“Jack Kerouac drank himself to death, and I just ain’t that high.”
We don’t talk about American writers too often because, well to be honest, a distressingly high percentage of our staff has never read anything longer than a Jack Daniels label. Yes, we rocked you some Ernest Hemingway knowledge way back when, but come on. Look at the guy. Doesn’t Hemingway look like the type of man whose ghost you’d not want to piss off?
That being said, there is one writer in particular who was badass enough that he was able to warrant his own fun fact even though our 1950’s predecessors virulently hated the social group he inspired. A man who didn’t so much “write books” as he did “describe his drug and booze fueled crime sprees.” A true American who drank so much his stomach exploded.
“Fuck you, literature, here’s some Kerouac coming right atchya.”