Behind the Scenes Week - Bonus Sunday Edition!

Hello from the Writers Room!

We have been informed by the Legal Department that we have to do one more Behind the Scenes Week post. The original week contained six days of posts, which we thought was plenty. But the douchebag lawyers are mad because we made them do one of the days. They threatened to contact our union about it, because apparently that is some sort of violation to have non-union writers fill in. They said it has to be a Sunday post, since there was no Sunday post (softball league) in the original week. We tried to argue that it would be a violation of our Constitutional rights, because our religion views Sunday as a day of rest. The lawyers sent back an email that said, "Then we'll see you in hell." Apparently, since we had posted on Sundays in the past, it set a precedent that a "week" for this weblog includes all seven days. So it was either do a Sunday post, or get fired.

They can make us post another day, but they can't make us work weekends. Fuck that.

This is the Sunday post. We are requesting that nobody reads this until Sunday. We cannot be held responsible for the actions of the reading public, if they choose to read this post a few days early.

There, that should cover our asses...

Now, on to the letters.

Our first letter is another incoherent rant from Josh Williams:

I do not question Mr McDougals quality's as a man and human being to be
worthy of the office "President of The United States of
America" however I do wonder if his past may haunt him and his many enemas
who will surely betray him. Does "Friends of" and his worker bee's realize that
McDougal has so many enemas?

What the fuck? OK, I think I can make a tiny bit of sense from that poorly written bullshit... McDougal has no concern whatsoever about those who consider themselves his enemies. He has crushed out the souls of better men than them, 100 times over. Don't believe me? Consider this... In December of 2001, Saddam Hussein borrowed McDougal's "Caligula" DVD. He was supposed to return it before Valentine's Day, but he never did. Look where Saddam is now.

Our next letter comes from Carl Spackler, who asks:

has mcdougal ever been married...is he divorced...does he have kids?

McDougal has been married dozens of times. We've written about a few of them here. If you click on the "marriage" tag at the bottom of this post, you will be able to read about a few of his marriages. McDougal has never been divorced, but he has been widowed many times. His brides have a habit of dying under mysterious circumstances. McDougal has somewhere in the neighborhood of 938 children. Most are illegitimate, born to prostitutes and other loose women. McDougal is incredibly fertile. There are several medically verified instances where McDougal has walked past an ovulating woman during a strong windstorm and accidentally impregnated her.

The next one comes from Damnsle, who writes:

Tu me dis qu’elle est melo, ou tu me dis qu’elle aimait l’eau?

Um... Punt?

Our final letter is a late entry from Sombrero11, who writes:

I often suffer from crippling writer's block. How is it that you are so prolific?

Well, Mr. Eleven, we have a whole writing staff here at FriendsOfMcDougal. Most of the time, if one of the writers is blocked up, the other writers can pick up the slack. However, occasionally all of the writers will be hit with simultaneous cases of writer's block. When this happens, we will just throw in some filler, like a funny picture or a couple of reader-submitted letters. Sometimes a writer will hit on an idea that seems promising, but they can't quite make it work. Most of the time, they will just pass the idea on to another writer and let them finish it. But every so often someone comes up with an idea that no one can make work. Here is an unfinished and unedited draft of one such story:

I am a Friends of McDougal from the Mycenaean Era.
He went by a different
name then. Your history books call him "Agamemnon."
I was sadly killed,
however, when Agamemnon (McDougal) incurred the wrath of Artemis (the goddess,
not Artemis Gordon from Wild Wild West). Fortunately, I was washed overboard in
port as McDougal's fleet prepared to sail for Troy, and never received a proper
burial.
Imagine my surprise, when I was revived eleven months ago by none
other than AgaMcDougalnon at a truck stop outside of Dubuque, Iowa. Aside from a
terrible headache and the predictable problems associated with my 3,600-year-old
military attire. The headache was fortunately a result of a hefty dose of crank
McDougal had served up as a revival peptide. And the fashion situation was
remedied by a quick stop at a Bass Pro Shop.
It would seem that the world
has changed considerably more than McDougal initially let on in the past four
millennia. While McDougalmemnon tried to keep me shielded from the trappings of
modern society, I have recently been granted my freedom and have discovered ...

We really tried to make this one work, but no one could do a damn thing with it. It makes a good chunk of filler though, doesn't it? I hope this helps you.

Well, that's it for Behind the Scenes Week. Stay tuned for more info on the Official McDougal Presidential Campaign Internship Contest!

Chutes and Ladders

When we got into the elevator to go up to McDougal's suite on the top floor of the Bellagio, the car's cables groaned excessively. I hate riding on elevators with the big man, since he always flirts with the weight limit all on his own. Another would-be passenger was waiting nearby, and I tried to discreetly wave him off, but he apparently didn't see, because he squeezed into the elevator with us.

He was a rumpled little balding man in his mid-50s. The type of guy who works long days and spends his evenings in his Bible study group, but he saves up his money so that once a year he can travel to Las Vegas with his wife to really cut loose. By which, I mean eat at the free buffet every night, spend his days photographing all the big hotels on the strip and maybe catch Wayne Newton's show.

As the elevator began its trip up, the little man cleared his throat. I cringed and tried to signal him again, let him know that McDougal is not the type of guy you make small talk with. But since we were on opposite sides of the big man, his view of my gestures was completely obscured.

I tried to will him into silence. "Please don't talk. Please don't talk. Please -- "

"Boy, it's a hot one out there, huh?" he posited.

McDougal turned slowly, gazed down at him and retorted with, "When God comes back to judge the living and the dead, he will judge them on one thing. Do you know what that is?"

He guessed, "Religious piety?"

"Nope," McDougal said.

The man fidgeted for a moment and moved as if to respond again, but McDougal cut him off.

"The size of their cocks."






What seemed like an eternity of silence passed. The man shifted uncomfortably. I could tell he was trying to work up a response. It seemed silence was too much to ask for from this one.





Finally, he looked up at McDougal and asked, "What about the women?"

"They can burn in hell."






I felt like I had to do something. At that moment I was the only person who could save that man. Otherwise, this one elevator encounter would leave him a ruined shell of his former self. I looked up at McDougal, and by the expression on his face I could tell that he was done with this little fellow. I seized the opportunity and leaned forward, peering around McDougal's prodigious belly, and spoke.

"Boy, it's a hot one out there, huh?"

The man looked right into my eyes and with the same stoic delivery we'd just heard from McDougal, he said, "When God comes back to judge the living and the dead, he will judge them on one thing. Do you know what that is?"

It was too late. Oh God, no.

I swallowed hard and said, "Religious piety?"

"Nope," he said.

"Where is he going with this?" I wondered. Then out of left field, came his response ...

"Ejaculate velocity." He announced this sternly just as the bell rang and the door slid open. He exited confidently, shoulders back and head held high.

Jesus Christ, this guy had a pair. I had no idea how McDougal might respond. The man had just deftly countered McDougal's shock line with his own healthy dose of profane banter.

As the doors slid back closed, McDougal chuckled softly.

He turned to me and whispered, "At first I thought he said 'viscosity.' Now THAT would have been awkward."

The Quotable McDougal (#4)

"I have immense respect and appreciation for God's power.

Once, I was caught in a tornado. It carried me eleven miles over the Kansas flatlands, then set me down naked in a mobster's bathtub with three blind strippers and a gallon of Puerto Rican rum.

They'd all burned their retinas out staring into the lasers at the self checkout price scanner at Target. Three separate incidents. They hadn't even known each other before.

This was something of a defining moment in my faith journey because it taught me two things about God."

The Quotable McDougal (#3)

"I never owned a pet. I think if God wanted us to "own" other living creatures he'd have -- Oh wait. I've had some dogs. I guess those are pets. Oh, and a cat, and a bunch of fish. Oh, and some gerbils and whatnot. I freaking LOVE gerbils. They're cute, right? With those little tails. They're like little rats with wings."

Doin' The Dew

McDougal called and left the following message on my work voicemail today. I think they monitor that shit.

Garbled Sounds

McDougal: (Screaming) IT'S MY FUCKING RELIGION, TOAD!

Muffled response in the background.

McDougal: Then you shop the way you want, and I'll shop the way I want. What's the big fuckin' deal?

Someone in distance: I've already called security.

McDougal: How the hell else am I supposed to know?

Store Security: Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to put that away.

McDougal: I'm free to worship as I see fit. Or is this not America anymore?

Store Security: The police have already been called sir. Now, may I ask you to put that away and zip your pants.

McDougal: It's just some fucking yogurt, man.

Store Security: Until you violated it, sir. Now come down off of there.

McDougal: I use it for medicinal purposes.

Store Security: Come again?

McDougal: For my religion.

Store Security: The police are coming.

McDougal: Medicinal Methamphetamines.

Store Security: Sir, your penis.

McDougal: Jesus Lord, I LOVE MOUNTAIN DEW!

Unintelligible grunt.

Store Security: Oh God, no.

Hard to follow ... maybe a car backfiring ... gun shots ... screams ... explosion ... elephant sounds ... vacuum cleaner?? ... fax modem sounds ... a bear???

I HAVE RETURNED FROM EXILE

I need to clarify about 6 things. I have been blocked from all communication regarding a one Mr. Avery Chaz. McDougal for approximately 3 weeks. Someone else, who will not be named here, used the embedded Dell keystroke recorder in my Latitude 805 to get into and subsequently lock me out of this forum, wrote his or her own missives, and then sold used women's underwear using my eBay account. This is neither the time nor place for me to describe how I got my password back, nor how well his liver-skin warms my ankles.

For there is one thing and one thing only that is appropriate here, and that is the description and worship of our Lord and Saviour Franco McDougal.

How my mind churned and revolted at the inability to put down my history on that man! How I screamed through the night, hands bloodied from pounding my own meat for hours, then grilling the aforementioned steaks and sadly having dinner alone while locked out of blogspot.com until the 22 hour waiting period ended and I could try a new set of passcodes. The terrors and ignobility of these past weeks is nothing compared to the great strength of McDougal's words to me in my agony chamber.

"Flip the channel til you see skin or Iraq," the wise sage would say to me, making me realize the base instincts of Man and my comparatively shallow concerns.

"Buy me a goddamned pizza before I fuck your cat in the face," he would equivocate, riveting me back to my own body's desire for food, water, and basic cleansing.

"You mind if I call your sister up? Herpes is on and I can't fuck my usual," he opined, giving me insight into something I still haven't exactly nailed down in my mind.

How he bolstered me through these dark days, how I fell to his shoulder in tears more times than I can count, sopping his shirt in sadness and anger, needing his warm embrace as a young oversexed rutting hippo needs a speedball.

Now that I am back I will tell a few stories I remember about McDougal, the most amusing involving a pair of ben wah balls and Kevin Federline.

Religious Freedoms

McDougal is a Shastafarian.

He finds God through high fructose corn syrup stored in 30-year-old cans of bad soda.

Do Bears Shit in the Woods?

"Bears, Terry. Those are bears."

I wasn't sure who this Terry character was, but I knew what bears were.

And if they were in McDougal's kitchen, that wasn't good.

Especially since we were on his cabin cruiser in the middle of fucking Lake Eerie.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Yes," McDougal said. They must have followed the trail of all the blood and garbage.

"They can swim?"

McDougal bit his tongue to stifle a laugh. "Of course not, Jonesy. Don't be absurd."

"Then how the fuck did they get way the hell out here?"

Boats.

The fucking bears up there have their own boats.

Fortunately for both of us, McDougal had a couple of leftover bear traps and bloody virgins in his back pocket. Those stupid fucking bears dove right in after them when McDougal tossed them overboard.

But what we didn't know until 90 seconds later is that they'd rigged the boat with explosives. They blew the whole boat into tiny bear-sized pieces. McDougal and I made it out fine, but it was a long swim back to shore. Also, it didn't help that we were pursued the entire way by bear frogmen.

I later told McDougal, "I didn't even know they made such a thing."

"Don't be such a faggot, Percy. God makes whatever the fuck he wants."

That McDougal is right.

Jesus, I've been such a Goddamn idiot.