The Battle of Scotland

That reminds me of the time McDougal decided he was going to train a quarter million head of cattle to fight the Irish Republican Army in a duel to the death - Winner Takes Dublin. He was really fired up about the chaos in Palestine in the late 60s and because he was at the time regularly banging a couple of Israeli sisters, he put all the blame on the IRA.

So he buys up, no shit, about half the beef herds of Nebraska and Lower Montana, puts them on a couple of oil tankers and sets sail for Ireland. Only, he was leading the convoy in a speedboat meant mainly for pleasure skiing, and he thought Ireland was in Africa. Damned if he didn't lead those oil tankers around the globe three times, feeding the cows fish that he caught himself with a extra sharp gardening hoe and bag of baby bottle nipples.

It took him 20 years to reach the port of Glasgow. When he pulled in the people cheered as if the Beatles themselves were crushed and dying in those oil tankers, but McDougal didn't even look up at them. He immediately unloaded the few surviving cattle into a 1962 Aston Martin DB4, packed his satchel in the boot, and sped off leaving the couple of thousand crew and cattle tenders on the docks with not a penny of their two decades' pay.

Did they say so much as a harsh word against McDougal?

You tell me.

The next few months were spent in isolation in the jagged peaks of Mull Kintyre of Oa, teaching the blank eyed cows to fight a pistol-brandishing man with their bare hooves, to fashion weapons out of everyday lanyards, and to live off the streets, hiding in the shadows for weeks at a time without moving a muscle. By the end of winter McDougal had a bovine army 4,000 strong, living in the shadows of Kilmarnock and Glenluce - the residents of those towns never had a clue they were sharing their bars, houses, bathrooms, and wives with thousands of cows painted all black and silent as the wind.

The morning of April 3rd, McDougal woke, cast aside some Irishman's besotted wife, and stood fully erect.

"Today is the day," he seethed, "that the dirty Irish swarm will pay their blood to me through broken teeth."

He then violently bleated the Call to Arms, practiced so many times over the years and across the miles, and at once the sleepy townspeople found the ninja-like cattle appearing from behind their dressers and moving out of the patterns of their dining room wallpaper. The cows slaughtered mercilessly, women and children alike, and the men they sliced and dried into jerky for the boatride home. McDougal fought more lustily than them all combined, single-handedly removing three small provinces and a waterslide park from the earth and grinding them into a sort of spreadable paste not unlike olive tapenade.

They rode the verdant hills in modified Mini Coopers for 6 days and 5 nights, raping and pillaging anything over 10 centimeters tall and gathered in a satiated heap on the peak of Ben Vorlich. The jugs of whiskey were flowing, the jerky stores were full, and McDougal sat back fat and happy. He looked over his mooing crew with a paternal eye, and then realized he was in Scotland.

Was he embarrrassed about his geographic error? Would an embarrassed man trim his mustache, buy a horse, and host a morning talk show on Oakland's NBC affiliate?

McDougal sure would.