It’s not corpse kicking, it’s corpse-kisser kicking:
Borges invited Hitch and me into his home, fed us tea and empanadas, and launched into a seamlessly brilliant discourse on surrealism in Latin American history. He talked for 30 minutes without stopping, during which time Hitch smoked six-dozen cigarettes. When Borges finished, Hitchens paused, spat in his ashcan, and said,
“Of course, you know, you’re wrong about everything.”
He then proceeded to refute Borges, point for point, until he reduced the blind scribe of Buenos Aires to tears.
I do kind of wonder who the “I drank Johnny Walker with Hitch in Kabul stuff” is supposed to impress. The same people who are impressed by stories of riding the bus with Johnny Mac and debating with Pinky, I guess.