Cogs, you know

I've awakened just moments ago. A low rumbling in deep in my abdomen. I've eaten things I shouldn't have. Car parts. Gears and switch plates and the like. I've made poor gastronomical decisions to impress erudite young men and nubile co-eds from these swank Northeast colleges of liberal arts and loose moral fiber.

That's money country up there. It grows, not on trees, but in damp Cape Cod cellars tightly guarded and poorly ventilated. Manned by shapeshifting demons who appear to mortals as visor-clad accountants with claws instead of hands. They compost, seed, and fertilize the filthy lucre with liquid greed and stardust mined in the outer reaches of the known universe.

Stardust is magically teleported by those given the names Poseidon, Aries, and Artemis by the Greeks. Today, some call them the Illuminati.

The magicians.

Eternal alchemists.

Gods, some have said.

I'm out of place here. These people don't shower. They don't have to. They sweat anti-bacterial liquid soap. It oozes from their pores. They smell like pine this time of year. Full, rich hair and sparkling white teeth.

The plumbing here is terrible, as they do not produce waste. These God damned alien half-breeds.

When angered they can breathe fire and launch rockets from their genitalia. But they don't anger easily. They needn't show emotion. They're sleep in fluffy beds, stuffed with goose down and well worn $20 bills.

They roll hemp cigarettes with crisp new hundreds.

Ball them up and throw them at each other in ritualistic money fights before the snow comes.

And the snow, like all weather, comes when they command it to do so.

Mortal feats do not impress this crowd. Hell, they shrug their shoulders at inbreeding. How do you impress such a lot?

One way, I learned, is by disassembling and eating aging European luxury sedans and their more aged and less luxurious owners.

He was to have been killed anyway. Teetering on dottering, his time had come. And I here to make a show of it.

Haughty rich believed his side curtain airbags would protect him. Old fool. Time and persistence were on my side.

The car was wheeled into a massive dining hall and driven onto a 20-foot solid oak table.

And I at the head sat down with a hunting knife, serving tongs and a ratchet set.

Over the course of the evening, I ate the entire machine and its then sleeping occupant.

I ache today and my stool bleeds.

This will be important come caucus time.

John McCain, it's your turn.

Religious Freedoms

McDougal is a Shastafarian.

He finds God through high fructose corn syrup stored in 30-year-old cans of bad soda.

Rodeo

From 1978 to 1990, McDougal was on the professional rodeo circuit. In an attempt to clarify some of the confusion/conflict over the number of rodeo records he holds, the Friends of McDougal research wing has interviewed a few of those who were close to him in those years:

• "That son of a bitch was quick as lightning and twice as furry." ~ Grandma McDougal
• "McDougal was like a mandarin drake when he mounted his mighty steed." ~ A mandarin drake
• "Bullriding is an art that most people cannot fully grasp, like the post-Romantic German movement of the early 30s or the music of Sigur Ros. It took a crossover star like McDougal to bring it to the masses so that Everyman could - Oh God, not my fucking hand!" ~ Ben Kingsley, as his hand was being sawed off by a table saw
• "MacDougal? What is that? Some kind of a Goddamn Scotsman? You know what I like? The Choctaw. Really, just anyone sort of brown hued." ~ Tamerlane O'Shea
• "McDougal comes in the dark of night, castrates the men, and rapes the women. Some call him the CHUPACABRA!" ~ An 11-year-old Mexican boy
• "McDougal was a bright star who burned hot and fast like a star that burns bright and fast and then goes out. No. Wait. Make that like a birthday candle that someone blows out. But like a really big one. Like if the birthday candle burned with the heat of 300 suns andthen some big powerful being (Allah, Zeus, God, whatever) came and blew it out. Only when they blew it out, you could see this thing that you knew used to be really hot, but it was obviously just blown out, but could maybe re-ignite at any minute ... you know ... if it hadn't already burned up. Kind of like a match or something." ~ Lech Walensa
• "I'd eat his bloody fucking heart." ~ Bono
• "He would, true as word." ~ The Edge
• "McDougal's way too big to ride a horse." ~ A horse
  
  

Ball Lightning

A few years ago, McDougal and I were on a work assignment in Tegucigalpa with the Olsen twins (Merlin and Ole), the Chukanovs, and the ghost of Percy Julian. Ostensibly, the project was centered on the study of wild yams and the impact of plate tectonics on growth rates. But three weeks into our mission, Merlin was felled by ball lightning and our focus changed.

Merlin's final words were confusing, humbling, and flat out scary. As he was illuminated by the freakish electrical pulse, Merlin screamed, "As for the Horsemen of the Apocalypse, there is but one. I do not know the name of the man, but I have seen his horse. And he is McDougal."

But there was also that ball lightning thing.

The Chukanov's believed that modern science failed to recognize the understanding of nature of ball lightning as an important source of energy. They said most people assumed that the energy was insignificant and came from an external source and not from within ball lightening itself. They felt this manner of thinking was disrespectful to ball lightning and to Merlin Olsen.

When McDougal heard how much science had disregarded ball lightning as a source of energy, he completely lost it. He stormed out of the jungle and straight to the Presidential Palace in the center city. When they refused access, McDougal beat the entire Honduran Presidential Guard to death with Merlin's electrified feet, then stormed in and climbed atop the palace, where he summoned Zeus to smite the people of Honduras for their complete and utter lack of respect for ball lightning.

I think McDougal was kind of hoping Zeus would take them all out with ball lightning ... you know ... as kind of a poetic "you doubt my power" sort of message.

But instead he sent a hurricane named "Mitch," which was kind of a white cracker gay name for a storm, but he killed like 18,000 people ... so that was cool.

Mrs. McDougal

Let me see a show of hands, who was at McDougal's wedding? You? You? OK, yeah I remember you, and you. Well, for the couple of dozen of you that weren't there let me try to set the scene:

We were all strapped into a line of Ford Fairlanes and getting the mandatory tattoos ("Mr. and Mrs. Motherfucking McDougal") around the circumference of our necks, and the wedding was supposed to be in one hour. McDougal is trying to follow the rule about not seeing his wife before the wedding, so he's smoking a mixture of crack and Applebee's Onion Rings, and he was beating the shit out of anyone within about 40 feet of him. So everyone's kind of hunkered down in their Fairlanes.

At some point I'm hitting a nitrous balloon pretty heavy to ease the pain of the neck tattoo, when all of a sudden McDougal lunges up and shouts to the Devil. I mean To the Devil, because the Man in Red is standing right there, fashioning a Ford Fairlane of his own out of charred souls and licking flames. The Devil looks up, sees how fucked up McDougal is, shrugs and looks at us the way you look at a man who's hotass wife is so drunk she's rubbing your cock with her foot under the table, and puts his arm around McDougal.

"McDougal," he vomits, "you got another thing coming if you think you can marry my sister without a bachelor party from The Prince of Flames," and all of a sudden the entire wedding party, tuxes and all, magically appear in a shitty shake joint in south Philly.

McDougal is too fucked up to notice, and everyone at the church (now about 6,000 miles away from where we all are) is too wrapped up in Mozart's Andante Cantabile to notice we've all disappeared. Next thing I know, I see that crazy son of a bitch (McDougal, not the Devil)* eating two Philadelphia roofers alive. They are screaming and blood is everywhere, and I'm just completely speechless. Not that I hadn't seen McDougal eat people before, I'm just seeing the mess all over his tux and thinking about showtime at that church in less than an hour.

So I'm thinking, "no way McDougal's gonna pull through on this one, this time he's really done it." We spend about another 45 minutes watching fat shaved Philly girls strut their stuff, and McD finishes off the roofers and passes out on the stage.

Now the Big Man is laid out in his own puke, and the Devil's brothers-in-law are laughing at him in a way that makes me uneasy. This wakes him up out of his stupor, I see his eyes lock as he realizes the enormity of the situation, and he jumps up and sacrifices them and a bouncer to the Prehistoric Nordic God Ba:äl which gets us all a free ticket back to the church with 2 minutes to spare.

When the music shifts and we hear our cue, I whisper to him, "McD, your tux!" and he looks down and sees all the blood.

And you know what that crazy fucker does? Strips me naked, throws me out into the crowd as a diversion, marries that hellbitch wife of his before anyone sees it, and plants a goddamned fig tree in the middle of Monroe, Alabama. And that fig tree is there to this day, still putting out figs.

* the Devil was actually glued to his cell phone half the night dealing with some new "pod installation" or some horseshit down in Hell over the weekend; I was pretty disappointed after all the shit I had heard about the guy.