Dick Cheney

One thing about McDougal, he's always going to obey Maritime Law.

The man was in the Merchant Marines for 14 years -- made the rank of Senior Chief Petty Officer. You don't move up like that in the Goddamn Merchant Marines without 1) respecting the hell out of some Maritime Law, and 2) Blowin' the ass end out of your sales quota month after month after month.

Because one thing about the Merchant Marines that you can't forget -- sure, they're marines ... but they're also merchants.

And you motherfuckers know McDougal's a goddamn flat out sales dynamo. That old bastard could sell rhino urine to the Choctaws!

Of course, I didn't know McDougal when he did his time in the service. That was, I guess, between his prison stints in Upstate New York and that stretch in federal. But I've heard tales you wouldn't believe.

But I'll leave those tales for another man. A man who could tell them with the honesty, vim, and vigor they deserve. Someone who was there with him through the hurricanes, the monsoons, the typhoons, and the ports of call ... oh the ports of call.

But I have had the great honor and privelege of sailing with McDougal on his private frigate. And, my friends, the frigate is a mighty vessel, and McDougal an able captain.

In the late 19th century, I had the honor of sailing with McDougal on a whaling expedition in the great Indian Ocean.

Those were good times. They were honest times. And McDougal was an honest captain.

Our bounty in those days was sperm whales.

McDougal and I set sail on a cold Christmas morn' in Nantucket in the year 1877. Soon after we departed, McDougal nailed me to the mast and announced to the rest of the crew that he was in search of a six-legged whale by the name of John Ashcroft. He promised a bounty of fresh thigh meat from my left leg to the first man to spot Ashcroft.

We sailed for seven months with no word of this mighty Ashcroft beast. And I nailed to the mast the entire time.

Then on our 214th day at sea, it happened.

The mighty Ashcroft was spotted just astern of midship.

McDougal unleashed a fiery attack on the not-yet-Attorney General.

He hit the man just below his blowhole with a flaming Oldsmobile. Ashcroft was, however, unmoved. Then he had Mr. Hooper fire six barrels into his belly. Six barrels!

But not even those barrels were enough to keep him afloat.

"You've got city hands, Mr. Hooper," McDougal announced.

"He can't go under. Not with six barrels, he can't."

But he did.

And we never saw him again.

That is, until he was elected Senator from Missouri by beating some dead guy. Well, that really set McDougal off, and before I know what's happened, the old crew's loaded up the frigate and going after him again.

I resumed my honored position nailed to the mast, and we pursued the mighty Ashcroft for eight and a half years. Then, one day, without warning I was thrown overboard for insubordination, and left for dead in the middle of the North Atlantic.

Fortunately, I was rescued by a Russian troller, and transported to Topeka, where I spent 11 months in a half-way house, before being released to continue my search.

But by then, the trail had grown cold.

Ashcroft, who'd once been spotted singing patriotic hymns on the Senate floor, had achieve supreme rank in the Federal government, but had by then retired to pursue fascism full-time.

But I kept at it. Day and night, doggedly pursuing the mighty Ashcroft.

I finally caught up with him two weeks ago at a Day's Inn in Rochester, and we stayed up half the night, just talking, and laughing, and holding each other in our underwear.