The Quotable McDougal (#7)

"If it smells like someone died, don't open the refrigerator dude."

I think he's serious...

This morning the following notice was nailed to every door in my neighborhood:

PROCLAMATION

From this day forward, anyone caught using

the term "CHILLAX," a compound form of

the words "chill" and "relax," will be executed

publicly, by firing squad.

-McDougal

The McDougal Family Tree: A Portrait in Greatness (Part 4)

The late 1800s are regarded among historians to be the Golden Age of the Circus. By 1944 numerous factors, including the rise of the motion picture, the Great Depression and two World Wars had caused a steady decline of the American circus, but it had yet to be dealt its death blow by the arrival of television. It is in this climate that we find Bernard Stockton McDougal, owner of a struggling circus, tearing down his tent after a weekend of shows in Lawrence, Kansas. The Saturday afternoon show, his best-selling of the weekend, still only filled a mere 150 seats in his 800-person capacity tent. These were desperate times for Bernie McDougal. Overwhelmed by the cost of feeding dozens of exotic animals like elephants and camels, he had not paid most of the human performers in weeks. The entire sideshow walked off the job three weeks earlier, taking their freakish talents to a rival carnival. In Albuquerque he had been run out of town on a rail when a newspaper reporter revealed that his "zebras" were diseased horses stolen from a local glue factory.

As Bernard McDougal sat pondering his misfortune, a newspaper drifted across the empty fairgrounds and caught on the tent support rope nearest to McDougal. The headline caught his eye immediately and he snatched up the paper. That same weekend, in Hartford, Connecticut his largest competitor had a tragic fire! Hundreds killed! McDougal could not believe his luck. He knew immediately what he had to do. McDougal franticly called around, canceling his remaining Midwest dates, and set off by train for the East Coast.

Upon his arrival in Boston, Massachusetts, Bernie McDougal furiously promoted his weekend performance, paying particular attention to Boston's wealthiest neighborhoods. He promised the cream of Boston's high society that for the princely sum of five dollars they would be able to witness the spectacle from very special "Gold Circle" seating. However, when the morning of the performance dawned, these wealthy citizens found themselves seated not within the big top, but on a large set of covered bleachers two hundred yards away.

Meanwhile, inside the tent, a capacity crowd of widows, orphans and Irishmen, who had paid a nickel each, were enjoying the antics of various clowns, animals and acrobats. At least, until the cry of "fire" began to ring out from several different locations inside the tent. Bernard McDougal had spent the entire train ride East stewing over the free publicity that his competitor was receiving from newspapers across the country and grew determined not only to match him, but to finally one-up him.

Outside, the Gold Circle spectators watched, fascinated, as the horror unfolded. Afterwards, all agreed that although they found McDougal's use of the widows and orphans in the act to be a bit distasteful, they did not think that they would really miss the Irishmen all that much. They also agreed that Bernard McDougal had really thought of everything when planning the show. The Gold Circle bleachers were erected upwind, out of the smoke, and the spectators were fully protected from trampling by panicked crowds and dangerous flaming elephants by an enormous wrought-iron fence.

McDougal's success was short-lived of course, as he was immediately arrested for numerous counts of murder and arson. But to quote one stunned spectator "although Mr. Barnum's circus has ownership of the title, for today at least, it was B.S. McDougal's Circus that was truly the greatest show on earth."

The 3rd Person

Below is a transcript of a recent subway conversation between a friend of McDougal and Lou Reed's ego.

Friend of McDougal: McDougal has an uncomfortable obsession with Lou Reed.
Lou Reed's Ego: Lou reed requires unhealthy adoration from his fans.

FoM: McDougal often compares himself to John Hinckley when he speaks of Lou Reed.
LRE: Lou Reed requires something injected into his scrotum.

FoM: I bet McDougal would do it.
LRE: Lou Reed is not made uncomfortable by homosexual allusions. Lou Reed understands that goes along with heroin rock.

FoM: Wait, heroin isn't sold in rocks. That's crack.
LRE: Lou Reed believes heroin is no a product, but a mindset.

FoM: McDougal would be upset if he heard you talking like Andy Warhol.
LRE: Lou Reed never called Andy Warhol a dandy. Lou Reed smells something burning.

FoM: McDougal has torched Paris.
LRE: Lou Reed smells Paris burning.

FoM: McDougal cannot be held accountable for his actions when pills are involved.
LRE: Lou Reed says pills are always involved.

FoM: McDougal believes a chicken casserole is always in order.
LRE: Lou Reed enjoys casseroles in that grieving period after funerals.

FoM: Does Lou Reed attend many funerals?
LRE: Lou Reed knows life is a long funeral.

FoM:Then he must eat many casseroles.
LRE: Lou Reed wonders to whom McDougal is referring.

FoM: I don't know to whom McDougal may refer. I am not McDougal. I am his friend.
LRE: Then who is Lou Reed?

FoM: Lou Reed is an avante garde glam rocker.
LRE: Lou Reed defies definition.

FoM: McDougal calls him a saint.
LRE: McDougal is a fraud.

FoM: Lou Reed is a fraud.
LRE: Lou Reed defies definition.

FoM: Lou Reed is as consistent as John Daley.
LRE: Lou Reed doesn't understand. Is that a joke?

FoM: It's a golf joke. McDougal loves golf.
LRE: McDougal makes Lou Reed uncomfortable.

FoM: "Sally Can't Dance" makes McDougal vomit.
LRE: Who is McDougal.

FoM: A good friend of mine.
LRE: Lou Reed says that was not a question.

FoM: I'm going to tell McDougal about this.
LRE: Lou Reed believes YOU are McDougal.

FoM: Lou Reed is delusional.
LRE: Lou Reed wants to kill you with his bare hands.

FoM: McDougal wouldn't like that.
LRE: Lou Reed requires a child.

FoM: Why are you staring at me like that.
LRE: Lou Reed is a mirror to the world. If Lou Reed stares at you, it is only your introspection he reflects.

FoM: I'm leaving now.
LRE: McDougal can never leave.

FoM: I'm not McDougal.
LRE: Then Lou Reed is not Lou Reed.

FoM: Then who is?
LRE: Lou Reed does not believe that is a question either.

FoM: Lou Reed is unhinged.

Lou Reed got off at the next stop and was greeted by McDougal. The two were holding hands as I pulled away.

All Saints Day Update

McDougal just beat a girl in a sleeping bag to death with ... a girl in a sleeping bag.

Oh wait.

That was Jason Vorhees.

Goddamn, I LOVE COCAINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

First Bank of Tunisia

For a brief time in the late 80s*, McDougal worked as a teller at a small bank in Carthage.

He was quite the dapper don in his golden tophat and cummerbund -- the object of affection to many a young maiden.

Those of us who knew McDougal, knew also that this would never last.

A short 400 years later, the Romans came in and sacked the joint. Killed everyone. Even broke McDougal's solid gold tophat.

McDougal had grown quite fond of that hat over the centuries, and believed it to possess magical powers. Needless to say, he was none too happy when some Roman clod bashed it to bits while still perched smartly atop his oversized noggin.

McDougal vowed to get even, and he did ... sort of. It took him another 400 years (He used to be much slower and more methodical in his actions. That was before the pills, you understand.), but he finally pulled off his plan, launching what he called the "Imperial Crisis," but which is most commonly referred to today as the Crisis of the Third Century.

During the 50 years of McDougal's crusade, he unleashed three major crises (any one of which were a singular threat to the Empire) which all came together in a perfect storm: external invasions, internal civil wars and a runaway hyperinflation economy. The future viability of the Empire, by all reasonable standards, should have come to an end; thusly positioning McDougal as proper and right heir to the throne.

Sadly, however, McDougal's efforts were quashed by the measures of a series of tough soldier emperors and of the emperor Diocletian, who in 284 to split the empire in half. Other reforms allowed it to continue, eventually entering a new phase known as the "Dominate," the "Tetrarchy," and the "Later Roman Empire".**

McDougal was never bitter about his failed effort to destroy the mighty Roman Empire. In his eyes, restitution was paid for the loss of his magical golden tophat.

Up Next: Understanding the Magical Powers of McDougal's Golden Tophat: A Scientific Exploration of Mythology and Magic in the Byzantine Empire

~~~
* 580 BC's, that is.
** Wikipedia's rather bland account of the whole affair.

June 22

2 million dollars.

2 fucking million dollars.

Most of you don't know McDougal spent a soul crushing 6 years working in the cubicles of a Midwestern telecom company staring blankly at a screen and shuffling windows so his boss couldn't see his porn and chat windows. I know I know, it didn't make sense to us either at the time until it was all over and we thought, God Fucking Damn, McDougal is the smartest son of a bitch that ever lived.

It began when he read Bridges of Madison County. He cried and cried for days, then ate the intestines of a living waitress at an Outback Steakhouse. Dipped them in the orange sauce that comes with a Bloomin' Onion. Then performed a pretty amazing surgery right there on the table, took about half of his own intestines (don't forget we each have like 3 miles in us or whatever) and replaced hers with his. It was kind of a gross M.C. Escher-esque deal, because her intestines were in his being digested and ... well, you can imagine how trippy it was at the time. Anyway, he stitched her up and asked her out right then and there, still reeling from the Bridges love story. She of course said yes, they fucked, and got married 14 months later.

McDougal a married man, what a fucking shock that was to all of us! Gone were the nights of orgies in bowling alleys, hunting squid with limes and trowels, performing a capella with the Boston Pops stoned on opium soaked in owl's blood. instead we found ourselves having pot lucks with new friends from the tennis club, knitting sweaters for rape victims, playing castanets with Steve Buschemi. At the time it happened so slowly as to be imperceptible, we spouted cliches about getting older, we tapped our feet to "The Boys are Back in Town" and had wistful thoughts of Bruce Springsteen sitting on the edge of the reservoir strumming a 6 string and whispering about the passing of youth. Next thing you know McDougal doesn't call me back for weeks, I get married to a set of hot twins who won't let me do it doggy style with either of them ever, and gray hairs start arriving in my beard like unwelcome whores in your mother's church.

Then June 22nd came along.

I woke up, drunk as usual and called in sick to work. I was president of something or other, some phone company or captain of a fleet of ships maybe. Anyway, I called in and was laying there wondering who was going to be on Dr. Phil, when I just had this feeling, you know? I thought, fuck, what is McDougal doing right this second. I decided not to call and warn him, I just piled into my 2009 Ferrari and drove the 600 miles to Bowling Green. I roared up to his office building and took the elevator to every floor until I saw him. Hunched over, pale and pasty from the flourescent tubes that were his only solar nurishment, and obviously hiding a huge erection in his pants. I quietly walked up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder and did my best boss imitation. "McDougal, what is that you have on your screen there" and he turned around and killed me.

Killed me fucking dead as shit, right there. He smashed my face in with a keyboard, I was dead within 10 seconds. He realized pretty quick who I was and what he had inadvertently done, and he immediately yelled "Saddam Hussein!" and everyone came and gutted me and hung me up on a pole and yelled at media cameras and it was broadcast around the world. He got a 2 million dollar reward for killing me, and took that and travelled the world for 4 years with the sole mission of laying a woman of every nationality and ethnicity before setting foot back into Bowling Green.

This of course explains his deal today, as he did not fully realize the overwhelming number of nationalities and ethnicities in the world before setting out. At some point he felt bad for me and brought me back to life; he did something with aloe vera and a pumpkin. Anyway, that was somewhere around Tibet, and we're still on his mission today. I look back on June 22nd and wonder what my life would be like if I hadn't have gotten out of bed, showered, had both of my wives biblically, and driven to find McDougal. Then I snort paprika off the neck of whatever llama or whale I'm riding and look up and the moon and smile, thankful for McDougal and his endless supply of cash.

Aztek Spitbird by Pontiac

So there I was - sitting on the hood of my Pontiac Sunbird eating a human pancreas with McDougal. I later told the judge that I didn't know it was human pancreas were were eating.

"Your honor, I believed then as I believe now that that pancreas belonged to a large mammal. Maybe a bear or a silverback gorilla."

I'm not sure why I included that quote in this story. It's hardly germaine to the subject I've set out to discuss. But I remember it. I remember it vividly because it was the day I was given the death penalty by a cowardly Colombian judge.

And the day I decided to move to Greenland.

Where I eat Pancreii whenever I want.

But in Greenland, like in Colombia, driving a Pontiac Sunbird is a capital offense punishable by death.

I didn't know that then -- that you could be killed for driving a Sunbird. Killed by the state. Hanged.

And deservedly so.

This I later learned and now understand.

Now I drive a Vibe.

Year of the Rabbit

McDougal and I were in Tibet last Halloween.

I dressed as Robert Mitchum in "The Friends of Eddie Coyle." McDougal dressed as Peter Boyle.

McDougal shanghais a ricksha, and at gunpoint he forces the driver to take us into town.

Of course, I don't speak a word of Chinese, but McDougal knows enough to get around. We pull into this Kosher deli, and I get some hummus and a bag of raw oats. McDougal orders a couple of Panda steaks.

Well, the damn Chinese are freaks about those pandas. Next thing I know, the waiter loses it on us and launches about two dozen throwing stars smack into McDougal's gullet.

McDougal goes down hard. He dies right there on the spot; and I'm left alone and helpless in a foreign land.

Then the waiter says to me, "Ming mao a itsi wei."

I kind of just shrug my shoulders, so the guy says to me in English, "Peter Boyle is dead."

Just then, the real Peter Boyle busts in with an uzi and a sawed-off pump action 12-gauge. He kills everyone in the joint, then throws McDougal over his shoulder and says I'm to follow him.

Boyle rushes us to some monastery up in the mountains, where a kindly old Buddhist monk brings McDougal back to life.

Boyle looks at McDougal and says, "Now we're even."

The monk wanted my autograph, so I signed "Robert Mitchum" on his forehead qith a quill dipped in yak blood.

On the way out, this little AmerAsian boy tells us they don't celebrate Halloween in Tibet, so we hop on a freighter bound for Long Island and get there just in time to enter a costume contest at a wharf-side pub.

McDougal won 1st place for his Andy Warhol costume.

I was disqualified because they thought I was a real rabbit.

Dead as a Doornail

That reminds me, there was a day last year McDougal showed up at my door with three whores and a dog, all tied together and slathered in mucus. I said, "Hey it's McDougal," which of course was a mistake and he murdered me right there. Dead as can be.

So there I am, dead, with McDougal on my porch with his mucus-whore-dog. He's completely drunk, racked out on meth and Dimetapp, and he's got some sort of wireless television strapped to the top of his head. I think you can see where this is going.

So he carries us all in, me the whores, and the dog. Apparently, and I never knew this, he had built an underground laboratory under my house sometime in the late 60s, and he took us all down there and strapped us into some kind of whirling lightning bolt. One month later I'm opening my eyes and seeing the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, Ohio. That's right, old McDougal had brought me back to life as a Jimi Hendrix exhibit, complete with black skin and an acid bandana. There I was getting my picture taken all day long with families and old hippies, with McDougal just laughing and laughing. Goddamn him to hell, is what I said.

---

Ha! You're not the only one he's done that to. Remember Murray from A/P? That bastard's living out his days as a Pteranodon's assbone in the Natural History Museum.

I think McDougal's put shit under all of our houses. His own little subterranean empire is what he's got going.

This spring, my youngest boy was playing under the house, looking for spiders and vipers and shit, when he comes upon this trap door. Naturally, he opens it up and goes in. He ain't got a flashlight or nothing. Just goes on in.

Turns out, McDougal'd opened up a portal to hell right there under the master bath. And he'd rerouted our sewage to drain right down in there. So the boy goes to hell through a tunnel of shit.

He shows up stinking to high heaven, and they mistake him for the cable guy.

The devil says to him, "Son, we can't get the Starz channel."

Of course, the boy don't know shit about cable. So he says, "We get it just fine. Why don't ya'll come up to my place and we can watch it there."

So, I get home from a long day at the office, and what do I find? My boy, the devil, and six billion angry souls watching "Iron Eagle II" in my living room. Everyone one of 'em stinkin' like shit and lounging all over my furniture.

So I send the boy to his room and try to run out the devil and all the damned souls.

That's when the devil says he'll go, but he's takin' my soul with him.

So he takes my soul back under the house and straight to hell. Leaves me standing right there a soulless shell of a man waiting for the Nightly News with Bryan Williams.

So it comes on and wouldn't you know it ...

Lead story is about McDougal setting fire to a government-subsidized housing project, then singlehandedly going in and rescuing all the occupants. They were going to press charges, but McDougal had already built them a brand new luxury high rise with 300 fully furnished units and moved them into it that day.

Needless to say, I forgot about my petty problems and poured myself a tumbler of Jack and had one to McDougal.

Here's to McDougal, the kindest, most tender man I've ever known.

State Fair

Couple of years ago, me and McDougal were at the State Fair down in Columbia. Now you know McDougal's a big man. He goes like 6'9", 320. We get to the weight guesser and the guy shouts, "Hey, Golliath. Let me guess your weight."

McDougal takes a deep breath and swig of PGA from that half-gallon flask he always carries. Then he holds up his Churchill and spews the liquor all over it, sending a huge fireball at the weight guesser. Lights the guy up like a Roman candle.

McDougal just sits there while this carnie burns to death, jumping around, screaming, and just going nuts. It takes about 14 minutes for him to cook all the way through.

When he falls dead, McDougal leans in, picks the guy up, and swallows him whole.

He then looks over at the bearded lady and says, "You feel like guessing my weight, too, you nasty yak?"

She looks at him with those cold, black yak eyes, and says, "Probably about 402 after eatin' the weight guesser."

Goddamn if she wasn't right.