My Deepest Apologies...

I woke up early last Friday, fully intending to post a fascinating story about the time McDougal and I rented a submarine and searched the seafloor of the Bermuda triangle for the wreckage of his sailboat (the Sloop Doggy Dogg), then get a jump on my to-do list. None of that got done. The phone started ringing at six AM and I knew who it would be. I changed my number earlier in the week hoping to avoid that phone call, but McDougal knows people at the phone company, of course. Powerful people. I put the receiver up to my ear just in time to hear McDougal announce "I have bits of undigested rice in my shit."

"That isn't why you called me, McDougal."

This was answered by several minutes of contemplative silence. Finally, McDougal exclaimed "LEPRECHAUN HUNT!!" and immediately hung up. I knew I would have to leave for the airport immediately or face the consequences. The consequences, just for the record, usually involved a funnel and a five gallon bucket filled to the rim with live fire ants. You don't even want to know the details.

These leprechaun hunts are a St. Patrick's day tradition that McDougal started twelve or fifteen years ago. Basically, we all jump in his private jet, fly to Ireland, take an obscene quantity of hallucinogens, then wander about the countryside blasting away at anything that moves with high-powered rifles. We have yet to shoot a leprechaun, but a few years ago I did shoot a cow. McDougal insisted on having the head mounted, complete with a tiny brass plaque that said "Leprechaun" and listed the weight and date killed. He proudly helped me nail it up on the wall in my living room, but it was just too embarrassing to have that thing hanging in my house. I ended up selling it at my garage sale to some stoner kid who thought it was the funniest thing he had ever seen.

Anyway, we usually spend a day shooting up the emerald hills while the villagers hide in the church because the stone walls make it the only building in town a .30-.06 round won't pass right through. Bullets sure do a number on the stained glass though. I feel pretty bad about that, so I usually drop a dozen Benjamins in the collection box. Then we spend the rest of the week either doing some touristy stuff or riding out the flashbacks, depending on the drug involved. This year's drug was ayahuasca, which was kind of a treat.

Anyway, like I said, I'm sorry I didn't get anything posted last week. I promise sometime this weekend I will write about some crazy adventure I went on with McDougal rather than this boring everyday stuff.