Ernest Hemingway was a man who was so manly you grew more hair on your chest each time you looked him in the eyes. This author was so badass that his legend is still talked about to this day. He was a track runner, a football player and a boxer (among other things). Basically, this man was a tank. He was also an avid bullfighting fan. He saw cruel beauty in the sport. Legends also speak of him trying to punch a bull in the face. These reports have been unconfirmed, but imagine how badass that would be. That people would even speculate about this guy punching a bull in the face.
I know you’re probably thinking “Hey, he’s a writer. How bad ass can I writer be?” And with that I say “shut your fucking mouth and I’ll explain.” Hemingway served in a few wars; one of them being the first World War. He was an ambulance driver in Italy (which at the time was getting the shit kicked out of it from every direction). During his time there he was injured by mortar fired and still managed to carry a wounded Italian soldier to safety. This earned him the Italian Silver Medal of Bravery. That’s kinda cool, right? You know what makes it bad ass? He was the first American to ever receive that award. That’s right, his bravery is known of in at least two countries. How many countries know of your bravery? Exactly.
After World War I Hemingway decided to just drink and write and basically do anything he wanted for a few years. Hemingway would go on to see the combat of the Spanish War as a reporter and forming a partisan group to help liberate Paris. Dude was hardcore.
Hemingway wasn’t only a war veteran but a ladies man. In forty years he went through four wives and had three kids. Legends speak of his manliness and badassery to such a degree that Hemingway was never singly for more than 30 days. Whenever Hemingway was single he shouted to the heavens and woman literally fell on his lap, wanting him and he wanting booty. And Hemingway took what he wanted. Every. Single. Time. You don’t deny Hemingway some booty.
So let’s see. . . we’ve covered how much of a tank he was, how much of a war veteran he was and how much of a ladies man he was. Time to talk about booze and death. I say booze because it is fairly well known that for a good chunk of his life Hemingway hung out with Irish writer James Joyce (who we’ll cover later) and went on “alcoholic sprees”. This man could hold his booze with the best of them. If you have any relatives who claim to have had a conversation with Hemingway, he was probably drunk. That man could drink a battle of whiskey and feel a slight tingle in his nose. If you wanted to see this man smashed you’d have to give him a distillery and a weekend.
And as for death? First of all, Hemingway had two, that’s right, TWO obituaries. The first said that he and his wife Mary were dead. Obviously Hemingway read this and went over to the newspaper’s head quarters to correct them. Funny thing is the next day the obituaries section was full of former news paper writers and editors. For Hemingway’s second obituary, the real one. . . Well, it’s been well documented. I think Wikipedia summed it up best. “In the early morning hours of July 2, 1961, Hemingway "quite deliberately" shot himself with his favorite shotgun. He unlocked the gun cabinet, went to the front entrance of their Ketchum home, and "pushed two shells into the twelve-gauge Boss shotgun, put the end of the barrel into his mouth, pulled the trigger and blew out his brains." Originally the papers said his death was “accidental” and not a suicide. Obviously they thought that Hemingway killing himself wasn’t as badass as it seemed. But a few years later the truth came out. Instead of people going “Man, Hemingway was a pussy for killing himself,” people realized it had to be done. Because no one could kill Ernest Hemingway. Except for Ernest Hemingway.
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