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.

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.