Treatise on the Retarded

Treatise on the Retarded
A position paper for the McDougal for President Campaign

By Xavier Alonzo Mercado McDougal IV

I've killed a man.

That is not to say, "In my lifetime, I have killed someone." As a veteran soldier, freedom fighter, and lifelong meth addict, I've killed scores of men.

I mean that as in, there is a bleeding corpse at my feet as I type this treatise.

In my lifetime, there have been men whose deaths I have lamented. I've even wept at the passing of some. I have, however, no second thoughts, remorse, or concern for this headless sack of shit lying crumpled now at my feet.

The Red Robin offers infinite steak fries as an integral part of the Red Robin dining experience. They offer infinite french fries, towers of onion rings, and some of the best Goddamn hamburgers in the business.

Last evening I dined at the Red Robin.

And this until-very-recently-bumbling bag of monkey shit was assigned to service me.

My dining expectations are not extravagant. There are no complex riders or special requests for hand jobs from Peruvian nuns or dodecahedron-shaped mackerel fillets. My requests are simple. Keep the beer and steak fries coming (don't ask, just bring them), deliver the appetizer in under eight minutes, and my meal within six minutes following, don't speak to me unless spoken to, never look me in the eyes, and NEVER touch me.

These are the understood rules of the serving class. They have been passed on from medieval serving winches to Elizabethan footmen to college students and flunkies working in chain restaurants.

This festering sack of horse entrails must have missed that communication.

These corporate deals, they have training programs. Days of training focused on how to roll silverware, pre-bus tables, and refill my Goddamn Dr. Pepper. It's not codebreaking for the NSA for fuck's sake. It's delivering food to tables of diners. If you're too stupid to remember MY FUCKING TOWER OF ONION RINGS, yet you irresponsibly accept the position as foodserver, then you deserve whatever fate I as patron and holder of the American Express Black card deem appropriate.

Should you fail to live up to your end of the deal, you deserve torture, mutilation, and eventual death at the hands of a 450-pound meth addicted gorilla. For fuck's sake, he never even mentioned the infinite steak fries!

The bleeding heart anti-death penalty banana peel humping hymens who would weep for this man's passing would do well to spend a little less time bemoaning the fate of sinners and a little more time lessening the need for future executions.

I do not know from whence came this notion that all human lives are to be valued as equal. Is Tonya Harding to be considered of equal value to John Wesley? Is Albert Brooks of no lesser value than Albert Camus?

We all start valueless ~ creatures of the happenstance of those who made us. We add or subtract value with each passing day. We define ourselves by our actions, thoughts, and deeds. This value is cumulative. Beat a hooker to death with a rubber mallet on Tuesday, and rescue a chimney sweep from a rabid alligator on Wednesday and the impact to your value score is a net zero.

But it is not only in matters of life and death that one gains value. Did you properly wipe your ass? No? You've just lost value. If you chose to live as part of society, brush your fucking teeth and CONTRIBUTE.

I don't care if you're the mayor of Shitville, Indiana, or a fucking bathroom attendant. If you're going to live off the fat of others - that is sell your time and skills as a service to someone (e.g. corporation, private business, pimp), then fucking do your job.

You don't deserve a paycheck and you sure aren't going to get a Goddamn tip from me.

Show up at my table 19 times with the same shit-eating question, "You doin' alright here?"

No I'm not fucking alright.

Where are my Goddamn onion rings?

Oh, you forgot.

Now I have to cancel my plans for the night, wait until you get off work, club you in the head with a bag of oranges, toss you in the trunk of this stolen Buick Electra and spend the rest of the night teaching you the intricacies of foodservice.

Look, shitmouths. No one is going to fix your shit for you. Figure out what you want to do and do it. Do it to the best of your ability. Don't fuck around. If you can't do the job you've whored yourself out to do, then find another job.

Otherwise, I'm coming for you.

Fishing for Miracles

McDougal saved my life in Panama City in the late 70s. I was about 8. McDougal couldn't have been more than six. We were working a shrimp boat that ran up and down the Gulf Coast 20 hours a day. We worked cheap back then -- oblivious to child labor laws and to the doubts of our elderly caregivers.

About a year into our shrimping venture, I caught syphilis from a Tallahassee whore and slipped into a maniacal state. I'd knifed the first mate during a heated game of Go-Fish (the only game the captain permitted us to play aboard his vessel). I called for an eight, and the first mate denied ownership of such a card. We were playing with a marked deck, so I knew he was lying. At first, I let it slide. But when on the very next turn, that bastard requested an eight from me, I lost it. Ran his belly with an 8" filet knife. He bled out over the period of about six hours, then I tossed him overboard.

When we pulled into port, the captain notified his widow, and she went into a rage. Attacked me with an aluminum bat she kept in her Dodge Omni. Beat me within an inch of my life. I was so blitzed on seafarer's moonshine and fevered delirium that I didn't even know who she was at the time. I thought she was a giant shrimp and the Omni was a vessel designed and built by aliens in the mythical city of Atlantis.

I put up no defense, and was resigned to accept my fate.

Thank God for McDougal, who upon seeing what was happening, charged the scorned widow and choked her to death with a 4-foot strand of 150-pound test fishing line.

I was severely wounded and had slipped into a state of shock. McDougal loaded me into the Omni and rushed me to an emergecny room ... in Atlantis. There, I was healed. Plus, I was given a third eye at the base of my spine.

God bless McDougal and the magical mermen surgeons of Atlantis.

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.

Showboating

McDougal's been on a bit of a tear lately -- ever since he lost his job at the Pentagon. Me and McDougal and the boys were at O'Toole's the other day, when Scotty pipes up with, "Well I had no idea you used to play pro ball, McDougal!"

I don't know why I didn't jump up and sprint out the door at that very moment. I'd heard this conversation 300 times if I'd heard it a once. And it never ended well.

McDougal hears this, then does that weird thing with his brows. It's not quite a furrow. You know the look I'm talking about, right? The one where he kind of rolls them (or really the single brow) into a sort of a rolling sea of unkempt facial hair so that it kind of looks like a symbol they might use for Nessie if they were to erect a "Loch Ness Monster Crossing" sign.

And McDougal says, "Aye, lad. I did, indeed."

Scotty says, "Well who'd ya play for then?"

God help me, why didn't I leave the place?

"I played for the Memphis Showboats," McDougal says. "Under the fine tutelage of the infamous Pepper Rogers."

Poor stupid Scotty. That poor dumb bastard. "The Showboats?" Scotty guffaws. "What the hell are they?"

God, why did I stay? Why, why, why?

McDougal comes to his feet, but was still not fully perturbed. "They were the finest squad in the finest league ever to don the uniform of professional athletics. They were the true champions of the USFL."

I didn't even seek cover. I just sat stupified over my ale. Why, Zeus? Why not guide me in this moment of terror? Why not set me free?

Scotty takes a long pull from his stein and mumbles under his breath, "The USFL? That's worse than the Canadian Football L -"

And those were the last words dear old Scotty proclaimed before leaving this life.

McDougal picks up the table (one of those 250-year-old solid oak jobs that have been in O'Toole's since the Battle of Falkirk), and in about two and a half seconds, he gnaws the table down to a spear, and runs it clear through Scotty's gullet.

He then lops off Scotty's head with the back the back of his fist and impales it on the end of the spear. He grabs me by the forearm and hauls me outside -- though I'd done nothing wrong, I was now inexorably linked to this terror.

McDougal rips off the roof of Scotty's Mini, yanks his car keys out of the dead man's trousers, directs me to sit in the passenger's seat and hold the spear topped by Scotty's severed head, and climbs into the driver's seat. When he realizes the car's too small for his massive frame, he rips out the driver's seat, and plops into the backseat, and starts the car.

"We're going to America," he says.

And off we go.

Six hours later, we're in Miami, and McDougal has ordered me to walk six steps behind him, displaying Scotty's severed head, and singing his favorite Peter Morrison tune, whilst strumming the fiddle.