Nixon was so crooked that he needed servants to help him screw

Hear the fiery words of Hunter S. Thompson, the prophet of gonzo journalism, who once thundered: “Nixon was so crooked that he needed servants to help him screw his pants on every morning.” At first, it appears as mere satire, a jest hurled in rage. But beneath the laughter lies a truth sharpened like a blade—the denunciation of corruption so deep that it warps the very image of a man’s body, twisting honesty into something unrecognizable.

When Thompson calls Nixon crooked, he is not merely speaking of posture, but of spirit. The crookedness is moral, not physical: the bent shape of deceit, the twisted form of ambition without conscience. To say he could not put on his pants without help is to say that corruption had so thoroughly consumed him that even the most ordinary acts of life were stained, exaggerated to grotesque absurdity. In Thompson’s vision, Nixon’s every morning begins not in truth but in deceit, a ritual of dishonor clothed in false dignity.

The origin of this quote lies in the storms of the Watergate scandal, when the walls of American politics were shaken by revelations of lies, spying, and abuse of power. Thompson, who had long despised Nixon, seized the moment to voice the fury of a generation betrayed. His language, wild and unrestrained, carried the weight of ancient satire—the same spirit with which Aristophanes mocked the false politicians of Athens, or Juvenal flayed the corruption of Rome. Exaggeration was his weapon, and ridicule his spear.

History bears witness to such images. Think of Louis XVI of France, whose people, starving and desperate, saw in his gluttony and aloofness the grotesque image of tyranny. The people mocked him, painted him as bloated and useless, until satire became revolution. Or recall Tiberius, the Roman emperor whose debauchery was whispered about in caricature so vile that history itself could not cleanse it. In each age, when rulers betray the people, satire rises like fire, making their corruption visible in images so absurd they cannot be forgotten.

The deeper meaning of Thompson’s words is this: corruption, when it takes root in power, does not remain hidden. It warps the entire being of the corrupt, until every act, even the smallest, reeks of dishonesty. By painting Nixon as so crooked he cannot even dress himself, Thompson warns us that corruption is not occasional—it becomes the essence of a man, consuming him wholly, twisting his humanity into caricature.

The lesson for us is clear: beware of those whose crookedness has become so complete that it colors their every act. Recognize that corruption does not remain small; it grows, it spreads, it becomes the very skin a man wears. And once it reaches that point, no ritual, no garment, no pants can cover it. The truth will break through, often first in laughter, then in rage, and finally in upheaval.

The practical action is this: do not dismiss satire as mere comedy. When the people laugh at their rulers, listen, for laughter often hides pain and reveals truth. Hold leaders to account, not only for their deeds but for the character that shapes those deeds. And in your own life, guard against crookedness in small things—for if allowed to grow, it will twist you entirely. Instead, walk straight, so that when you rise each morning, you may put on your clothes not with shame, but with dignity.

Thus, Thompson’s words endure not as insult alone, but as parable. He teaches that satire is a weapon of the people, that laughter can slay tyrants, and that corruption, once complete, makes even the simple act of dressing in the morning appear as absurdity. For the crooked may hold power for a season, but in time their own twisted image will become their undoing.