Daniel M. Snyder thinks he has one. All he needs now is a proper market for it.

  That is where the Redskins come in. The team itself is a loss leader, a pawn in Snyder’s larger scheme—which is to lure confused rubes into his futuristic football stadium and sell them highly secure space, where they can relax and be entertained in peace and personal comfort for as long as they feel afraid.

  It is a pretty good scheme, on its face—a walled city with a high-tech security system and rigidly controlled access, like a perfect Super Bowl experience with all-American people and all-American fun that never ends.

  Yes sir, young Daniel is definitely on to something. There is method to his free-spending madness. He is crazy like a fox. Ho ho. I have already signed up as a charter member of the first true Redskins Club, in Landover, MD, which Michael Jordan and his supercool Washington Wizards also call home. Snyder doesn’t own the Wizards yet, but a deal is said to be pending. Michael will play for another 20 years, and Dan will call him a Partner.

  As for the Redskins, they will dump the whole roster, including Coach Schottenheimer and all his failed relatives, then slowly rebuild through the draft. It will be a long and painful process for fans, but in the end they will know Victory and Joy for the rest of their jittery lives. Snyder guarantees it. He already owns the most expensive football franchise in the history of the game, along with FedEx Field with its 88,000 new seats and the indoor shopping mall and 20 acres of parking space, with armed guards to punish evil strangers. They will be flayed and turned into germ-free hamburgers, with just enough purified animal fat to make them sizzle.

  We are talking about a new kind of City, folks, a dangerfree mecca of sport without fear and without bogeymen to make innocent football fans nervous. Daniel is ambitious. He loves music and friendly people with green money. That is his dream and his passion. He has plenty of Luxury Suites, and plenty of beer for club members. Welcome to the Stadium Life.

  —October 1, 2001

  Football in the Kingdom of Fear

  The Washington Redskins lost again on Sunday, but they were not the worst team in the NFL. The Detroit Lions earned that label when they went belly up against St. Louis on Monday night, losing 0–35 in a monumental display of failure in all its forms that made the Lions’ new General Manager visibly ill. Matt Millen tried to hide from the ABC cameras. Toward the end of the nightmare they showed Millen sitting alone in a desolate box as the dazzling St. Louis offense sprinted up and down the field like water running downhill. I gave 31 points and still won my bets. On some days even victory can be too bleak to celebrate.

  When the game was over, I drank some Persimmon juice and called John Wilbur in Hawaii. “Cheer up,” I said. “Think about the war news. We are winning handily, and the British are still with us.” Wilbur was a famous pulling guard for both the Redskins and the Lions, in better days. And I feared he was wallowing in suicidal gloom out there on the western edge of America.

  But I was wrong. “Never mind the war,” he chirped when he picked up the phone. “The worm has finally turned! Washington covered! They finally beat the spread. I won big!”

  It was true: Washington had been a 14½ point underdog, and they had only lost by 14. It was one of those technical victories that only gamblers can enjoy. Just ten days ago Wilbur had been selling Honolulu real estate at a frightening discount—but now he was giggling like a fat young boy and talking about his new Mercedes convertible. “It’s beautiful,” he babbled, “maroon and gold with Spanish leather seats.”

  “Good for you,” I said. “You are a hero of consumer confidence. When will you take delivery?”

  “Who knows?” he said. “I got it for eight thousand dollars—maybe it’s a stolen car.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “We will all be driving stolen cars before this thing is over. Think of it this way: a stolen Mercedes is a hell of a lot better than no car at all—e
specially in Hawaii.”

  “That’s what the salesman said. He said I should shrug it off and feel proud to be a patriot. Hell, I already feel a lot more optimistic about everything—the war, the market, even the filthy Redskins.”

  “You bet,” I said. “Washington is a powerhouse, compared to the Detroit Lions. Things are definitely looking up. I can hardly wait to get out there for the Marathon.”

  “Have you gone into training yet?” he asked. “Are you ready to race 26 miles?”

  “Don’t worry,” I told him. “The war news freaked me out for a while, but I’m back in training now. Do you have my official number yet?”

  “No,” he replied. “They won’t give out the numbers until Pearl Harbor Day. You’re sure to get a low one. Just keep on training and don’t worry about things you can’t control.”

  “Thank you for saying that,” I said. “All I want is for things to get back to normal. The war will be over soon.”

  “Sure it will,” he said. “How about some action on the Dallas game next week? It should be a hell of a game! I’ll take Washington even. How’s that? I feel confident about this one.”

  “Nonsense,” I said. “I want Dallas and ten.”

  I could hear him thinking, but I knew he had a weakness when it came to Dallas. He hated the whole franchise. The Dallas Cowboys had given him a lot of pain when he went against them in the glory days. Wilbur originated the famous Redskins death dance. “Rot, Rot, Rot in Hell,” he would screech from the sidelines—and then his teammates would join him, screaming “Die! You yellow dogs, Die!” He was a Redskin to his core.

  But that was in the old days. Things are different now: both teams are winless this year. But not for long. One of them will almost certainly win this game on Monday. A scoreless tie is possible, but the odds against it are 500 or 600 to one. This is a good game to bet Dallas and the low side of the over/under. Dallas almost beat the Raiders last week, while Washington hasn’t scored a touchdown in the last 10 quarters. They are both extremely bad teams, but Dallas can at least penetrate the end zone now and then—and they will also be playing in front of a pumped-up home crowd.

  The biggest game this week is the Colts-Raiders clash in Indianapolis. I am a serious Colts fan, but I have a queasy feeling about this one and I don’t see them winning against the Raiders—not after taking that horrible beating by New England. Oakland will double up on whatever the Patriots did, and they have enough ex-49ers to win by 10.

  I will not bet that way, however, if only because I won’t have to. The Colts are favored at home, but Peyton Manning will have to stop throwing interceptions if he wants to stay even with Miami in the AFC East.

  St. Louis looks like the class of the league right now—almost too good to be true, in fact—but that’s what they looked like last year after four games, and in the end they couldn’t even beat New Orleans. The NY Giants are not like the Detroit Lions, and their hot rod defense will give St. Louis the fear. This game will be decided by turnovers and Jason Sehorn—so why not have some fun and go with the Giants? We could use a little fun right now, with all these unverified rumors of war and anthrax going around. All war and no football makes Jack a dull boy.

  —October 10, 2001

  Foul Balls and Rash Predictions

  Two teams that will not play in the Super Bowl for another eight years are the Denver Broncos and the screwy Indianapolis Colts. That much is clear beyond doubt. They are Losers, doomed like blind pigs in a jungle of snakes and hyenas. The Colts are chickenshit, and the Broncos won’t even make the play-offs. They have humiliated me for the last time.

  Aside from that, I feel juiced up and ready to make a few rash statements and irresponsible predictions about this week’s games. So stand back and prepare to be enlightened. The fat is in the fire.

  San Francisco and Cleveland will meet in the Super Bowl, and the Browns will be stomped like cheap grapes. The Yankees will lose the World Series and R. J. will throw two no-hitters, then overdose on tobacco and announce his retirement from the game.

  Are we cooking yet? If not, let’s blurt out some more. I see the Rams losing to New Orleans by one point, Oakland whipping the Eagles by 10, and the 49ers beating the snot out of the phony Chicago Bears in a blinding fog-storm. Dallas will win big over Arizona, New England will beat Denver by 15, and UCLA will embarrass Stanford.

  These are only a few of the many far-reaching visions I’ve endured in the past two days. I have been working around the clock to finish the first 88 pages of my long-awaited Memoir, titled “Sex and Justice in the Kingdom of Fear,” which will be in bookstores next year.

  Last week was extremely busy. I spent most of it doing top secret surveillance work on some of my neighbors who are obviously up to no good and need to be watched closely. I have always hated Evildoers, and now that the President has given us a green light to crush them by any means necessary, I see my duty clearly. Dangerous creeps are everywhere, and our only hope is to neutralize them with extreme prejudice. These freaks have taken their shot(s), and now it is our turn.

  The first thing I did was beef up my guest list for the weekend football games. Running full-time surveillance on unsuspecting people is extremely taxing work for quasi-professional operatives with no funding, but I am blessed with deep background experience in the spook business, and I know a few top secret shortcuts that simplify the process enormously.

  One of them is to always act normal and calm in situations of extreme danger. If your job is to surveil and record every moment in the life of a Foul Ball who might be growing Anthrax spores in his basement, for instance, you will learn far more about his brain patterns by inviting him into your home for a nine-hour marathon of disturbing football games on TV than you will ever learn by surveiling him through a telescope from a frozen creek bed in a pasture near his hideout. With luck, you might catch him in the act of fondling a foreign flag or prancing around his parlor wearing nothing but a turban and a black jockstrap—but that will not be enough, in the way of hard evdence, to justify terminating him with extreme prejudice. There is a big difference between croaking a harmless pervert and callously murdering a close relative of the Saudi Ambassador.

  Any Evildoer with the brains to plot lethal damage against our national infrastructure will also be degenerate enough to protect his Evil cover by faking great enthusiasm for watching and gambling on American football games.

  He will not want to talk about his job, but ask him anyway. “How is it going at work, Omar? Are you cool with it? Are you meeting enough girls? Are you a gambling man? Do you have any extra hashish? Why are you looking at me that way? What’s eating you?” It is better to load him up with booze and goofy chatter than to make him suspicious by staring at his hands and constantly taking notes.

  Whoops! I think I see him jogging out there on the road, right in front of my gate. Why not go out and offer him some hot water? Yes, of course, do it now. Remember to watch your back. I’m out of here.

  —October 23, 2001

  Getting Weird for Devil’s Day

  Hot damn, it is Halloween again, and I am ready to get weird in public. Never mind Anthrax for today. The Yankees won, but so what? That’s what I said to that fruitbag who claimed to be Sean Penn when he called earlier. “Screw you,” I said. He was drunk, so I knew right away that it wasn’t Sean Penn. “Get out of my face!” I screamed at him. “You are the same squalid freak who called here a few days ago and said he was Muhammad Ali. What’s wrong with you?”

  “I need advice,” said the voice. “Should I jump into the Honolulu Marathon this year? I desperately need a Personal Challenge to conquer. My blood is filling up with some kind of poison.”

  “Nonsense,” I said. “You are just another jackass looking for attention. I’ll give your lame ass a beating if I ever catch you sneaking around My house, you sleazy little Freak!”

  I didn’t care who he was, by then. He was just another geek in a Halloween parade, to my way of thinking. And for all I k
new he was dangerous—maybe some kind of murderous off-duty cop with two guns and a bottle of whiskey in his pocket. I wanted no part of him, especially not on a day like Halloween.

  But why not humor him, I thought. Nobody needs this kind of Foul Ball drunk coming into his yard at night. So I lowered my voice and gave him a break. “Okay,” I said. “I will help you, just don’t come anywhere near me.”

  “I am Sean Penn,” the voice said calmly. “Should I or should I not enter the Honolulu Marathon in December? That’s all I need to know.”

  “Yes,” I said. “You should definitely enter it. I will go with you if necessary. But don’t call them today. Do it tomorrow, not today. Nobody will believe a thing you say on a horrible day like Halloween.… And don’t use the goddamn telephone anymore! They’ll hunt you down and dice you up like a squid—just go to bed and stay out of sight until noon. That is when the bogeyman sleeps, and so do I. So get out of my face and never call me again!” Then I howled in a low animal voice and hung up the phone.

  “These freaks should all be put to sleep,” I said to Anita. “Let’s go out on the town and get weird.”

  “Wonderful,” she chirped. “We will put on our costumes and throw eggs at foreigners. What are you going to wear?”

  “Only this turban and a jockstrap,” I said. “And some lipstick. They love lipstick.”

  Anita was dressed up as the coach of the New York Giants. “They are Losers,” she said. “It is okay to mock Losers, right?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It is righteous to mock Losers in this country. We are Number One.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “You must be a sportswriter.”

  “You bet,” I replied. “We are going to fly to Hawaii with Sean Penn next month. You will probably need a new Rolex.”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “We will have to be inconspicuous for that kind of travel. Is he still Drinking?”