No, not like that. Behave yourselves, you rassin' frassin' mundane noodles. He was just such a... strange bird... that I find him weirdly fascinating. Forget about his books for the time being; like many people I'd rather read about Burroughs than read Burroughs (Naked Lunch made my brain hurt, then again, maybe Naked Lunch was supposed to make my brain hurt).
I mean, here's a man who, as John Waters once said, became "the first person who was famous for things you were supposed to hide": drug addiction, sodomy, pederasty, self-mutilation, wife-killing...
Oh yeah, the wife-killing thing--in 1951 Burroughs, ever the gun enthusiast, shot and killed Joan Vollmer during a drunken game of "William Tell." Accidentally. Perhaps.
Which is why I find so many pictures of Uncle Bill a bit... unnerving:
Anyway, a couple of weeks ago over at Kick Him, Honey writer and firearms fan Benjamin Whitmer posted this little video which I found amusing as hell:
"He's dead, man!"
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