End of the world

Jesus God, why didn't anyone tell us?

They fucking celebrate Thanksgiving in October up here?

Why, why, why? For the love of the Sweet baby Jesus and all things holy why didn't anyone tell us the fucking Canucks celebrate Thanksgiving in OCTOBER!?!?

Crazy ass uberYanks.

What the shitting hell do they have to be thankful about anyway? They can't even vote!

We're comin' home right the hell now.

(Also, new McDougal Beer Stein Available.)

The search for a running mate continues...

I snuck across the border into the U.S. again last night, with Tina the intern. If McDougal's presidential bid is going to be taken seriously he needs to find a proper running mate, and Canada is not the place to do it. I've been arranging secret meetings with prominent politicians who are either independents or considered outsiders within their own political parties, hoping that I can convince one to come over to our side. I think having an actual experienced politician on the ticket would do wonders for our campaign. Unfortunately everyone I've talked to feels that associating with McDougal is too much of a risk to their career. Last night's meeting with Congressman and 2004 Presidential Candidate Dennis Kucinich (D - OH) went well, I think, but he politely declined our offer. However, he did wish McDougal good luck with the campaign.

Then & Now (Part I)

As shitty as it is up here in Canada, we've really started to make some headway with the press. The liberal media seem to find our Northern campaign quite charming and ... well ... "cute."

"No. We're Americans," I assured them, but they weren't buying it. McDougal knew it too, but that obstinate bastard wouldn't admit it to me. I told that big jackass that we didn't need to make our own passports. I don't care how good McDougal was at Caligraphy, there's only so much you can do with a box of four crayons from the Cracker Barrel. Still, that motherfucker can write the shit out of some fancy letters.

With the exception of TLM, most press inquiries have come from lesser publications like Entertainment Tonight, Cheri, Oui, and some rag called the National Review.

"They're not buying it, McDougal," I whispered. He pretended not to hear me.

Some uppity jackass from the National Review met us in Winnipeg with a fucking cassette recorder, a 35 mm camera, and absolutely no weaponry to speak of.

The sergeant -- at least I think that was his rank. It's so hard to tell with those Turkish uniforms. They're E-3's have more silver and gold shit on their dress uniforms than an American Colonel. These Nato assignments were always tough. Especially for a "company" man such as myself. McDougal was oblivious. I don't know if he was that cool under pressure or if it had something to do with that tranquilizer dart that Marlon Perkins hit him with that morning.

Fucking tart. I don't even know if he was American.

Fucking Tart: Good afternoon, Mr. McDougal. It's a pleasure to make your aquaintance.

McDougal: Take that cock out of your mouth and talk to me like a man.

Fucking Tart:I beg your pardon, sir.

McDougal: I'll snap your pencil neck, Dexter.

Fucking Tart: Are you threatening me, sir?

McDougal: Call me sir one more time and I'll rip your lung out.

Fucking Tart: Well, I never.

McDougal: Just wait.

Fucking Tart: Are you cancelling the interview?

McDougal: Are you dreaming of fellating me?

Fucking Tart: Are you aware that Canada is a sovereign country?

And that was the last question that liberal dandy would ever ask.

"Wat the shit hell does Canada have to do with this?" McDougal finally asked me. I told him I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. "You will, my friend," he said. "One day, you will."

The McDougal Campaign Tour - Day 44

CAMPAIGN MANAGER'S JOURNAL - 10/5/2006 - FUCKING CANADA

We're wasting our time up here, but McDougal won't hear of it. Ever since he came up with his "brilliant" scheme to capture 100% of the Canadian vote he has been in his best mood of the whole campaign. I, on the other hand, have slipped into crippling depression. Last night one of the interns caught me weeping softly with the barrel of McDougal's elephant rifle in my mouth. When McDougal heard about this he picked me up by the shoulders and shook me like a sugar packet.

"God damn you, don't crack up on me now," he screamed, "I need you to talk to these Canadans for me! They speak half English and half French. You know... Whadyoucallit...? Creole!"

I couldn't muster the energy to explain what "bilingual" actually means.

This has been a week plagued with setbacks. Defeats snagged, at the last minute, from the jaws of victory. Before we took off on this ill-advised Canada excursion Fiberglass Caveman came through for us in a big way. We actually had a reporter show up to cover the campaign. He wanted to do an interview with the big man for a publication called Thug Life Magazine. I doubt the interview will ever make it to press though. Or if it does, the accompanying article will be less than favorable. The interview started off on such a good footing too... Well, I'll let you guys decide. Here's the complete transcript:

TLM: What are you packing?

McDougal: Oh, this? It's a Desert Eagle fifty caliber. I chose it for its unsurpassed stopping power.

TLM: East Coast or West Coast?

McDougal: Dirty South, actually.

TLM: You heard that Young Dro?

McDougal: Oh yes! "Shoulder Lean" is tight. Say, speaking of which... Did you that my tour bus used to belong to Dr. Dre?

TLM: Word? You rollin' with the chronic up in there?

McDougal: Well, I'm smoking meth mostly, but sometimes, yeah. Oh, and doing Powerballs.

TLM: Powerballs?

McDougal: They're a mixture of cocaine, heroin and pure powdered nicotine that I get from a friend. He works for Phillip Morris. They're addictive as hell. I can't get enough of those things.

TLM: Yo, a couple of weeks ago you admitted that you tortured a terrorist suspect in Afghanistan. Don't you think that shit is political suicide given the uproar caused by the abuse at Abu Ghraib and allegations of prisoner mistreatment at Guantanamo Bay?

McDougal: What? Oh, I'm sorry! Does the thought of a terrorist getting a much-deserved ass beating make your ovaries hurt? Look, if you want an omelet you're going to have to break a few skulls! That's life junior. And another thing, he was no "suspect." Not ten seconds before, that little rat bastard launched a rocket at... You know what? FUCK YOU! (McDougal overturns table) This interview is OVER! (Pulls door off hinges and storms out of room)

Her Majesty's Finest Hour

As many of you are aware, McDougal doesn't follow current events as much as we on the campaign tour would like him to. This is generally fine as he gets a daily debriefing from our new intern Diana "Betsy" Ross-Permanente.

And usually once she has him depanted, she tells him what's going on in the world.

We've only started the daily debriefings in the past week, so there is a lot of old news that we just let go (e.g. US History from 1700 to present). Among news deemed not worthy of covering in Ross-Permanente's News Hour was the death of Princess Diana.

This news, however, made its way to McDougal last night via a four-year-old issue of the Weekly World News McDougal found on the floor of a rest stop john just outside of Ontario. Needless to say, the news sent McDougal into a drug-fueled hallucinatory bender that involved opium, ketamine and a quart of Yak's blood.

Oddly, McDougal reached a point of clarity about six hours into the deal and announced that we will not let Her Majesty's Empire fall because of this. (McDougal is unaware of the Royal Divorce, and we intend to keep it that way.)

Also, when he says "Her Majesty," we're pretty sure he's referring to Queen Mary I, whom he believes still rules England.

"We've already lost Calais," he said. "We must keep the Kingdom intact or we will never succeed in bringing back the true Church."

How does McDougal plan to keep the kingdom intact and win back Calais?

He has issued a proclamation that today be marked as "Her Majesty's Finest Hour," and has ordered that we all speak in English accents for the rest of the day.

We get points for using words like bloody, loo, lift, flat, and defenestrate.

Also, we are required to use British spelling of the words humour, colour, and innocuous.

He's in development

I'm typing this in a very uncomfortable position and have been asked to take "dictation" from the big man. Dictation may or not mean what you think.

Best we can figure, sometime in the past half hour, McDougal got into the tour bus's freon reserve and has augmented his buzz by drinking all of the brake fluid and anti-freeze from the engine. He is, as best we can tell, celebrating the recent deal he's signed with Starbox Pictures to be the subject of a seven-figure documentary about his 2008 Presidential campaign.

We are unsure of whether anything has been inked or if any cash has changed hands, but I would guess that the big guy has at least secured some kind of retainer; as it is generally his policy not to talk to anyone in the media without a payment of some kind (generally ranging from fellatio to bus fare or a 40-ounce beer or sometimes up to $64,000).

We're currently somewhere in Canada, but I'm not sure where, as McDougal has built a 2-foot-thick concrete and steel barrier separating the driver from the rest of the bus (a barrier, McDougal explained, that was necessary to prevent acts of terrorism that he suspects our driver may be planning. The driver is named Hoakey and is an Inuit, which McDougal explained was "too brown to be trusted."). One of our interns had GPS on his cell phone, but when McDougal realized we knew where we were, he beat the intern to death with a sock full of hand sanitizer and $3.00 in nickels and ate the phone. McDougal has yet to pass the phone, but is convinced now that he's made a mistake, as he believes John Ashcroft now has a direct read on his location.

"He'll put a Pershing missile smack dab in the middle of my large intestine without batting a fascist eye," he explained to the border guard when we crossed into Canada. He then told him our nation's "top secret" plan to keep "dirty foreigners" out of our "morally pristine" country.

"We're building a 700-mile wall across the Pacific Ocean," he said. "That way we can keep out the Haitians AND the sharks."

McDougal's eratic behavior was enough to prompt a search of the bus, which was shockingly innefectual, as the guards and the drug-sniffing dogs were unable to locate the six pounds of hash, three dead bodies, and $8 Million in stolen Inca gold stored in the floorboard.

They did, however, "discover" McDougal's 60-pound bag of Habanero Doritos, which they immediately confiscated to "conduct flavor tests on volunteers from the local community."

But I digress.

Seems this smarmy producer type wants to make a movie about the legend of McDougal. And McDougal's been off his rocker since they spoke.

I'm not sure what bill of goods this kid sold him, as McDougal has already turned down movie rights from George Lucas, Terry Gilliam, and the Polish Brothers. Rumor in the camp is that Steven Spielberg was given the green light to produce and direct McDougal's unauthorized biography and had cast Marlon Brando to play the big man. Brando died seven weeks later. Gilliam, I hear, was going to use the Penn brother. And before that there was Candy, Belushi, and the other guy from Boosom Buddies.

You see where this is going, right?

God, how many people have to die?

Go North, Young Man

Following the unplanned stop at the prehistoric park yesterday, McDougal felt he'd gotten behind on the campaign trail and immediately sat down to plan the next 14 days of his campaign tour. This seemed like a pretty good idea until McDougal showed us the new campaign route he'd mapped out.

"Sally," he says. "We're going after the silent majority."

"Uhhh ... I'm not Sally, sir," I say.

"Right. Betty," he says. "There's an untapped group of voters that have been neglected for years. We're going after them."

"I'm not Betty either, sir. I'm a man. Same as you."

McDougal laughs. "No man is same as me, son."

He had a point. "Yes sir."

"Sir?" he says with a deep guffaw. "My dad was sir. Call me Alice." McDougal's campaign manager stood behind him violently convulsing and waving his hands about. I looked at him confused ... I didn't get the message.

"Oh," I said. "Thanks, Alice."

I didn't see it coming. I didn't hear it coming. I don't know what happened, or how long I was out. But I'm told McDougal put the palm of his hand directly through my sternum, ripped out my heart and ate it.

I'm not sure how I'm still alive. All I know is that I've been dressed in a skirt since I came to, and I'm chained to McDougal's perch and he's calling me Tina. I've tried to speak several times, but I don't seem to have a tongue. Could be the pills though. I'm just gonna keep my mouth shut 'til all this settles down a bit.

But alas, I'm not here to complain. I'm here to chronicle.

My health and welfare are of little consequence. What matters here is the big man. What matters here is McDougal. And our nation's only hope - McDougal/Newhart in 2008.

Which is why McDougal's new campaign plan stunned me so much. At first, I was quick to dismiss his ideas. But now I see ... "McDougal, that plan's so crazy it just might work!"

"Canada, Tina. We're takin' this to Canada," the big man says. He holds up a color coded red and blue map showing the results of the 2004 election. "Look at this, Tina. Red states and blue states. But look here!" he points to the vacuum above the United States.

I was unable to speak, but the big man could tell by my eyes that I was confused.

"See," he says. "You've forgotten them too. There's a whole motherfucking country up there!" he jubilantly announces. "CANADA!"

He can tell I'm still confused, so he rattles off the few facts he knows about Canada, "It's cold up there. Hockey. Uhhh ... Strange Brew ... Eugene Levy and John Candy. Uhhh ... Green Day, I think."

He thought I didn't know what he was talking about, so to further illustrate his point, he did a pretty decent kazoo rendition of "O Canada" accompanied by Leif Garrett on electric ukelele.

I wanted to tell him I knew about Canada, but wasn't sure where he was going with this, but I dared not try. I was, for a moment, hopeful that the giant lunatic had, in fact, ripped my tongue out. For if I had said the things I wanted to, I'd have been killed or even worse.

The big man was beside himself (quite literally thanks to the heavy doses of phenol barbitol, ketamine, and Robitussin DM the big man was feeding me intravenously and also because he has magical powers that include the ability to self replicate). "THEY DIDN'T EVEN VOTE IN THE 2004 ELECTIONS!" He screamed, adding, "Hell, I can't find any record that they've EVER voted up there."

McDougal's campaign manager knelt and wept softly to himself.

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.