Saturday, October 29, 2005

Halloween with McDougal

McDougal loves Halloween.

He loves to dress up.

And he loves children.

Last year he dressed as Hawaii, complete with 60,000 residents, beautiful beaches, lush forests, and the entire cast of Lost.

He won't say what he's dressing up as this year. We usually have to wait for the costume party at James Carville's to find out. But he won't be there until after the kids are finished trick-or-treating.

McDougal gives the best treats.

Last year he handed out over 6,000 new potatoes and cans of baby corn.

The kids had a great time with the potatoes and hurling canned goods at passing cars from atop an overpass near McDougal's house in The Woodlands, Texas.

I think I'm gonna dress up as a rat.

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Religious Freedoms

McDougal is a Shastafarian.

He finds God through high fructose corn syrup stored in 30-year-old cans of bad soda.

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A Barrel of Crackers

Just got back from breakfast with McDougal. We do Cracker Barrel every Saturday. They know us there, and pretend not to notice that we smuggle in a handle of Jack Daniels to wash down our pancakes.

It was McDougal's week to buy, but of course he didn't have any money.

He flirted a bit with the waitress (a retired roller derby queen with one blue eye and one green, she goes about 5'8" and 215. Built like a refrigerator with a head.) and convinced her to pay for our breakfast and "give herself a nice tip. Don't be stingy now."

She put him on a 2-year, no payment, and no interest loan for two Uncle Herschel's breakfasts, two chocolate milks, and two cups of coffee.

McDougal said he's gonna try to pay it off within the two years to avoid the interest charges, and next week, he's bringing in $3.50 for his first payment.

The manager asked me not to come back.

I think he wanted to say the same to McDougal, but was scared because McDougal ate his brother about four years ago.

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Friday, October 28, 2005

First Bank of Tunisia

For a brief time in the late 80s*, McDougal worked as a teller at a small bank in Carthage.

He was quite the dapper don in his golden tophat and cummerbund -- the object of affection to many a young maiden.

Those of us who knew McDougal, knew also that this would never last.

A short 400 years later, the Romans came in and sacked the joint. Killed everyone. Even broke McDougal's solid gold tophat.

McDougal had grown quite fond of that hat over the centuries, and believed it to possess magical powers. Needless to say, he was none too happy when some Roman clod bashed it to bits while still perched smartly atop his oversized noggin.

McDougal vowed to get even, and he did ... sort of. It took him another 400 years (He used to be much slower and more methodical in his actions. That was before the pills, you understand.), but he finally pulled off his plan, launching what he called the "Imperial Crisis," but which is most commonly referred to today as the Crisis of the Third Century.

During the 50 years of McDougal's crusade, he unleashed three major crises (any one of which were a singular threat to the Empire) which all came together in a perfect storm: external invasions, internal civil wars and a runaway hyperinflation economy. The future viability of the Empire, by all reasonable standards, should have come to an end; thusly positioning McDougal as proper and right heir to the throne.

Sadly, however, McDougal's efforts were quashed by the measures of a series of tough soldier emperors and of the emperor Diocletian, who in 284 to split the empire in half. Other reforms allowed it to continue, eventually entering a new phase known as the "Dominate," the "Tetrarchy," and the "Later Roman Empire".**

McDougal was never bitter about his failed effort to destroy the mighty Roman Empire. In his eyes, restitution was paid for the loss of his magical golden tophat.

Up Next: Understanding the Magical Powers of McDougal's Golden Tophat: A Scientific Exploration of Mythology and Magic in the Byzantine Empire

* 580 BC's, that is.
** Wikipedia's rather bland account of the whole affair.

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Saturday, October 22, 2005


From 1978 to 1990, McDougal was on the professional rodeo circuit. In an attempt to clarify some of the confusion/conflict over the number of rodeo records he holds, the Friends of McDougal research wing has interviewed a few of those who were close to him in those years:

  • "That son of a bitch was quick as lightning and twice as furry." ~ Grandma McDougal
  • "McDougal was like a mandarin drake when he mounted his mighty steed." ~ A mandarin drake
  • "Bullriding is an art that most people cannot fully grasp, like the post-Romantic German movement of the early 30s or the music of Sigur Ros. It took a crossover star like McDougal to bring it to the masses so that Everyman could - Oh God, not my fucking hand!" ~ Ben Kingsley, as his hand was being sawed off by a table saw
  • "MacDougal? What is that? Some kind of a Goddamn Scotsman? You know what I like? The Choctaw. Really, just anyone sort of brown hued." ~ Tamerlane O'Shea
  • "McDougal comes in the dark of night, castrates the men, and rapes the women. Some call him the CHUPACABRA!" ~ An 11-year-old Mexican boy
  • "McDougal was a bright star who burned hot and fast like a star that burns bright and fast and then goes out. No. Wait. Make that like a birthday candle that someone blows out. But like a really big one. Like if the birthday candle burned with the heat of 300 suns andthen some big powerful being (Allah, Zeus, God, whatever) came and blew it out. Only when they blew it out, you could see this thing that you knew used to be really hot, but it was obviously just blown out, but could maybe re-ignite at any minute ... you know ... if it hadn't already burned up. Kind of like a match or something." ~ Lech Walensa
  • "I'd eat his bloody fucking heart." ~ Bono
  • "He would, true as word." ~ The Edge
  • "McDougal's way too big to ride a horse." ~ A horse

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Wednesday, October 19, 2005

McDougal in the Blogosphere

60 Minutes II -- fast interview Was with McDougal.

He's a wonderful, wonderful man.

Thanks, Carl.

And in South America ... Another Friend of McDougal.

And thanks to Alistair for keepin' it real south of the Equator, yo.

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Monday, October 17, 2005

June 22

2 million dollars.

2 fucking million dollars.

Most of you don't know McDougal spent a soul crushing 6 years working in the cubicles of a Midwestern telecom company staring blankly at a screen and shuffling windows so his boss couldn't see his porn and chat windows. I know I know, it didn't make sense to us either at the time until it was all over and we thought, God Fucking Damn, McDougal is the smartest son of a bitch that ever lived.

It began when he read Bridges of Madison County. He cried and cried for days, then ate the intestines of a living waitress at an Outback Steakhouse. Dipped them in the orange sauce that comes with a Bloomin' Onion. Then performed a pretty amazing surgery right there on the table, took about half of his own intestines (don't forget we each have like 3 miles in us or whatever) and replaced hers with his. It was kind of a gross M.C. Escher-esque deal, because her intestines were in his being digested and ... well, you can imagine how trippy it was at the time. Anyway, he stitched her up and asked her out right then and there, still reeling from the Bridges love story. She of course said yes, they fucked, and got married 14 months later.

McDougal a married man, what a fucking shock that was to all of us! Gone were the nights of orgies in bowling alleys, hunting squid with limes and trowels, performing a capella with the Boston Pops stoned on opium soaked in owl's blood. instead we found ourselves having pot lucks with new friends from the tennis club, knitting sweaters for rape victims, playing castanets with Steve Buschemi. At the time it happened so slowly as to be imperceptible, we spouted cliches about getting older, we tapped our feet to "The Boys are Back in Town" and had wistful thoughts of Bruce Springsteen sitting on the edge of the reservoir strumming a 6 string and whispering about the passing of youth. Next thing you know McDougal doesn't call me back for weeks, I get married to a set of hot twins who won't let me do it doggy style with either of them ever, and gray hairs start arriving in my beard like unwelcome whores in your mother's church.

Then June 22nd came along.

I woke up, drunk as usual and called in sick to work. I was president of something or other, some phone company or captain of a fleet of ships maybe. Anyway, I called in and was laying there wondering who was going to be on Dr. Phil, when I just had this feeling, you know? I thought, fuck, what is McDougal doing right this second. I decided not to call and warn him, I just piled into my 2009 Ferrari and drove the 600 miles to Bowling Green. I roared up to his office building and took the elevator to every floor until I saw him. Hunched over, pale and pasty from the flourescent tubes that were his only solar nurishment, and obviously hiding a huge erection in his pants. I quietly walked up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder and did my best boss imitation. "McDougal, what is that you have on your screen there" and he turned around and killed me.

Killed me fucking dead as shit, right there. He smashed my face in with a keyboard, I was dead within 10 seconds. He realized pretty quick who I was and what he had inadvertently done, and he immediately yelled "Saddam Hussein!" and everyone came and gutted me and hung me up on a pole and yelled at media cameras and it was broadcast around the world. He got a 2 million dollar reward for killing me, and took that and travelled the world for 4 years with the sole mission of laying a woman of every nationality and ethnicity before setting foot back into Bowling Green.

This of course explains his deal today, as he did not fully realize the overwhelming number of nationalities and ethnicities in the world before setting out. At some point he felt bad for me and brought me back to life; he did something with aloe vera and a pumpkin. Anyway, that was somewhere around Tibet, and we're still on his mission today. I look back on June 22nd and wonder what my life would be like if I hadn't have gotten out of bed, showered, had both of my wives biblically, and driven to find McDougal. Then I snort paprika off the neck of whatever llama or whale I'm riding and look up and the moon and smile, thankful for McDougal and his endless supply of cash.

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Friday, October 14, 2005

Delirious Mangina

McDougal wrote this song last night and demanded I post the lyrics here. It's not a song as much as it's him screaming these words while banging away on a rusted Frigidaire with a boat anchor:

I live in a sock
Broke down jock
My hair is taunt
On this wicked October jaunt

Pig tails and ice cream dreams
Muffling the one-eyed stripper's screams

Missing three teeth
On the back of my neck
Constables for peace
And I'm a burnin' wreck

Missed on the free government cheese
Asked the wizard, can I have some please?

Magic cheese on a crisp fall night
One of my parents was not white

My heart is black from all these pills
Chemically solving society's ills

Rabbits live in my left shoe
And ain't much more for me to do

Crap on a rat
Eat my hat
Growing fat
And that's where it's at
That was blood I spat
On your black cat

Leaves are turning
Heart is burning

And it's with this devil I dance
Too tight - these pants


The man's gone over the ledge into the black abyss. I haven't seen him in this state since Laos in '74. I fear he's nearing his end.

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Saturday, October 08, 2005

Pork v Prok

I want to know why everyone thinks McDougal has something against the pork industry. Let me tell you bloody fucking porkers a little story about when I was in the Army with McDougal.

It was the summer of '84, and we were holed up near Phnom Penh. We were surrounded by peasant zombies, who were intent on eating our brains. McDougal's mind was blown on a pound of premium Iranian hash and CIA-issued brake fluid, but he was still sharp as a tack.

I looked up at him and he had this kind of half-smile, half cryface on and he was listening to Suite: Judy Blue Eyes on his Sony "Walk Man". I was making sweet love to a buxom Irish barmaid we brought along for entertainment, and the rest of the troops were making a hollandaise sauce in the puptent, so to speak.

"Buck Rogers, stop fucking the irishman and get ready, here come a shitload of flesh eating zombies."

I hear the telltale swishing and groaning of the approaching zombies and fear strikes me temporarily flaccid. McDougal is still perched up on the gunnery wistfully singing CSN&Y. All at once he is shooting in 40 different directions, his body a blur of fire and metal as he mows down a hundred slack jawed zombies. I see one creeping into the mess tent and getting his rotting mits into the hollandaise sauce. "McD!" someone yells as his head is being ripped off, "the sau--" and Bam, McDougal is on him like shit on grass, the bullets tear the zombie from his ill-gotten ladle and before I can pull a scream from my throat Tullis and Pettyjohn are getting the ladle back into the pot and cleaning out the pieces of zombie from the sauce and surrounding cooking area. Then I hear another creak and off to my left in the latrine there are three zombies building a Jenga tower with toilet paper tubes "MCDOUGAL" I scream and he's launching a rocket into their fucking faces one for each one of their goddamned stupid fucking faces....

I'm sorry. Every time I let my mind go back to that place I ... I'm sorry.

So anyway, I hope that makes a difference.

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Thursday, October 06, 2005

Of Mice and Men

McDougal was born a slave on a plantation on the Mississippi in 1799. It was an odd plantation, growing mainly steamed vegetables like artichokes and broccoflower, and tits. McDougal's grandfather was captured by a slave owner named Onida Dockery, who was so cunning of a negro that he tricked white people into being his slaves. The slaves from neighboring plantations would come over at night and beat the white slaves, including young McDougal, and this had a profound effect on his development.

It was during the Civil War that the McDougal family realized they had fucked up and were on the wrong side of the fence. They quickly moved to Detroit and set to work in a factory riveting bolts into Ford F150s, a full 140 years before they even existed. Another driving factor in the confusion of young McDougal was the fact that these vehicles didn't need rivets, and his mother, uncle, aunts, and sister were just walking around shooting rivets into the windows and doors at random. McDougal's father did nothing but eat hot dogs and shit mice. (Note: He didn't eat entities called "shit mice," but when he shat, his fecal matter contained only live mice that infested the assembly plant.)

McDougal's sexual awakening came to him in the form of a smack from the labia majora of an attractive young girl from Poland. It was a steaming hot night in Kuala Lampur, where McDougal retreated following years of ritual abuse at the hands of his father's shit mice (Note: Here I am referring to the mice who were shat out by his father and branded shit mice by the rest of the family.)

Also, earlier I said "hands." Being shit mice and not the common variety house mouse (Mus musculus), which features claws, the shit mouse has actual hands -- very similar in nature to human hands, only much smaller, of course. The shit mice used these hands to punch, pinch and strangle young McDougal until he was driven mad and ultimately escaped to Kuala Lampur, where he was deflowered by a beautiful young Polish whore, who brought him kicking and screaming into manhood.

The woman, whose name dare not be spoken in polite company, taught McDougal the Polish language, how to make sausage, and how to be a man. In the years since, McDougal has often credited this nameless Polish whore with his many great successes.

Likewise, he has attributed his equally numerous failures (i.e. the minja, the Hindenberg, Gigli, the Pontiac Vibe, and Paul Simon's short lived attempt at theater) to her overly aggressive labia.

Truth be told, however, McDougal owes all his colossal life events to one man and one man alone. This man, his true father, is Onida Dockery.

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Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Neil Lynch Cried like a baby when ...

I peed in his mouth.

McDougal ripped off his left foot and beat him half to death with it in front of the Wal-Mart on Chandler Ave. in front of his mother and the Lyle Manpoole (Mr. McDougal's freshman anthropology teacher and the first man he ever had a crush on).

Benson was cancelled.

He was beaten senseless by a gang of 14-year-old bitches from West Side.

Lloyd Benson peed in his mouth.

Robert Guillaume peed in his mouth.

No one peed in his mouth for six months.

He realized he could only be aroused by having a tall black man pee in his mouth.

He saw the R. Kelly video.

Despite repeated fan letters and offers of cash, R. Kelly refused to pee in his mouth.

He received the results of his IQ test.

He fell asleep during the last 15 minutes of the last episode of The View.

Bananarame broke up.

He took a rubber chicken to his prom as a "funny joke" ... because that's what funny, funny Neil Lynch does. The whole evening ultimately turned bad; however, when the rubber chicken refused to put out, and Neil was caught in his high school parking lot by Andy Miller, the prom queen at Central High School. The saddest part was Neil had been out of high school for 12 years at the time and had just been fired from his job as nut mopper at Platinum Plus.

He realized he couldn't engage the McDougal Army because he was outgunned, out witted, and shit out of luck.

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Sunday, October 02, 2005

Aztek Spitbird by Pontiac

So there I was - sitting on the hood of my Pontiac Sunbird eating a human pancreas with McDougal. I later told the judge that I didn't know it was human pancreas were were eating.

"Your honor, I believed then as I believe now that that pancreas belonged to a large mammal. Maybe a bear or a silverback gorilla."

I'm not sure why I included that quote in this story. It's hardly germaine to the subject I've set out to discuss. But I remember it. I remember it vividly because it was the day I was given the death penalty by a cowardly Colombian judge.

And the day I decided to move to Greenland.

Where I eat Pancreii whenever I want.

But in Greenland, like in Colombia, driving a Pontiac Sunbird is a capital offense punishable by death.

I didn't know that then -- that you could be killed for driving a Sunbird. Killed by the state. Hanged.

And deservedly so.

This I later learned and now understand.

Now I drive a Vibe.

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