McDougal the Fabric Magician

It all started as a drunken bar game. McDougal and I were sitting at the bar in the Bali-Hi Motor Lodge in Phoenix, Arizona.

I was sipping a mai tai, in line with the spirit of the place. McDougal, of course, was having whiskey. We had already run through our entire usual repertoir of bar games (punching random patrons, insulting the cigarette girl until she cries, pinball) which was usually enough to keep us busy until the cops arrived. However, the police response time was slow in Phoenix that summer, due to a rash of liquor store robberies (McDougal claimed no responsibility, but I'm still not convinced) so we were entertaining ourselves by putting words together to make exciting, but oxymoronic, new products. McDougal had just come up with one that had me howling with rum-soaked laughter, but instead of joining in my merriment, McDougal stood up, suddenly stone sober.

"That is the one that will earn me my fortune," he announced to the entire bar (one cowering bartender, the fourteen patrons who had not yet left because they were knocked unconcious by our beatings, and the cigarette girl - still crying hysterically).

I tugged on McDougal's sleeve, trying to get him to sit back down.

"It's a nonsense product,it would never work," I whispered. "Trust me on this, McDougal. I have a doctorate in chemistry; you're just a longshoreman who flunked out of the fifth grade."

But McDougal was right of course. He's always right. Those three words (two of them hyphenated) made him millions, while I sunk into depression and financial ruin.

Color-safe Bleach.

Goddamn ... I wish I'd thought of that.