It's a fact!

Perhaps you have read something on this page and said to yourself, "that can't possibly be true." Well, it probably was, and we are the reason why.

FoMcD employs a large staff of fact checkers, who are constantly on call to answer any questions the writers might have, to review any questionable information before it is published and to help McDougal settle bar bets.

We take our work very seriously and take great pride in maintaining only the strictest level of accuracy in all things.

Actually, in the interest of strict accuracy, I will admit, that we occasionally fudge the details on the rare instances that McDougal stops by the office personally to settle a bet. When he calls in on his cell phone and we have to give him the bad news that, for example, he was mistaken about the number of times the word "fuck" was used in The Big Lebowski, by the time he makes it over here to "rip off (my) dick and fuck (me) in the ear with it" his rage has usually subsided because he forgot why he was coming here. But if he stops by in person... Well, I have no desire to have my earhole fucked, much less with my own penis. So I think these rare lapses in truthfulness can be forgiven.

Here's a fact for you: Yesterday the entire mailroom staff was fired.

Here's another fact: The editorial staff is still in no condition to answer your letters.

So, we have been placed in charge of answering the questions submitted by our readers over the past few weeks. Tomorrow we will be looking for someone to stick with this duty, so you at least have that to look forward to.

Our first question is yet another from the massive assault on our mailroom being perpetrated by one Josh Williams:

Is it true the McDougal campaign eco friendly bio diesel bus has been modified to run on non registered voters?

It is true that McDougal has been actively courting the environmental vote, of that there is no doubt. However, I want you to really think about the question you are asking. Does that make any sense from a political standpoint? Non-registered voters pose no threat to McDougal. In fact they may even be turned to his worldview and properly registered, to his advantage. McDougal's bus runs on a blend of biodiesel brewed from the fats and oils gained from the boiling of the corpses of registered Democrats and Republicans.

Hypersonic writes:

Is it true that Macdougal had a homosexual relationship with Fidel Castro before the start of the Cuban Revolution?

First of all, it is McDougal, not MacDougal. McDougal is of Irish heritage, not of Scottish heritage, as is suggested by the prefix "Mac". This explains all the drinking and fighting.

Although McDougal has demonstrated a penchant for sodomy, he does not consider himself to be a homosexual. The best comparison that can be made for McDougal's opinion on this matter is with the activities of prison inmates. Prisoners regularly engage in anal intercourse, however very few of them view themselves as being gay. This is particularly true of the person making the "delivery", if you will. Doubly so if the recipient is not a willing participant. This activity is undertaken as an act of violence and a means demonstrating their complete power over the victim. It is commonly referred to as "making them your bitch."

With this view in mind, it is crucial to note the timing of the act in question. This did not occur prior to the Cuban Revolution, as you have indicated in your letter. Rather, the act took place several years after. At the time, McDougal was in the employ of the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency. He had been working in Cuba since the early days of the revolution, and had gained the complete trust of the new communist government. Once he had gathered all the information he thought necessary, and had made arrangements for his escape, McDougal felt compelled to locate Castro and demonstrate to him the awesome power of the United States Government.

Fidel Castro was not the lone recipient. McDougal also taught "lessons" to Raul Castro and Che Guevara. It was a lesson they would not soon forget. Particularly Fidel. Raul and Che managed to escape relatively unscathed, but Fidel was left with a virulent case of gonorrhea. Back at CIA headquarters, McDougal's humiliating one-man assault on the Cuban leadership quickly made him a legend. However, because of the nature of his actions, they were always alluded to using euphemisms in those conservative times. It was one of these, which referred to the passage of that particular infection, that somehow escaped the walls of CIA headquarters and is still repeated to this day, with no knowledge of its true meaning. Think about that next time someone tells you that the CIA "tried to kill Castro with a poison cigar."

McDougal Saves Christmas (Final Chapter)

After dropping off the load of toys for the orphans McDougal topped off the reindeer with mescaline and absinthe and we rocketed off into the cold December air. We continued on Santa Claus's rounds, supplementing the toys with BB guns, slingshots, liquor, cigarettes, pornographic magazines, small animal traps and anything else that caught McDougal's eye. Entering the homes became a bit of a problem. McDougal made a valiant effort at sliding down chimneys, but he just didn't have a knack for it. After trying several other tactics we finally decided on simply kicking doors in and tossing the toys inside. Guard dogs were a problem. McDougal knows a highly effective canine sleeper hold, but this takes a few minutes even when the dog does not struggle, which is rarely the case. For expediency's sake many of the dogs (and one medical helper monkey) had to be dispatched using McDougal's silenced 9mm handgun. We left a few extra presents at these houses.

When we finished with Europe McDougal swung the Landrover south, landing in a small village in Afghanistan.

"McDougal, I don't think they celebrate..."

But before I could finish, the big man was out of the truck like a shot.

"This will only take a minute," he yelled over his shoulder as he disappeared into the darkness.

McDougal returned a short time later clutching an armload of tightly wrapped bundles.

"Had to finish my Christmas shopping," he explained. "This place has the best hash."

Once again we flew off into the night. I assume that Santa Claus follows some type of orderly pattern when he makes his annual rounds. McDougal did nothing of the sort. We zigzagged across the globe, collecting nearly as much stuff as we gave out. In Columbia we picked up a bale of uncut cocaine. In Zimbabwe we picked up ivory and rhinoceros horns. In Baghdad we picked up a solid gold AK-47 that had "Uday" engraved on the side. In the Philippines McDougal picked up a pair of champion fighting cocks, and I picked up a particularly virulent case of gonorhea.

As we walked back to the Landrover McDougal looked at his watch.

"Fucking hell! We've got to pick up the pace! We'll head to the United States next, get that finished up."

"Once we get there can you just drop me off at my apartment?" I asked. "I'm tired, hung over and my cock is on fire. I don't think I can handle any more of this."

"Nonsense," McDougal roared, "you've just run out of Christmas Spirit!"

He flipped me another capsule. That was really the last thing I needed at that point, but I was suffering so much that unconsciousness did seem pretty appealing. I swallowed it down and waited for the freakout to set in. As my vision started to fade, slumped in the Landrover's passenger seat, I heard McDougal say "this ought to speed things up." I watched him reach into the back, remove one of the air rifles and take careful aim at the hindquarters of one of the lead reindeer, either Dasher or Dancer I guess. I buckled my seatbelt. McDougal's voice, seeming to be coming from very far away, "But I guess if you really want to be dropped off I can work something out..." That oppressive coldness in my chest. The snap of an air rifle and the Landrover giving a sickeningly violent upward jerk. Sleigh bells... Sugarplums...

A cold concrete floor and the smell of urine. A voice barking at me in Arabic. I don't speak Arabic. A large hand dangled a Ziploc bag full of red and green capsules in my face. More Arabic. Then a kick in the ribs. I coughed up a bit of blood, but my vision cleared a bit too. Thank Allah for small miracles. I was in a cage. No, a cell. That bastard McDougal was nowhere to be seen. But there was that Egyptian prison guard waving the bag of capsules, screaming at me now, still in Arabic. A second guard swam into view. He leaned in close and said quietly in thickly accented English, "He says 'Are these your pills?' You should answer. You are in big trouble sir."

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.

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.

Blue Rondo a la Turk

Earlier this summer, I was on McDougal's cheap ass Glastron cabin cruiser with McDougal, his mistress, the Dutch ambassador, and the Turks.

McDougal's blitzed out of his mind on flapjacks, creatine, and some cocktail he prepared from Redbull, motor oil, and liquid nitrogen. Also, he's completely nude.

The Dutch ambassador is obviously uncomfortable, but we're 40 miles offshore, and there's really nowhere for him to go. He's stopped talking to McDougal or really anyone since earlier in the morning when McDougal bit off the man's right ear. At the time, he acted like it was no big deal, but as the hours passed and the bleeding continued, I could tell he was at least a little angry.

The Turks are somewhere below deck with a porpoise and a bunch of halibut they brought with them from the old country. Common decency prohibits me from elaborating further on their activities down there. Let's just say the Turks have a different and unique culture that should be glorified and honored.

No one's seen McDougal's mistress since the night before, which is slightly distressing, as she was the only member of the crew with any knowledge as to how to pilot the vessel, or even which way the shore was.

I have to admit that though I'd known McDougal my entire life, I was likewise uncomfortable -- filled with a deep sense of dread and hopelessness, the likes of which I'd never known.

I sat down next to the Dutch Ambassador and offered him a shot of railroad gin and a Band-Aid. He graciously accepted both.

"You're gonna need to get that looked at," I said.

"What?" he replied.

"Your ear," I said.

"What?" he said.

"Oh. Sorry. Nevermind."

The ambassador gestured toward McDougal. "The man's a lunatic."

"Indeed," I agreed.

"I think he might have eaten her."

The ambassador was likely right, but I didn't want to give him anymore cause for concern or alarm.

"Nah," I said. "He probably just threw her overboard in a drunken rage."

"Can you drive this thing?" he wanted to know.

I just laughed and laughed and laughed. I wasn't touching McDougal's boat. I've got a family, after all.

There were a few moments of awkward silence as the ambassador and I stared off at the rolling sea. I kept my head at a 30 degree angle so McDougal wouldn't realize I was looking at him, but beneath my Blue Blocker shades, I studied the giant man.

He was holding a three-inch rose quartz elephant the Turks had given him and chewing on what appeared to be a meat-covered human femur.

"It's the elephant," I whispered to the Dutchman.

"What?" he said.

"The elephant," I said.

"What?" he repeated.

"Nevermind, Dutchman."

Of course it made perfect sense, but I couldn't explain it to him. The manganese in the quartz had somehow entered the big man's blood stream and driven him insane.

We had to get that elephant away from him, and find a way to neutralize the manganese that had already entered his bloodstream. He was likely already suffering from diphtheria, dangerously low blood pressure, and hallucinations, which would explain the uncharacteristic behaviors (i.e. inviting the Dutch Ambassador on one of these fishing trips with the Turks).

I was going to need the assistance of the Turks.

I did some quick chemical calculations: Manganese (atomic number - 25) is a brittle element, prone to oxidation. The most common oxidation states of manganese are +2, +3, +4, +6 and +7, though oxidation states from +1 to +7 are observed. Mn2+ often competes with Mg2+ in biological systems, and manganese compounds where manganese is in oxidation state +7 are powerful oxidizing agents.

I was going to need six pounds of Erythromycin, which I'm sure the Turks had to treat their raging chlamydia.

Ignoring great risk to my personal health and welfare, I went belowdeck to solicit aid from the Turks, who had fortunately already finished their breakfast when I arrived.

I explained the situation in a mix of broken Turkish and Pig Latin, and the then-satiated Turks were actually amenable to my plan.

Moments later we were on deck with several syringes full of Erythromycin loaded onto blowguns used for spear fishing.

"Wij moeten hem in de maag ontspruiten," I told the ambassador. "The fastest reaction will come from interaction with his gastric acids."

McDougal, realizing we were up to something, then stood and threatened us with the femur.

His threats, however, were in vain. At that moment, each of us fired our weapons. I struck him square in the gullet, as did the Turks. The ambassador's shot went wide left, circled back and ended up taking out his own eye.

McDougal went down, fell overboard and sank to the bottom of the sea.

For a moment, we pondered leaving him out there. He'd eventually turn into a natural reef, providing habitat for thousands of fish and other sea life. But this was, after all, the great McDougal. And the world would be worse without him.

So we sent the Dutch ambassador down in the submersible to fetch the big man.

Two hours later, the ambassador returned with McDougal and his mistress, who had apparently spent the night at a topless manta ray bar with Evil Knievel and Joe Theisman.

McDougal was laughing when we brought him on board -- seemingly completely healed, save for a spot of mild diarrhea brought on by the Erythromycin.

We spent the rest of the day fishing, and did pretty well. McDougal caught a bunch of flapjacks and a pot bellied pig. I caught John Ashcroft.

Before we got back to shore, McDougal replaced the ambassador's ear with a 30-pound drum, and seems like that was going to work out pretty good.

In the end, we all agreed: no harm, no foul.

Clubbed a Seal? So what

That may have been exciting for you, but let me tell you about the last time I saw McDougal pull out his Seal Club.

We were travelling through Europe screwing hippie girls in hostels, and McDougal got a bad case of the Czech Clap. He was so pissed he stopped talking on trains and would only fart to communicate, which was obviously a terrible way to deal with the Germans. A ticket person would walk down the aisle and punch people's tickets and when he or she got to our row and said "Karten gefallen" McDougal would raise one leg and fart out a massive egg sulphur response. It was just terrible.

So anyway, by the time we got to Italy I had taken to not sitting anywhere near him. When we pulled into Rome he was nowhere to be found, and I got to the nearest hostel and laid up with a Brazilian 19 year old named Margarita. We fucked for about 4 days straight and then decided to go to the Vatican. When we got there, we could see a big crowd milling and yelling around the big main doors. I had a bad feeling, and sure enough, when we pushed our way up there, I could see none other than McDougal raising and smashing his Seal Club down over and over again on the Pope. Those weird clown guards were standing around helplessly, and the Pope was screaming something in Latin.

I told Margarita it was time to beat it and we rode a bus around for a while and then fucked in the Parthenon.

And when the Pope just died a few weeks ago, McDougal kissed his Seal Club and repeated this phrase: "Eu amo bater meu papa, e se eu vir algum mamífero do mar mim matança da foda da vontade essa cadela como um whore catholic..." again and again.