There's nothing funny about poor financial planning.

Greetings from FoMcDCorp's Finance Sector. Our job is to manage the millions of dollars that roll through the McDougal empire on a daily basis. Things like campaign donations, revenue from selling clothing and trinkets on Cafepress, gambling winnings and earnings from various black market enterprises. These funds are then dispersed into Swiss accounts, Cayman Islands holding companies and low budget independent films.

Early this morning one of those monkeys from Fact Checking tossed a rock through our window, around which several letters were duct taped. I can only assume that we are to answer these letters as part of this ridiculous "Behind the Scenes Week" that the writers dreamed up. Very well...

First up, our daily question from Josh Williams:

Does McDougal pay himself as a body guard for himself and if so what tax form is required for hiring yourself to protect ...yourself.

McDougal does not pay himself to act as his own bodyguard. He does this work pro bono, just for the sheer joy of beating the ever-living piss out of anyone who makes a misguided attempt at threatening him. Since this takes time out of his busy schedule, and is actually also a service to the community, we closely record this time as charity work so it can be used as a tax deduction.

Next is a letter from Carl Spackler, who writes:

if mcdougal were given $1 million what would he do with it?

He would probably wipe his ass with it Carl. He loses that kind of money in the crack of his sofa. McDougal is worth in excess of $163 Billion Mr. Spackler. Do you have any idea how much money that is? It's enough that he could make your family an offer so big they would sell you to him without a second thought, and still leave him more than enough to purchase an island in the Seychelles and fly you there on a chartered space shuttle so that he could hunt you for sport.

Actually, I don't think he would really wipe his ass with it. I bet he would spend it on drugs.

Ah, what the hell, let's answer another question from Josh Williams... He seems to have a genuine interest in the world of finance:

How does McDougal Launder his cash income?

He used to use a complicated network of shell corporations and third world banks, but after September 11th any cash that flows into the U.S. through third world banks is more likely to draw the attention of the Department of Homeland Security. Fortunately, money laundering has been made much easier now that he is running for President. Now, once the money has been transferred to a shell corporation, this corporation can then make an extremely generous "campaign contribution" to McDougal. Politicians have done everything they can to make it look like campaign finance is open to public scrutiny, while making sure as much as possible stays hidden, so this type of thing is able to slip by largely unnoticed.

Our next letter is from Ibrahim Alpher, of Ouagoudougou, Burkina Faso:

FROM THE DESK OF:MR IBRAHIM ALPHER
AFRICAN DEVELOPMENT BANK
HEADQUARTERS
OUAGOUDOUGOU BURKINA FASO
WEST AFRICA

Dear client,

I am MR MR IBRAHIM ALPHER, credit officer of African Development Bank. I
have an
urgent and very confidential business proposition for you.

In June, 2000, a German property consultant and importer of used cars ,Mr
Andreas Schranner made a numbered time (Fixed) Deposit for twelve calendar
months, valued at US$30,000,000.00(Thirty Million United States Dollars
only) in my branch. It was to our utter suprise that we heard of his death,
wife and children in an AF4590 plane crash in July 2000. See website below:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/859479.stm


On further investigation,I found out that he died without making a WILL, and
hitherto, all attempts to trace his next of kin was fruitless. Mr Andreas
Schranner was residing at No 1 Rue de Avenida, G.R.A.
ouagoudougou, burkina faso.

I therefore made further investigation and discovered that Mr Andreas
Schranner did not declare any kin or relations in all his official
documents, including his
Bank Deposit paperwork in my Bank. This sum of US$35,000,000.00 is still
sitting in my Bank and the interest is being rolled over with the principal
sum at the end of each year. No one will
ever come forward to claim it. According to Laws of burkina faso, at the
expiration of 5 (five) years, the money will be declared frozen and
forfeited to the burkina faso Government if nobody applies to claim the
fund.

Consequently, my proposal is that I will like you as a foreigner to stand in
as the next of kin or business partner to Mr Andreas Schranner so that the
fruits of this old man's labor will not get into
the hands of some corrupt government officials. This is simple, I will like
you to provide immediately your full names and address,phone and fax numbers
so that
the i can prepare the necessary documents that will put you in place as
the next of kin or business partner.Your role in the transaction is to send
an application for claim of the funds to our bank. Then, as top officials of
the bank, I shall work behind-the-scene to make sure that your application
is approved by the management of the bank, and the funds transfered to your
nominated bank account.

Please note that there is no iota of risks at all as all the paperwork for
this transaction will be done legitimately and with my positions as top
officials of the bank i would ensure a successful execution of this
transaction. If you are interested, please reply immediately to my email
box.

Please send me your confidential telephone and fax numbers for easy
communication.

You should observe utmost CONFIDENTIALITY AND SECRECY in this transaction,
and rest assured that this transaction would be most profitable for both of
us because I will require your assistance to invest my share in your
country.

I look forward to your prompt response.

Thanks and regards.

MR IBRAHIM ALPHER

Mr. Alpher,

We have sent you the telephone and fax numbers you requested, as well as the credit card, social security and passport numbers of everyone here in the Finance Section. Hopefully the money transfer of $3,500,000 (10% of the total, as requested) from FoMcDCorp will arrive first thing tomorrow morning. I look forward to receiving the $35 million.

I think the bank is closed

I down 460. These tables are loose. Mob run deals. Mexican gambling is worse than the Cherokees. The dealer's always got Aces and Eights up his sleeve. Dead Man's hand. Slit your throat quicker'n they'd let you walk with that pot. Mexican soldiers on duty and off swarm this joint. The planes are circling ... lower with each pass. And I'm not sure how much longer I can hold on. Trip fours sent me to the shitter last hand in. These Mexicans play a dirty game. Caught a Tijuana whore in my hip pocket this morning. She took me for almost $3k. I'm down and out in Old Mexico, holdin' out for a miracle, but would settle for a bus ticket out of here.

The Great American Novelty

I have to admit, I was a little worried that McDougal would still be angry with me about that stunt I pulled at Mardi Gras. But when I brought it up over drinks yesterday (we were at McDougal's favorite strip club, you know, that one over by the nuclear power plant) he just dismissed it with a wave of his hand. I shouldn't have been concerned. After all, McDougal has a great sense of humor. Most people don't realize that, I think because the joke is often on them. But if you step back and look at it from an outsider's perspective, it's often quite funny. I'm sure you've all heard the one about the guy who gets drunk and goes to a hotel with a prostitute, only to wake up in a bathtub full of ice, missing his kidneys. Yeah, that was me. McDougal set the whole thing up. He gave me my kidneys back and we shared a laugh. Actually, I only got one of them back. He gave the other one to the prostitute in exchange for her services. I hope she got a fair market price for it. I wouldn't want her feeling like she was ripped off. Apparently while that little Filipino surgeon was working on me in the bathtub, McDougal was in the other room working that hooker through his version of The Aristocrats.

I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but McDougal used to actually run a joke shop in Santa Monica. This was after college, and the big man knew he wasn't cut out for a job in the square world, so he thought a career in novelties might be the way to go. The merchandise was all pretty standard stuff: ice cubes with real malaria-infected mosquitoes inside, spring loaded peanut cans that, when you opened them, would spray out broken glass, official-looking army stationary that could be used to send people letters indicating that a loved one had been killed in Vietnam... Like I said, the usual kind of things. The police were convinced that he was selling drugs out of the back, which of course, he was. But ever since he was a young boy McDougal has maintained an intelligence network so elaborate that it makes the NSA look like an old lady trying to listen through a door with a drinking glass. When the cops kicked in the back door all they found were a few dozen cases of rubber vomit and a prototype pair of spectacles that shot out real X-rays.

McDougal later successfully sued the police department for the damage to his property and emotional distress. He made quite a bit of money from what I understand. Combined with his drug revenue it would have been enough to keep the shop open for years, even in the face of all the lawsuits against McDougal (it turned out users of his Genuine X-Ray Specs were reporting an alarming frequency of brain cancers). But McDougal's heart really wasn't in it anymore. He felt that his greatest joke was the one he played on the local police, and that really wasn't the kind of thing you could sell.

Anyway, we had a good time at the strip club last night. What those girls lack in looks, they more than make up for in enthusiasm. I said goodnight to the big man and went home without a care in the world. I should have been a little more wary though, because that prankster McDougal got me back good. I got up early this morning to get a round of golf in and while I was gone McDougal burned down my house. That crazy-ass McDougal! Ha ha ha!

Although, now that I think about it, I don't remember telling him I would be golfing this morning...

A Barrel of Crackers

Just got back from breakfast with McDougal. We do Cracker Barrel every Saturday. They know us there, and pretend not to notice that we smuggle in a handle of Jack Daniels to wash down our pancakes.

It was McDougal's week to buy, but of course he didn't have any money.

He flirted a bit with the waitress (a retired roller derby queen with one blue eye and one green, she goes about 5'8" and 215. Built like a refrigerator with a head.) and convinced her to pay for our breakfast and "give herself a nice tip. Don't be stingy now."

She put him on a 2-year, no payment, and no interest loan for two Uncle Herschel's breakfasts, two chocolate milks, and two cups of coffee.

McDougal said he's gonna try to pay it off within the two years to avoid the interest charges, and next week, he's bringing in $3.50 for his first payment.

The manager asked me not to come back.

I think he wanted to say the same to McDougal, but was scared because McDougal ate his brother about four years ago.

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.

Science and the Discovery of Self

Found this while sorting through McDougal's "keepsake" box at his mom's place a few weeks ago..

Science and the Discovery of Self
By James McDougal (Age 9)

"Pasta, Jim. It's pasta."

What the hell did she know? They're fucking "Wagon Wheels." Says so right on the box. I have my doubts about these mushy, sauce-covered 3/4 inch noodlous concoctions' ability to support the carriage through the rough terrain of the American West.

Let me back up a bit. "She" is my sister the chiropodist. "I" am an explorer along the lines of Messrs. Lewis and Clarke. In an era when there is little left to explore (what with the highways, horse trails, and satellite imagery), my job is rather daunting. I do not face the same dangers as 18th century explorers. Mine are primarily financial and/or based on my limited comprehension of the world around me.

I remember a man in the old neighborhood. We used to call him "Mr. Sweet Daddy No Pants." He was a colorful squat man with a red nose and rosey cheeks. I remember a steady stream of water spewing forth from his scalp.

"That was a lawn toy, Jim. It was a lawn toy that you hooked to the garden hose. And you were the only one who called him Mr. Sweet Daddy No Pants. I believe everyone else called it by its correct name: Mr. Bobbles, the Wet and Wacky Lawn Clown."

My sister is a pragmatist. Earlier I said "Chiropodist." I got those words confused. She is not currently employed. Very practical though.

"I forbid you to set out on this assinine journey."

I am her elder. Rule of law suggests she cannot issue edicts of that nature. And if she does, I am in no way obligated to follow them. She is just making noise - like a busted leaf blower.

"I am off to explore the American West with my trusty pack mule pulling this handcrafted wagon, which contains all necessary food rations, scientific gear, and advanced weaponry I will need on my journey."

"You haven't a pack mule, Jim. That's Scraps the dog, and he's not yours. He belongs to Mrs. Kellerman of Hertzel Avenue. Should you make it out of the neighborhood, she will assuredly call the police to report a criminal dognapping."

"We all make sacrifices in the name of science," I reminder her. Her name is Peggy.

"You're absolutely mad," Peggy said, throwing her head back in mock disdain.

"I am not so mad that I do not see the manner in which you've chosen to assault me," I noted. "Rather than evaluate my scientific quest with an impartial eye, or attack some readily apparent physical or character flaw, you've chosen to set science back three decades with four simple words - two of which contracted to form one word, but did not eliminate the essence of the true word count, which shall remain four."

"I'm calling father," she insisted.

"So be it," I said. "I'm sure even the honorable Thomas Edison had his detractors. I am departing now, regardless."

"That's it. I'm calling father immediately."

"Very well," I said. "I'll write when I make land west of the Mississippi."

"You won't make land west of the front lawn."

"I'm leaving now."

"You haven't pants about you," she said.

"Scientists needn't pants. Think of the Greek thinker who streaked naked and wet through the streets of Athens shrieking Eureka at the discovery of displacement."

"I don't know of whom you are speaking."

"Science needn't pants."

"Science need only the ability for rational thought," she sighed. "What do you hope to achieve with this absurd quest?"

"Discovery, exploration, peace, and knowledge," I said. "The goals of all scientists."

"You're out of your over-sized lithium-imbalanced gourd. I have father on the phone now."

"MUSH!" I commanded Scraps.

"Father wishes to speak to you," Peggy said, handing me the phone.

Sadly, I was not able to take the call at that moment. Scraps had turned upon me and swarmed about my face like a demon sent straight from Hades to evicerate my immortal soul. When I tightened the reigns, instead of plodding forward as expected, he turned on me and bit me several times on the face. I swatted furiously at him, but he would not be dissuaded.

"Take a message, Peg. I've demons about me."

I finally managed to subdue the evil beast with a combination of left and right hooks to the beast's frothing mouth.

"Father says you're not to leave the yard."

Scraps ate my wagon wheels and was chewing through the leather straps I'd placed upon him.

"Very well," I said. "Bring me the lawn clown. I shall disect him and study his innards in the name of science."

"You haven't a scalpel."

"Then I shall use an incisor wrenched from the mouth of this devil dog. Bring me the God damned lawn clown!" I am a patient man, but when it comes to practical study, I have my limits. Peg should have known not to cross me on that front.

When father returned, Mr. Sweet Daddy No Pants had been successfully autopsied, photographed, and catalogued. I was in the process of re-assembling him per the manufacturer's specifications. A representative from the manufacturer guided me through the process via the telephone.

"Terminate your conversation immediately, James," father commanded. "The mission has changed."

I hung up the telephone without so much as a polite "fare the well." When one is at the mercy of generous benefactors, he is unable to achieve true freedom. Being a mere nine years old, I find myself in such a situation. As such, my research is routinely and unnecessarily hampered by the limitations of my progenitor's conceptual understanding of scientific study. I shall soon apply
for a grant or perhaps for emancipation from my family so that I may be free of familial shackels.

"What study I now, father?"

"Study your rear end in the wood shed, fashioning a switch with which I might punish you."

"Yes, father."

As the repeated lashes rained down upon my uncloaked posterior, I thought of Sir James Chadwick, who discovered the neutron some years ago, and I wondered if he faced similar obstacles to his search for fundamental scientific truths. And then it occurred to me. I was not taking these lashes just as one man. In a Jungian moment of truth, I realized my father was lashing out at scientific discovery through the ages. I was taking lumps for Fermi, Einstein, Oppenheimer, Newton, and all the greats upon whose shoulders I stood.

You may knock off the top of the tower, father. But the foundation is impenetrable.

Convictions

Three days deep inside McDougal's desert compound, the hallucinations have not abated. If anything, they've grown steadily worse.

I was awakened this morning by my dead grandmother and Burl Ives. They wanted money. Money which I, of course, don't have. McDougal doesn't allow "filthy lucre" on his property, and all transactions are handled using a bodily-fluid barter system.

I tried to explain this to them, but the pair had grown violent, and I became fearful for my life and well-being, until I realized the entire conversation had been between me and two three-foot-long talking skinks.

I've lost all track of time in this underground fortress. No sign of McDougal in two weeks now.

A member of his staff said that he was on a working vacation in Kuala Lampur, then laughed hysterically for close to seven minutes straight.

I am told I am not a prisoner here, but have on three occasions been prohibited from leaving the compound. I'm in the guest wing of McDougal's palatial desert estate, which has come to feel more like a prison than a hotel.

The meals are well prepared and served in a massive dining hall, but I eat alone -- which only adds to my sense of imprisonment and despair. Also, I am fairly certain they are loading the mashed potatoes with near toxic levels of salt peter, as I've lost all interest in the concubine assigned to me upon arrival.

I was summoned here in the middle of the night on Saturday. Awakened from a deep whiskey-induced slumber in my London flat by two jack-booted thugs, brandishing chrome revolvers, and a recorded message from McDougal. The message was brief, cryptic, and ominous, and I knew I had no choice but to go with them.

The four-line message simply said,

Revolution is upon us.
The army of change is not staffed proxies, but with the
souls of thinking men.
Those who turn blind eyes will eventually lose the power of sight
altogether.
Act now and secure your destiny.

I was flown by private hovercraft from London to the compound, where I expected to be greeted by an army of rabid communist soldiers. Instead, I am alone, and McDougal is nowhere to be found.

The silence is eerie, and the air so thin that at times I can hardly breathe.

I am treated well by the staff, but can't shake this unmistakable sense that I am being fattened for the kill.

And I'm now sure that McDougal is here. Waiting ... silently watching.

And I am fearful, not of death, but that if I die here today that my life will have been lived in vain. All those hours watching Fox News and eating processed foods in a leatherette barcolounger, while my brethren were scattered to the four corners of the globe, fighting for independence. And McDougal, in his infinite wisdom, has called me on it.

I shall stand bravely in the face of my inevitable death and regret that I had not one life to give to the cause.

Oh wait, McDougal's just arrived.

He's dressed in desert fatigues, and carrying a machete, a dead sparrow, a case of PBR, and an autographed picture of Lee Iacoca.

He wants me to take off my shoes.

Ice Flounder

Me and McDougal and some old college buddies were ice fishing up in Maine a few years ago. We used to go every year after McDougal lost his job at the steel mill. He'd been out of work for about four and a half years at that point, and McDougal said that was going to be the last trip he was going to be able to take, so we wanted to make it a big one.

Anyway, the fourth night we were up there, me and McDougal were the only guys out on the pond. Everyone else had either already gone to bed, or McDougal and stabbed and eaten them in the previous days.

McDougal looks over at me with those puppy dog eyes, and says to me,

"Harley," he always calls me that. "Harley," he says. "I need some money."

Now you all know how proud McDougal is. He wouldn't have asked if he didn't really need it.

So I say, "Sure thing, buddy. How much you need?"

Well, you know McDougal goes big when he goes.

He says to me, "Harley, I need three and a quarter million dollars."

"Jesus, McDougal," I say. "You know I don't have access to that kind of capital."

"Well," he says. "What kind of access do you have?"

I tell him I'm good for maybe six grand.

He says, "Six grand? I wipe my ass with that. Come on, Harley. I'll give it back to you ten-fold in two hours. But I need a significant investment here."

I say, "I don't know, McDougal. I can maybe scrub together like $20 grand if I know I'm getting it back."

"TIMES TEN" McDougal booms.

"Right," I say. Though I have to admit -- I'm doubtful.

"OK," I say. "Maybe $25,000."

"That's the spirit," McDougal says. Then he holds out his hand. No shit. He holds out his hand like I'm going to give it to him right there on the lake.

"I don't have it on me, McDougal."

"Well," he says. "How much do you have on you?"

I take out my wallet and count out $240 and another $200 in money orders.

He motions for me to give it to him.

I didn't want to, but I also didn't want to get stabbed and eaten. So I gave it to him.

That crazy bastard then takes all of it and dumps it in the lake. Right there in front of me. Dumps it in the lake and goes back to fishing.

I say, "McDougal -- that's my money for getting back home. What am I gonna do now?"

He doesn't say a word. Just keeps fishing.

Thirty minutes later, he reels in a massive flounder and says, "There. I told you I'd get your money back." He hands it to me and re-baits his line.

I say, "McDougal. I never seen anyone catch a flounder while ice fishing, and this is truly amazing. But I can't exactly pay for a hotel with this."

Well, McDougal's pissed at this point. He stands up and punches me dead in the face. Knocks out every one of my teeth. Then he yanks the flounder from my hands, cuts it open, and pulls out a gold brick and $3,200 in 100s and 20s.

He shoves the money in my mouth and puts the gold brick up my ass, then he walks off.

I couldn't find him for six months after that.

He didn't call me until he bought a house in Malibu and invited me and the kids out for a barbecue.