W-weh.

(via mrrnundy)

oldsilverfox:

cozyhighroller:

Breaking Bad & Pulp Fiction.

WOWWWWWWWWWWE

holy shitbirds

(via jadiejadie)

So Space Funeral is the best game.

(via mabase-slums)

Hallucinations are bad enough. But after awhile you learn to cope with things like seeing your dead grandmother crawling up your leg with a knife in her teeth. Most acid fanciers can handle this sort of thing. But nobody can handle that other trip-the possibility that any freak with $1.98 can walk into the Circus-Circus and suddenly appear in the sky over downtown Las Vegas twelve times the size of God, howling anything that comes into his head. No, this is not a good town for psychedelic drugs. — Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas (via mathofbirds)

(via fuckyeahhst)

A cap of good acid costs five dollars and for that you can hear the Universal Symphony with God singing solo and the Holy Ghost on drums. — Hunter S. Thompson (via nightfires)

(via fuckyeahhst)

Bill Clinton does not inhale marijuana, right? You bet. Like I chew on LSD but I don’t swallow it.’ — Hunter S. Thompson (via aliceingonzoland)

(via fuckyeahhst)

Crack is ruining the drug culture. — Hunter S. Thompson  (via fuckyeahhst)
Album Art

deathgrapes:

Electric Wizard - Funeralopolis

God, I love me some Electric Wizard.

(via mabase-slums)

TitleFuneralopolis
fuckyeahhst:

“One of the few times I ever got in trouble. I wasn’t drunk or pumped up. I had a loaded .44 magnum in the glove compartment, a bottle of Wild Turkey open on the seat beside me, and I said, well, this is a good time to try that advice a hippie lawyer gave me once - to pull down the window just a crack and stick out my driver’s license. So I started to do that. I was just getting it out, when all of a sudden the door on the other side opened. I looked around, and here was a flashlight glaring right in my face, and right beside the flashlight was a big, dirty .57 magnum pointed at me. They didn’t give a f—k about my license. They jerked me out of the car and pushed me up against the side. I said something about my constitutional rights, and they said, “Well, sue us,” or something and kicked my legs. So I gave it up and eventually I paid a $35 fine, because it’s easier than arguing. I had just bought the car. It was as Saab. The night before I had pushed my English Ford off a cliff in Big Sur, 400 feet down to the ocean, to get even with the bastard for all the trouble it caused me. We filled it with gasoline and set it on fire just before it went over the edge.
Ever since then I have made it a point to be polite to the California Highway Patrol. I have a National Rifle Association sticker on the back window of my car, so that any cop on the driver’s side has to pass that and see it. I used to carry a police badge in a wallet, and that helped a lot.”
-Hunter S. Thompson, on being pulled over in the sixties (High Times, 1977)

fuckyeahhst:

“One of the few times I ever got in trouble. I wasn’t drunk or pumped up. I had a loaded .44 magnum in the glove compartment, a bottle of Wild Turkey open on the seat beside me, and I said, well, this is a good time to try that advice a hippie lawyer gave me once - to pull down the window just a crack and stick out my driver’s license. So I started to do that. I was just getting it out, when all of a sudden the door on the other side opened. I looked around, and here was a flashlight glaring right in my face, and right beside the flashlight was a big, dirty .57 magnum pointed at me. They didn’t give a f—k about my license. They jerked me out of the car and pushed me up against the side. I said something about my constitutional rights, and they said, “Well, sue us,” or something and kicked my legs. So I gave it up and eventually I paid a $35 fine, because it’s easier than arguing. I had just bought the car. It was as Saab. The night before I had pushed my English Ford off a cliff in Big Sur, 400 feet down to the ocean, to get even with the bastard for all the trouble it caused me. We filled it with gasoline and set it on fire just before it went over the edge.

Ever since then I have made it a point to be polite to the California Highway Patrol. I have a National Rifle Association sticker on the back window of my car, so that any cop on the driver’s side has to pass that and see it. I used to carry a police badge in a wallet, and that helped a lot.”

-Hunter S. Thompson, on being pulled over in the sixties (High Times, 1977)

sixgrams:

DRUGS by Bryan Lewis Saunders.

Each self portrait is drawn under the influence of different drugs taken daily. Within weeks of this experiment he became lethargic and suffered mild brain damage. He continues to work on this series but with much more time between doses. 

(via sordidlittlegriefhole)

Who are these pigs — as a validated addict I demand to be left alone — drink the eucalyptus oil — with dials and knobs still high as a freak male locked into the vibrations of the jet engines — get a bag of acid and a credit card for airlines — evaluate the pitch, roll and yaw — no sense of movement in this plane — just humming — the phones — acid-style high tingling and strange, intense vibrations. Get that dead animal off the seat — put it under — where is the drink? These pigs are taking us for a ride — put it on the card. Strange feedback echoes on the headset, Gabriel Heatter screaming in the background — telephone conversations — fantastic people talking. This is yesterday’s program — new songs today. A dingbat across the aisle and Kitty Wells on the headphones. This channel is hag-ridden with echoes — telephone conversations. See no wings on this plane — good God the lock on my whiskey bag is frozen — a lifting body, tends to destroy itself, very wormy. I seem to be getting higher. Hunter S. Thompson rambling on an airplane while feeling the effects of mescaline for the very first time. (from Screwjack, p. 37-38)

(via fuckyeahhst)