The Secret Files

This morning, I was attempting to locate our former campaign manager's files and came across McDougal's stash of personal documents. Since we've nothing better to report (bus still broken down in Minnesota and McDougal's gone missing again), I will share some of the contents of the dozens of three-ring binders containing documents scrawled in mixed media, including crayon, blood, and charcoal.

The first binder I opened was an incomplete autobiography on the big man dating back to 1114 B.C.

Excerpted from McDougal's unpublished autobiography and translated from the author's Portuguese:

(Please forgive any erroneous translations, as my Portuguese is not as strong as I had thought coming into this deal.)

The $40 Lay
by McDougal

In the steamy willows outside Baton Rouge, for which my hamburger with fries gets its nickname, I found the best $40 lay of this heretofore confounded millenium.

Let me tell it to her from the beginning.

I was flying a Corsair 2380A mock-up at 10000' with Ashcroft at the rotors when I saw the twinkle of a harlot's attractor in the bayou. "The Pipeline can wait" I told my mike, which just so happened to be wired to Ashcroft's ear. We dropped her down to telephone wire altitude and "to hell with CINCLANT" as we used to say to the bank over Bloody Marys, "let's bed some of Louisiana's finest".

I set her down in a marshy lot meant for local necking and the dropping of tonnage that I would not like to know of what character. The blades sang their quieting song as I donned my black stealth enviroblenz suit, earpiece with extrasensorial sensors, a briefcase full of Red Stripes,
Galaendeaewagean spark plugs, and condoms. I quickly killed Ashcroft as I realized he was a commodity whose options had recently become undesirable.

With a small GPS screen surgically inserted into my left palm (just before Burma, God help me), I tracked my coordinates and had a cheese danish and a Red Stripe mixed with whiskey. I found myself 3 miles from my intended lay, and daylight was rapidly approaching feathers.

"How do I get myself into these infernal situations?" I asked my small stuffed representation of Tubbs (from Miami Vice), which I carry for just such situational quandaries. I pulled his string and a muffled Tubbian Fishmonger voice told me "chase her down, pull her over, and give her the old Mallory Keaton, Ha Ha!"

I knew then that I must tennis match on.

Pulling a few shoots of browning swampgrass aside, I viewed my obective with the naked eye. In a ramshackle delicatessen or theatre with blazing oil lamps was the entire 2-Year-College of Natchitoches Swampers Cheerleader Flag Brigade en flagrante, dancing to the soundtrack of Risky Business.

I winked at an imagined vision of my left, and downed another Red Stripe. It looked to be an all nighter for "The Rouge Baton".

I flew through the door with guns blazing; girls screamed and hid under discarded panties and pom poms.

"McDougal is here!" I yelled,"and I want my Red Baron Pre-Heated!" The screams were replaced by vaguely muffled moans of interest from the four corners of the room, as the young dancers realized what fortune had brought them this hot and humid night.

"Put away your guns, Mr. McDougal," louder a red-haired young baton twirler, "We have some Red Stripes chilling in the icebox, if you'll have us - I mean them!" she reddened and giggled, waddling away as I patted her on the rump.

The rest, shall I say, is water under the moorings. I didn't finish the Pipeline until September aft, and I told the Baronial Ass who monitors flights to boil his head in a pot of cooking sherry and asparagus-tainted urine. As for the girls, well, the most piquish four were brought back to the Compound for a little reunion tour a few weeks ago, the rest have been 'hitting my digits' for phone sex at a silly rate, so much in fact that I gave them Edmonton's number.

Oh, and the $40, you ask? Still in my pocket, ha! I think if you're looking for a lesson in my little tale of indelicacies, it lies somewhere between the legs of a pre-law student in Crystal Springs.