McDougal Campaign Speech Transcript

This speech was given to a crowd of seven in Provo, Utah on August 22:

It has not been edited for accuracy, brevity, or clarity. These are the words just as they rolled from the big man's gullet:

What manner of fruit is this? I thought it was a pink lady. The
apple. Its exterior is soft and supple ... but smooth ... like a lady ...
almost plasticine. And behold. It has a pit. Like a
peach. Dear God, man. What manner of fruit is this?

"crowd" sits in rapt silence

Never thee mind.

McDougal knocks over podium and walks to front of speaking platform. Sits on edge and addresses "crowd" directly.

If you have a dog. And a cat. Say you have both. And you
take them swimming. You notice the dog is the more efficient
swimmer. He has a stroke, nay a paddle named for him. The cat
flails
and thrashes about in the water, stirring up a fuss. "Why flail
you,
cat?"
Damn cat. And the dog retrieves the duck or mallard or
whatever it is
that you people -- and I am assuming you are all hunters --
call them.
And you grab that cat by the scruff of his catneck and you say to
him,
"What sex are you, damn cat?"
And you turn him about, but you cannot
tell. And he does not
answer.
And you say unto him, "I should like
to make the babies with you."
And he does not answer.
Trow are then
dropped.
And finally ... "I am a man," says the cat. "Same as
you."
Then we cannot procreate.
And we do not.
Say I to him, "Where ist
thou penis?"
And he says you cannot see such things.
"But I can see the
dog's cockandballs."
"Aye," says the cat.
"And why can you not
swim?"
The cat says the cat can, though he choses
otherwise.
"The
flailing and such?"
"Yes."
"And later, I take you home and put you on my
waterbed, and you poke holes
in it with your talons."
The cat agrees,
this is what he does.
"They are tiny holes that I do not notice, until I
awaken in a pool of
stale water at 4:13 a.m. on a Tuesday."
"Aye," says
the cat.
"And on the next day, a Wednesday, I crush your skull and eat
you."
The cat does not respond.
He is submerged under the water.

And tomorrow we dine on cat stew!

The audience has gone and McDougal is left alone on the stage ... alone with a bag of Habnero Doritos and a half-empty fifth of gin.

'Twill be a good year.

Delirious Mangina

McDougal wrote this song last night and demanded I post the lyrics here. It's not a song as much as it's him screaming these words while banging away on a rusted Frigidaire with a boat anchor:

I live in a sock
Broke down jock
My hair is taunt
On this wicked October jaunt

Pig tails and ice cream dreams
Muffling the one-eyed stripper's screams

Missing three teeth
On the back of my neck
Constables for peace
And I'm a burnin' wreck

Missed on the free government cheese
Asked the wizard, can I have some please?

Magic cheese on a crisp fall night
One of my parents was not white

My heart is black from all these pills
Chemically solving society's ills

Rabbits live in my left shoe
And ain't much more for me to do

Crap on a rat
Eat my hat
Growing fat
And that's where it's at
That was blood I spat
On your black cat

Leaves are turning
Heart is burning

And it's with this devil I dance
Too tight - these pants

~~~~

The man's gone over the ledge into the black abyss. I haven't seen him in this state since Laos in '74. I fear he's nearing his end.

McDougal Plans to Eat Neil Lynch's Cat

This is the rumour that's circulating the blogosphere.

McDougal is, unfortunately, unavailable for comment.

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.

My Wife

McDougal showed up at my house late one night -- drunk as a skunk.

He says to me, "I'm here for some pussy." Then he woke up my wife and had his way with her.

Then he crapped in my pantry, and guess who had to clean it up?

That's right -- my wife.

Catty

You know how McDougal's got that thing where he's always eating cats, right?

Well a couple days ago, I was at the McDougals' place in the Hamptons and he was cooking up some cats on that 30-foot barbecue grill he's got. Then his neighbor, Paula Barbieri, comes over. She's wearing nothing but a six-inch grass skirt and a pair of old school Chuck Taylors. She says to McDougal, "You cookin' those cats again?"

McDougal doesn't even skip a beat. He puts his big mitt on Barbieri's right bosom and says to her, "Me and the boys are gonna be eatin' some pussy tonight. You can either join us, or go home and eat your own."

I'll tell you what ...

Nobody ate any cats that night. That's for damn sure.

McDougal may be a lunatic, but he's SMOOTH with the ladies.