McDougal Plans to Eat Neil Lynch's Cat

This is the rumour that's circulating the blogosphere.

McDougal is, unfortunately, unavailable for comment.

The Contents of McDougal's Hall Closet

Got a request from an unnameable source (DOHS) to get a rundown of McD's hall closet.

• shoebox containing 14 "Juggs" magazines
• die-cast metal model of a 2003 Dodge Dakota with the words "I Hate Martin Luther King" written on it in lipstick
• the Koran
• one nest of pleistocene small mammals, kind of look like those meer cats made popular by Disney's "The Lion King"
• American flag jumpsuit (stained)
  

in order to get this I had to dress as a DSL repairman and schedule an appointment to "upgrade his porn pipe". I called on the McDougal residence at around 4pm this afternoon, and was promptly shoved into a hole in his backyard. I protested, showed him my (falsified) credentials from SBC Yahoo! and demanded that he A. dig me up and B. take the hose off my face. He gave me neither, but did actually feed me a delicious dinner of Tri Tip and corn on the cob, creme brule for dessert. So I was in that hole for two days (which means yes, I am typing this in the future, but lay off, fuckwad, it's Daylight Savings).

Saturday morning he pulls me out of the hole and tells me to get moving. I play it like nothing is up, and go in his closet and shut the door. I am frantically trying to get digital images of the contents of his closet and I'm covered in sweat, when I hear what sounds like McD killing a dachsund. I'm like oh shit and get about 20 or so shots of the closet, pull a few samples of the mammals and jack to the Juggs, when curiosity gets the better of me and I peek out to see what he's up to.

Damned if I don't look out and see him eating Tom Ridge's arm and playing "Othello" with one of the ladies from Nanny 911. They invite me to smoke some crack and I end up of course doing the Nanny, then McDougal takes my carefully hidden list and rips it to shreds.

"The DOHS won't be needing that list, Devon, because I'm running that bitch now."

And I'll be goddamned if he wasn't.

Science and the Discovery of Self

Found this while sorting through McDougal's "keepsake" box at his mom's place a few weeks ago..

Science and the Discovery of Self
By James McDougal (Age 9)

"Pasta, Jim. It's pasta."

What the hell did she know? They're fucking "Wagon Wheels." Says so right on the box. I have my doubts about these mushy, sauce-covered 3/4 inch noodlous concoctions' ability to support the carriage through the rough terrain of the American West.

Let me back up a bit. "She" is my sister the chiropodist. "I" am an explorer along the lines of Messrs. Lewis and Clarke. In an era when there is little left to explore (what with the highways, horse trails, and satellite imagery), my job is rather daunting. I do not face the same dangers as 18th century explorers. Mine are primarily financial and/or based on my limited comprehension of the world around me.

I remember a man in the old neighborhood. We used to call him "Mr. Sweet Daddy No Pants." He was a colorful squat man with a red nose and rosey cheeks. I remember a steady stream of water spewing forth from his scalp.

"That was a lawn toy, Jim. It was a lawn toy that you hooked to the garden hose. And you were the only one who called him Mr. Sweet Daddy No Pants. I believe everyone else called it by its correct name: Mr. Bobbles, the Wet and Wacky Lawn Clown."

My sister is a pragmatist. Earlier I said "Chiropodist." I got those words confused. She is not currently employed. Very practical though.

"I forbid you to set out on this assinine journey."

I am her elder. Rule of law suggests she cannot issue edicts of that nature. And if she does, I am in no way obligated to follow them. She is just making noise - like a busted leaf blower.

"I am off to explore the American West with my trusty pack mule pulling this handcrafted wagon, which contains all necessary food rations, scientific gear, and advanced weaponry I will need on my journey."

"You haven't a pack mule, Jim. That's Scraps the dog, and he's not yours. He belongs to Mrs. Kellerman of Hertzel Avenue. Should you make it out of the neighborhood, she will assuredly call the police to report a criminal dognapping."

"We all make sacrifices in the name of science," I reminder her. Her name is Peggy.

"You're absolutely mad," Peggy said, throwing her head back in mock disdain.

"I am not so mad that I do not see the manner in which you've chosen to assault me," I noted. "Rather than evaluate my scientific quest with an impartial eye, or attack some readily apparent physical or character flaw, you've chosen to set science back three decades with four simple words - two of which contracted to form one word, but did not eliminate the essence of the true word count, which shall remain four."

"I'm calling father," she insisted.

"So be it," I said. "I'm sure even the honorable Thomas Edison had his detractors. I am departing now, regardless."

"That's it. I'm calling father immediately."

"Very well," I said. "I'll write when I make land west of the Mississippi."

"You won't make land west of the front lawn."

"I'm leaving now."

"You haven't pants about you," she said.

"Scientists needn't pants. Think of the Greek thinker who streaked naked and wet through the streets of Athens shrieking Eureka at the discovery of displacement."

"I don't know of whom you are speaking."

"Science needn't pants."

"Science need only the ability for rational thought," she sighed. "What do you hope to achieve with this absurd quest?"

"Discovery, exploration, peace, and knowledge," I said. "The goals of all scientists."

"You're out of your over-sized lithium-imbalanced gourd. I have father on the phone now."

"MUSH!" I commanded Scraps.

"Father wishes to speak to you," Peggy said, handing me the phone.

Sadly, I was not able to take the call at that moment. Scraps had turned upon me and swarmed about my face like a demon sent straight from Hades to evicerate my immortal soul. When I tightened the reigns, instead of plodding forward as expected, he turned on me and bit me several times on the face. I swatted furiously at him, but he would not be dissuaded.

"Take a message, Peg. I've demons about me."

I finally managed to subdue the evil beast with a combination of left and right hooks to the beast's frothing mouth.

"Father says you're not to leave the yard."

Scraps ate my wagon wheels and was chewing through the leather straps I'd placed upon him.

"Very well," I said. "Bring me the lawn clown. I shall disect him and study his innards in the name of science."

"You haven't a scalpel."

"Then I shall use an incisor wrenched from the mouth of this devil dog. Bring me the God damned lawn clown!" I am a patient man, but when it comes to practical study, I have my limits. Peg should have known not to cross me on that front.

When father returned, Mr. Sweet Daddy No Pants had been successfully autopsied, photographed, and catalogued. I was in the process of re-assembling him per the manufacturer's specifications. A representative from the manufacturer guided me through the process via the telephone.

"Terminate your conversation immediately, James," father commanded. "The mission has changed."

I hung up the telephone without so much as a polite "fare the well." When one is at the mercy of generous benefactors, he is unable to achieve true freedom. Being a mere nine years old, I find myself in such a situation. As such, my research is routinely and unnecessarily hampered by the limitations of my progenitor's conceptual understanding of scientific study. I shall soon apply
for a grant or perhaps for emancipation from my family so that I may be free of familial shackels.

"What study I now, father?"

"Study your rear end in the wood shed, fashioning a switch with which I might punish you."

"Yes, father."

As the repeated lashes rained down upon my uncloaked posterior, I thought of Sir James Chadwick, who discovered the neutron some years ago, and I wondered if he faced similar obstacles to his search for fundamental scientific truths. And then it occurred to me. I was not taking these lashes just as one man. In a Jungian moment of truth, I realized my father was lashing out at scientific discovery through the ages. I was taking lumps for Fermi, Einstein, Oppenheimer, Newton, and all the greats upon whose shoulders I stood.

You may knock off the top of the tower, father. But the foundation is impenetrable.

Your Goose is as Good as Mine

McDougal keeps a gaggle of geese in his guest bathroom.

He got interested in geese about three years ago, while on a drive through the Carolinas with a crew from the mortuary. He swears that the goose spotting on this trip was the first time in his life he had ever seen or even heard of a "goose."

"Wait, the bird is called a goose?" He asked. "You mean goose ... like when you stick your finger up someone's asshole when they're not expecting it? What an odd name for a bird."

"I don't care what you call them," he said. "This marvelous foul is a bird of paradise in my book. And his trumpeting the most beautiful sound I've ever had fortune to witness."

As Benny, Marv, Laurie and I motored through Asheville, McDougal began reaching his giant hands out of the window of our speeding Subaru Justy and grabbing geese out of the air in mid flight. Within minutes he'd pulled in two dozen of the dreadful creatures, and they were frantically flapping their wings and clearing their bowels.

McDougal was in heaven. Covered in gooseshit from the nape of his neck to his ankles, he just smiled and moaned in ecstacy.

Once he'd filled every square inch of the Justy's cabin with geese and goose excrement, he insisted that we roll up the windows to prevent their escape and turn the heat on to "lessen their excitement."

Within ten miles the heat and pungent ammonia-like aroma of goose shit had caused Benny, Marv, and Laurie to lose consciousness. I was not far behind them. I asked McDougal for permission to pull over to get some fresh air. The big man denied my request and demanded that I keep driving, but not to exceed 30 MPH, which McDougal said was maximum goose flight speed.

I made it another 15 or 20 minutes max before I passed out from the heat and the smell.

When I came to, Benny, Marv, Laurie and I were handcuffed to the steering wheel, and the car was afloat in the Tennessee Tom Bigbee.

We were later freed by a Coast Guard crew, and decided to let the car go. Much like Larry King, It's time on this earth had passed.

I went to see McDougal when we got back home -- just to let him know we were OK. He said that our health was of no concern to him.

He had replaced the bathroom door with a hinged chicken wire gate and covered the floor with cedar chips and gravel, and was lying in the bathtub with a mighty Canadian perched on his pecker.

There was no sign of any geese.

Self Portrait

by McDougal

Dreaming of Dragons

I’ve been having this dream about fishing with McDougal

It's fall and most of the leaves are off the trees as we hike toward the stream. I'm not much of a fisherman, but McDougal is. Ties his own flies and shit. We get to the stream and wade out in the water. I never have any luck. My fly is hung in a branch again.

Then a dragon comes out of the water. He asks us who we are.

McDougal leans in close and whispers, "Pretend you're a bear."

His breath stinks of fried eggs, coffee, and tobacco.

"We're just bears," I say. "Fishing for trout."

"Very well," the dragon says. "Then I shall grant you three wishes."

McDougal leans in close again, "Tell him you wish you were a man. That's the first thing a bear would wish for."

He has a long, matted beard that hides infected red bumps on his face.

"Wait," I say. "Is that three wishes a piece, or do we have to split them?"

The dragon eats McDougal.

"Why did you do that, dragon?" I ask.

"Dragons don't understand math. That is to say, we don't do math. We understand the concept: adding and subtracting and dividing and whatnot."

Of course, I'm nervous now. "This is not a wish, but can we smoke cigarettes?"

"Are you a bear?"

"In the woods, I crap."

"Yes, you may smoke."

"Join me," I say.

And we fire up a couple of butts.

"This is good smoke," the dragon says.

"I wish I had a golden barrel of infinite fish."

"Done," the dragon says. He is finished with his cigarette and I have the barrel.

"I want to be a man," I say. "Only, I want to keep these bear hands."

"Done," the dragon says.

"So I'm finished?"

"Yes," the dragon says. And he eats me.

When I am in his stomach, I see McDougal’s head.

"Did you not tell him you are a bear?"

"I did indeed."

"Then why did he eat you?"

"He is a dragon."

Then the dragon is a whale.

"Can we climb out?"

"Did Jonah?"

"See if you can get three more wishes?"

"I have lost my golden barrel of infinite fish."

"Have you? Wish to be free."

"I wish I were free."

Then I am on the deck of a whaler and McDougal rides the dragon through the sea.

I harpoon him in the eye.

"May we have three wishes?" McDougal asks.

"Yes," I say. "I wish you were a bear, I was a dragon, and I had my golden barrel of fish back."

Then we are back in the woods. The dragon is sitting with the bear with a smug way about him. McDougal whispers something to him.

"Can we have three wishes?"

Then someone throws a harpoon in my eye, and I wish it didn't hurt so badly.

And I'm in my bed. And I fall asleep.

It's fall and most of the leaves are off the trees as we hike toward the stream. I'm not much of a fisherman, but McDougal is. Ties his own flies and shit. We get to the stream and wade out in the water. I never have any luck. My fly is hung in a branch again.

WWII: The Homefront.

WWII: The Homefront.
by Frances McDougal
as transcribed by his bitch

If there is one thing that can be said about Adolf Hitler, it is that he changed the face of fashion forever. The early 1930s Germany was a wasteland of post-Hapsburgian pomp and circumstance, a disaster in fashion terms. You could not walk into the Salzplatz without Baron Von Ribbentrop or some other asshole hitting you with his monacle.

But young Adolf changed all that. Born in Austrio-Hungary he, hey, where did that joint go? No, I want you to write that too. Write it. Now write that I said to write that. No I'm serious, write every word I say. Now I want you to draw a set of tits on the page. Right there. OK Good.

In America, people were watching the dawning of the Jazz Age unfold around them. Turn on Prison Break. Yes, it's on after Arrested Development. Write that down. It goes Arrested Development, then some bullshit show with that guy from Wedding Crashers, then Prison Break. Look, I'm pissing on your cat. Ha Ha. Write that down.

Now copy and paste some crap from Wikipedia. In the late 20th century coups occurred most commonly in developing countries, particularly in Latin America (e.g. Brazil, Chile, Bolivia, and Argentina), Africa and Asia (Pakistan), but also in the Pacific (Fiji) and in Europe (e.g. Greece, Portugal, Spain, and the Soviet Union). Since the 1980s, the coup has been seen somewhat less frequently. A significant reason is the general inability to resolve the economic and political problems of developing nations, which has made armed forces, particularly in Latin America, much more reluctant to intervene in politics. Hence, in contrast to past crises, the armed forces have sat on the sidelines through economic crises such as the Asian crisis in Thailand in 1998 or the Argentine crisis of 2002 and have tended to act only when the military perceives itself as institutionally threatened by the civilian government, as occurred in Pakistan in 1999.

When is that bitch going to give me my $10k? And do I get to see her do her teacher? That was part of the deal right? OK, good. Let's go get some pizza. Write down everything I just said. Write that down too, the part where I said to write it down. Now draw a house with a giant can of beans in it. Put a window in the can of beans. Cool.

Pussy

McDougal stole my cat and smuggled it aboard an Argentinean freighter bound for Morocco.

The cat died en route and McDougal brought him back to life with an alternator from a 1978 Chevy Nova, a TI-99/4A with a voice synthesizer and a holographic picture of a Yorkie Terrier.

When the vessel arrived in Morocco, McDougal presented the resurrected cat to the king of Amsterdam, who in exchange freed McDougal's commonlaw wife from the secret Moroccan dungeon, where he'd kept her locked away for nearly 16 years.

When she emerged, she'd grown a full Oak Ridge Boys beard, and was wearing only a leather thong and an Ocean Pacific half shirt.

McDougal immediately shit his pants, took back my cat, and flew straight back to the states.

When he landed on my front lawn, I said, "McDougal -- I didn't know you could fly."

Well, neither did McDougal.

And I still have that damned cat.

Flat Feet

I met McDougal when he was on recruiting duty in Jackson, TN.

I was going to be a Marine until McDougal broke every bone in each of my feet with a stuffed miniature schnauzer, then gouged out my eyes with an ivory Buddha paperweight, and crushed my larynx with a trowl.

Eleven months later, when I was released from the hospital, McDougal greeted me in the foyer.

When I asked him why he'd done that, he just laughed and laughed and laughed for a long time.

When he was done laughing, he stabbed my dad in the cheek and bit my sister on her stomach.

I was going to be mad until we found out my sister had a bleeding ulcer and McDougal had saved her life.

"Lacey," he told me (though my name's Jim), "There are friends you meet and know for a short time, and some you know for a lifetime. Other's you know at the right time."

That was the last time I saw McDougal.

Double Double

I used to play in a tennis league with McDougal ... until he beat me half to death with my tennis raquet after an argument over an ill conceived battle in a heated Axis and Allies match against two of the Kennedy cousins.

Nuts

I was married to McDougal for seven years before I realized he was a man. When I confronted hm about it, he ripped off three of my testicles and one of my fingers ... or ... wait ... three of my fingers and one of my testicles ... or tentacles -- for who am I if not a fish?

McDougal's not gay. We never consumated our relationship. He just needed Spanish citizenship for a while. I felt so used when he ended it. We still talk every couple of months, but now he's cold and aloof, and I wonder ... I wonder ... where the fuck are my three testicles?

Mother *&^$)%%#

I was that guy. That guy in McDougal's last fight. 1987. Motherfucker was a mad rabbit puncher. Punched my kidneys into my chest. I couldn't breathe. My lung had collapsed. Mom was in the crowd and I cried out to her, but no sound came through the blood and collapsed lung. And I looked to her, weepingly, and notice -- she's cheering. The bitch is cheering for McDougal.

Fishing for Miracles

McDougal saved my life in Panama City in the late 70s. I was about 8. McDougal couldn't have been more than six. We were working a shrimp boat that ran up and down the Gulf Coast 20 hours a day. We worked cheap back then -- oblivious to child labor laws and to the doubts of our elderly caregivers.

About a year into our shrimping venture, I caught syphilis from a Tallahassee whore and slipped into a maniacal state. I'd knifed the first mate during a heated game of Go-Fish (the only game the captain permitted us to play aboard his vessel). I called for an eight, and the first mate denied ownership of such a card. We were playing with a marked deck, so I knew he was lying. At first, I let it slide. But when on the very next turn, that bastard requested an eight from me, I lost it. Ran his belly with an 8" filet knife. He bled out over the period of about six hours, then I tossed him overboard.

When we pulled into port, the captain notified his widow, and she went into a rage. Attacked me with an aluminum bat she kept in her Dodge Omni. Beat me within an inch of my life. I was so blitzed on seafarer's moonshine and fevered delirium that I didn't even know who she was at the time. I thought she was a giant shrimp and the Omni was a vessel designed and built by aliens in the mythical city of Atlantis.

I put up no defense, and was resigned to accept my fate.

Thank God for McDougal, who upon seeing what was happening, charged the scorned widow and choked her to death with a 4-foot strand of 150-pound test fishing line.

I was severely wounded and had slipped into a state of shock. McDougal loaded me into the Omni and rushed me to an emergecny room ... in Atlantis. There, I was healed. Plus, I was given a third eye at the base of my spine.

God bless McDougal and the magical mermen surgeons of Atlantis.

Rocky Mountain High

In some ways it's not so bad to be eating sushi off John Denver's back, but in other ways, it's one of those things that in retrospect you know you wouldn't do if it wasn't for McDougal.

McDougal LOVED "Rocky Mountain High". He would play it over and over again, this was in the days before he could make a tape of the song back to back, or a cd of nothing but that song repeating over and over again, or fill an 80GB iPod with 16,000 320kbps mp3s of the exact same song. Back then he would just hit rewind on the 8-track and he got to where he could hit the beginning of the song to the second and yell FUCK YEAH at the top of his bong-ravaged lungs.

Most times it would make him cry, or shit himself, or blubber. If he saw it in a jukebox out somewhere he would destroy the jukebox, saying he was pulling the "essense of the song" from the machine or some late-70s horseshit like that. He claimed Fleetwood Mac as Mr. Denver's sworn enemy, and single-handedly caused the band to break up and impregnated that girl with the long black dress and would have impregnated Lindsay Buckingham except men cannot be impregnated.

So one day he hauls off and kidnaps John Fucking Denver. I was like, "McDougal, you can't do that." He tied Mr. Denver down to a table and we ate all our meals off him, and the poor guy had to pretty much sing that same song 24 hours a day. If McDougal fell asleep, Denver would beg and plead with me to set him free or feed him some food or blah blah blah, and of course McD would hear him and wake up and start blubbering and beating him about the torso. Then Denver would shut up and sing and we were pretty much like that til 1987.

Summer of 87 I let John Denver free mainly because I was so Goddamned Sick of that song. McDougal I don't think even noticed, he was heavy into Nordic Metal and was busy with graduate school.

The day John Denver died, McDougal called me up and said "Sally, want to go down to Mexitown and get some cheap ponchos?" I did, and that led to the icefishing incident I told you about in July.

Runs with Cracker on Back

Some time back, McDougal suggested, “Bonnie, what say we trek out to Vegas to clear our heads for a few days?”

I say “some time back” because I don't know what day it is ... or even what month it might be for sure. I think we left on a Tuesday in early September or maybe it was August, but I'm not even certain of that anymore. I say “Bonnie” because that's what McDougal elected to call me on this trip.

Who the hell goes to Vegas to clear his head? That's like going to Colombia for some peace and quiet.

Which is where we're headed now.

I am riding on the back of an old Indian as I type this -- McDougal's idea. He said he wanted to ride Indians to Colombia to get away from the mob. This was the first I'd heard about the mob even being after us. Wich I'm actually not overly concerned about. If there's anywhere a man might feel safe from the mob, it's whilst traveling across Central America with McDougal. The man knows the land like the inside of a Chinaman's asshole and has more connections here than Kirstie Alley has doughnuts hidden in her neckfat rolls.

“You think maybe we could get some sportbikes instead of those old Indians?” I asked McDougal.

“Old? Our iIndians will be young. Eighteen maybe 20 years old tops.”

I started to explain to McDougal that 20 is pretty old for a motorcycle, when I realized he wasn't talking about bikes at all.

“Bonnie, I'd like you to meet Runs With Cracker on Back – your driver.”

Runs with Cracker on Back and I shook hands, then I climbed aboard and we started our trek southward from the New York, New York Casino to Bogota.

McDougal says the mob will lose our scent if we remain on the Indians' backs until we get across the southern border of Mexico. I think Runs with Cracker on Back is up for the challenge, but McDougal (who you know is a rather large man -- and by large, I mean big like a king size mattress stuffed full of scuba tanks and Pampers) has killed half a dozen of them so far. They just can't handle the load, the poor bastards.

I feel duty-bound at this point to ride this thing out with McDougal. Though I only met him the day before we embarked on this journey. The exact events leading to my departure are hazy, and I am still unsure of whether I am a captive or an accomplice. I am, however, too afraid to ask for clarification on the matter.

Besides .... now is not the time.

Yonder comes the mob. And their armed with ... wait ... what the hell is that?

I'll tell you where McDougal is, you bastards.

Where is McDougal? Where is McDougal?

Shut the fuck up, you whining babies.

I'll tell you where the fuck he is -- he's in the same place he is every year on 9/11.

He's celebrating the richness of this great nation of ours at Treasure Island in Las Vegas, where he's banging whores 8 at a time on the hotel's high stakes poker tables and running blackjack like the fucking Rain Man.

Where is McDougal?

You sons of bitches should be ashamed of yourself.

This fucking Presidential bid bullshit.

You sorry sadsack motherfuckers.

I haven't told him about this, but I'm gonna.

Oh, I'm gonna. I'm gonna tell him alright.

And you'll all be motherfucking sorry when I do.

Right now he's on top of the Stratosphere, hurling pennies and bits of cheese at the pedestrians below.

The local news is reporting "a sasquatch like ape of a man atop the building, endangering the lives of children and families."

When he hears that, he's gonna blow a goddamn gasket. You know how sensitive he is about his body hair.

As soon as I get him down, I'm gonna tell him.

I'm gonna tell him, and then all you motherfuckers are in some serious trouble.

Walken? Walken? How the fuck do you think he's gonna react to that? Like it's all a big joke? Is that really what you think?

You have no idea what hellish fury you hath wrought.

The man's ... well ... he's unhinged.

Wait, wait ... McDouga'ls a Meaty?

I've been out of the country (Mogadishu -- [again]) and just got back to this.

Let me make sure I understand -- Our old pal McDougal is running for President {AGAIN}? This time under the MEAT party banner?

Isn't the MEAT Party the one whose leader won't even say his name in public?

Isn't that the ticket Walken's running under?

Has there even been confirmation that McDougal has accepted the bid?

Last I heard, he was summering over in the extreme Southern Pacicific -- like down where it doesn't matterif it's the Pacific or the Atlantic. Seriously, has anyone even heard from him in the past three weeks?

And you guys remember what happened last time McDougal ran for President, right?

What? You don't?

You don't remember the barbed wire-laced jeeps in Grant Park?

You don't remember the cracked heads, the tear gas, or the police lines advancing through demonstrators on the nightly news?

You don't remember a man named Hubert Humphrey, who McDougal and his band of social anarchists abducted, raped and sodomized over the course of 16 days in late August and early September of 1968?

Well, let me refresh your memory.

Shortly after McDougal killed Bobby Kennedy and Sirhan Sirhan, the Democratic party was in shambles. And that was just the way McDougal wanted it.

He was living with Abbie Hoffman in Massachussets - though he was a staunch, Anti-Yippie at the time. When Hoffman hitched a ride to Chicago to protest the convention, McDougal tagged along. Hoffman, like most Americans, was unaware that McDougal was running for President. McDougal, who'd been shut out of the primaries in 1968, held a grudge for not being selected -- or really even allowed to participate at all.

Hoffman was up in arms about the war in Vietnam, and was participating in the riots outside of the convention with some SNCC peace activists. McDougal wasn't too interested in peace, as he was making a pretty hefty sum from the CIA for his activities in Cambodia and Laos.

So he branched out on his own. McDougal somehow managed to hook up with Dan Rather during hte convention, and was given press passes -- pretty much giving him free reign over the entire convention center. He was also spotted with members of the Illinois Nazi Party (INP) and Mayor Dailey during his six days in Chicago (August 26-September 1).

While McDougal's political views did not align in the least with those of the Democratic Party of that era, he felt certain that he was a lock for the party's nomination for President that year. He figured with Bobby Kennedy out of the way, he was the clear choice.

McDougal over-estimated the Democratic Party's progressive stance. He'd been misguided -- perhaps by Dailey, or maybe even by Hoffman. So when Abraham Ribicoff delivered a speech nominating George McGovern for President, he sent McDougal over the edge.

He ordered Dailey to subdue the protestors "by any means necessary", which those inside the Dailey administration say started the riots outside of the convention.

When McDougal's name wasn't even included in the Humphrey/McGovern debates, he decided to raise the ante. After the party ultimately nominated Humphrey for their Presidential candidate, McDougal raised the stakes again.

"There can be only one Mc in this campaign," McDougal told a reporter for the New Anarchists Times. "Humphrey's gonna pay for this one."

While McDougal never clearly explained why he believed Humphrey was to blame for the presence of two Mc's in the Democratic party in 1968, poor Hubert suffered the brunt of McDougal's rage, which many people credit for ruining Humphrey's chances in the '68 elections, propelling Richard M. Nixon to the nation's highest ofice, and launching the careers of Hunter S. Thompson and Margaret Thatcher in the process.

I wasn't there during the two-plus weeks in which McDougal and his band of anarchist thugs held Humphrey captive (per my attorney's instructions), but I have from a reliable source, a detailed account of the occurences during that period.

Humphrey was forced to wear a dress and/or Army-issue combat boots for the entire duration of his captivity, during which time he was subjected to ritualistic and intense anal rape in between six-hour sessions in which he was forced to memorize and repeatedly recite the Social Anarchists' creed, which reads:

"We believe strongly in that. We are not going to withdraw from that effort. In my opinion, for us to withdraw from that effort would mean a collapse not only of South Vietnam, but Southeast Asia. So we are going to stay there."

While it is unclear what this passage has to do with Social Anarchy, it was important to McDougal.

So when you tell me, "McDougal's signed on with MEAT", well I just don't know that I buy it.

Can we please get some manner of confirmation from the man himself before we go half-cocked into the political process yet again?

Is America ready for another '68? Is America ready for McDougal as its Commander in Chief?

These are serious questions, and I for one shall not throw my support toward McDougal until I hear from the man himself.

M.E.A.T. Party Platform

While neither McDougal nor Walken will comment on the rumored '08 M.E.A.T. Party presidential bid in 2008, Party Founder has shared the ten basic tenets of MEAT:

1. As President of the United States, McDougal shall decree that Christopher Walken will always play Vice President as the guy from True Romance.
2. President McDougal shall decree that New Orleans will be built bigger and better than ever -- on the MOON.
3. President McDougal will never go more than 14 hours without punching poor people in the face and/or taking something of value from them and dashing it to bits, then laughing like a maniacal villain from a James Bond movie.
4. Vice President Walken will only break character as the True Romance guy to say "more cowbell!" when the going gets tough. Actually he will go in and out of those two characters, which will be even more entertaining because it will surprise you when he switches.
5. The McDougal Administration will declare March 3, 4, and 5 "National Half-Week Where We Find New Potential First Ladies", and will cruise Buckhead, The Castro District, and the French Quart... oh wait, no, not the French Quarter.
6. For too long, our nation has struggled with too many meat options. This manner of confusion lessens a man's morale and mental resolve. Let us limit our meat choices. Bacon should be adopted as the national meat of choice.
7. Spider monkeys are ruining our world. No one does anything about spider monkeys. The prisons should be emptied, and the criminals appointed national exterminators or other high-ranking Federal positions (FEMA Director, Secretary of Meat, Pimiento Cheese Inspector General, etc.). I mean, come on, are they spiders or are they monkeys ... or do they live in that magic realm between?
8. I kind of like that show where Tommy Lee goes to college.
9. Implementation of the Fair Tax.
10. All former Presidents with a last name ending in H and starting with either B or X must be placed in a jello mold with at least three orifices (of their own choosing) sticking out. This mold will be placed in the center of the Mall of America on a gold leaflet pedestal, where all citizens of the world will be allowed to throw small objects at the orifices in freedom. No one shall trammel upon the rights of the people, and the Presidents shall be kept alive with intravenous fluids and SCUBA gear for no less than four years.

McDougal-Walken in '08

DETROIT -- Sept. 1, 2005 The legendary McDougal announced today that he has accepted the bid from the Misanthropic Eugenics Amalgamized Taoist party, and will run as the party's first Presidential candidate in 2008.

He has chosen Christopher Walken as his running mate.

The hastily formed MEAT Party is chaired by a nameless 114-year-old Tibetan Monk, who lives in a Chula Vista, Calif., retirement community, and speaks only limited English. Little is known about the party's platform or ideals, due in large part to the fact that they don't seem to have any.

"Life is a conundrum," party founder said. "Man never knows what offerings will be made available to him. Democracy has proven it is at its finest when man votes with his heart and instinct and not his rational mind. Because the rational mind can be deceived. But the heart. The heart is an alligator. The heart is an alligator for the truth."

McDougal was unavailable for comment, and it is not known if he is presently in the country. A top McDougal aide suggested he may be summering on his private yacht somewhere near the Southern tip of Argentina.

Spokesman Richard Strickland said he was unaware of Walken accepting any such nomination or offer, but would neither absolutely deny nor confirm his involvement. "Mr. Walken has obviously expressed an interest in pursuing a political position, but has not signed on with either party. If he were to run, however, the MEAT ticket is likely more reflective of his personal views than any other party," he said.

Strickland noted, however, that Walken is likely not prepared to "take a back seat to a man like McDougal."

Party founder would not comment on either McDougal or Walken's involvement, chosing rather to wax philosophically about he nature of democracy.

"Voting is like a river," party founder said. "It is an ever-changing process, and not a singular event. Political thought, like light, is neither particle nor wave ... but lives somewhere in between, or perhaps in either or both realms simultaneously."

Considering the dubious pasts of both McDougal and Walken, it is likely that each will spew this manner of nonsensical tripe throughout the campaign.

Reporters were disappointed when a hastily-called press conference was not attended by McDougal, Walken, or party founder, who is in poor health, and not able to travel. The conference was, instead, chaired by an 11-year-old Vietnamese girl, who spoke no English whatsoever.

Doung Le Quy did read from a 3x5 index card, "I am glad your teeth are well and that you have a strong diet for your bones. You feed your heart. You feed your heart with infectious bile. Please free your heart from infectious bile," but was unable to comment further.

A quick sampling of 4 unlikely voters indicated that McDougal-Walken would finish in a three-way tie for last place vs. Hillary Clinton, John McCain, and a ball of lint.

Lint Ball - 42%
Undecided - 31%
Write in candidate: disused mattress - 9%
Write in candidate: eggs - 9%
McDougal/Walken - 9%
(Clinton and McCain did not receive any votes)

A McDougal aide called the results "encouraging".

Breaking Story ...

MCDOUGAL RUMORED TO BE CONSIDERING PRESIDENTIAL BID IN 2008 ....... MAY BE RUNNING WITH CHRISTOPHER WALKEN AS VEEP CANDIDATE ........ NOT YET CONFIRMED ..... MCDOUGAL TO HOLD PRESS CONFERENCE AS EARLY AS THIS AFTERNOON ......... DETAILS TO FOLLOW AS AVAILABLE ....