Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by the esteemed and mighty Hunter S. Thompson.
As a young writer, I wanted to be Hunter S. Thompson. Since I was already pretty crazy and ingesting massive amounts of recreational chemicals, I figured I had a leg up on the competition. Then I dropped what turned out to be a little too much high-grade blotter acid and went to a Furry convention in Orange County, California. Despite a promising start to my adventure, things went from "heh-heh!" to "oh, shit..." REAL effin' quick.
Right about the point when I was talking to a fox about the finer points of BDSM culture, I realized things were getting weird. It's never a good thing when you can't tell where reality ends and the drugs begin. I also remembered I was in Orange County and that the local constabulary wouldn't take kindly to some long-hair on a felony's worth of hallucinogenics freaking out because because he was surrounded by talking foxes. That's the last time I ever took acid that day.
Luckily, I met a pretty chill cougar who passed me a couple of fatties packed with Mendo green bud. At least, that's what my notes say happened. I also ended up with a three-figure bar tab and on the back of it was a phone number that I never had to balls to call.
Three days later, when my Southwest flight reached the crest of the John Wayne Int'l climb-out (if you've ever flown out of John Wayne you know what I'm talking about), I started reviewing my notes. There were a couple of half-mad word-associations followed by two pages of "OH, F*CK" written in various colored inks, and finally the most sage thing I've ever written:
"Never trust a talking fox."
Words to the wise, my friends, words to the wise.
-- Mike Beebe