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.