“Time of birth” for baby Ngoc is listed as “morning.” Hospital, doctor, and nurse are left blank. The “about the mother” section describes a seventeen-year-old Vietnamese girl who has lost her parents and three siblings to the war (“had friend but he now dead also”). The father’s name is unknown, but mom describes him as a tall, blond, all-American soldier with a Purple Heart (“would know more but it hard to see in alley and he knock me cold before I could get good look”).
Oof. And yeah, the Lampoon got letters.
Over time, O’Donoghue’s influence on the Lampoon grew. If newer writers weren’t particularly edgy, O’Donoghue would poke them into uncomfortable new places. He wrote more comedy that made people furious (for example, pornography written in a number of highbrow literary styles), prompting one “fan” to mail a package of live dynamite to O’Donoghue’s attention.
And to complete the picture of tortured comedy genius, he slammed phones against walls and berated coworkers with his vicious wit. Not an easy guy to work with, but O'Donoghue was absolutely one of the magazine’s breakout stars. Thanks to his popularity with readers, he was put in charge of recording a Lampoon comedy album and then engineering the brilliant National Lampoon Radio Hour.
Being on advertiser-supported airwaves did little to tame O’Donoghue’s bleak humor. Here’s a piece he wrote and performed for the radio show, the world’s most gruesome imitation of Ed Sullivan.