Inside the Thunderdome

Has anyone here ever seen the inside of a bull's asshole? Raise your hands. Okay, well, I have too. And guess who was my tour guide? That's right, McDougal.

The backstory on this is pretty long and I won't go into too much detail, but I will tell you it started with a timeshare in Asheville, North Carolina, a Pontiac Vibe, and 14 pounds of hashish stitched into the side of a horse.

As usual, McDougal refused to enter the timeshare after we experienced some initial problems with the French Algerian rug cleaning crew. So I'm in front of the condo, pummeling a couple of foreigners with their cans of carpet cleaner, while screaming "Les Français sont faits de culottes et d'autres choses douces qui devraient être cassées!"

McDougal watches for a few minutes, then says fuck it, he'll just wear the Frenchmen on his feet. So he straps them on, walks across the living room/dinette, pops open the fridge, and grabs a couple of beers. Then we sit down to get to work on the plan.

I'm using rusty nails and Pente rocks to represent the key players in this job, but McDougal starts getting all pissed because he wants to be a corkscrew. I tell him just to cool it, be a Pente rock. He is adamant, and to show his dissatisfaction with my choice of representation, he hurls one of the Frenchmen out the window. No great loss, but now McDougal can't get a beer without awkwardly hopping on the remaining Frenchman all the way to the kitchen. The whole process takes McDougal like four minutes, and it starts to annoy the piss out of me. Finally, I just lose my shit.

This of course is a mistake. I black out a little and next thing I know it's three hours and one torched roller rink later before we get back to planning the fucking job.

So when we finally get it all laid out, it looks pretty damn good. The nails are all inside the Happy Meal box, the Pente rocks are mostly submerged in two week old bottles of Red Tail Ale, and the pile of used condoms (representing both the clergy and a somewhat cerebral strain of Trotskyism) is in the mashed potatoes.

Probably the only way I got the plan all finalized was because McDougal was in the guest bedroom role-playing some sexualized plot from "Maude" with a couple of undergrads from Wellesley.



I give McDougal another twenty, then yank him out of the room, take his Bea Arthur mask off, and tell him to sheath the Excalibur. This is Go Time, I tell him. He sobers up pretty quck, and actually lets his Frenchman/shoe finish off the Wellesley girls, which I've always thought was kind of sweet of the Big Guy.

By the time we get down to the RVs, the plastics crew has already loaded the horse and tribe of Huutus. McDougal gets behind the wheel, downs a bottle of Cisco, and kicks it in gear.

Due to Maritime Laws I can't really say what happened from this point to August 3rd, 2003, but I am allowed to say that George W. Bush's daughters never made it to church the last weekend of that September, dolphins do in fact have a language as complex or moreso that ravens, and the Philadelpia Eagles are comprised completely of Nanobots.