My Experience With Bigfoot

Those of you who keep up to date on important news developments are probably aware that two gentlemen in northern Georgia (the one in the United States, not the one being invaded by the Red Army), held a press conference today to announce the results of DNA testing done on samples from a body they claim to be the legendary Bigfoot.

Of course, news has already spread that the DNA samples didn’t amount to anything (one was human, the other was from a possum), but that doesn’t mean Bigfoot doesn’t exist. In fact, I myself had an experience with the supposedly mythical beast way before these Georgian pig-ticklers found their “Bigfoot” corpse. It all started on balmy summer day in 2005…

I was hiking through some unnamed woods in northern Michigan (which is way closer to canonized Bigfoot territory than fucking Georgia) when I suddenly caught a whiff of a strange odor. See, everyone else was out hunting quail or some dumb shit, and since I don’t really like hunting anything that doesn’t provide me with sex or money, I merely went out with them to drink their beer. Having accomplished everything on my list of things to do that day (read: Drink all the beer), I was walking back to the cabin to eat all the Ben and Jerry’s out of the freezer before they got back.

Anyway, as everyone knows, their distinctive odor is one of the main indications of Bigfoot activity. However, contrary to popular belief, the Bigfoot does not necessarily smell bad. This one did though, like Tinactin and Cheese. I crept my way stealthily through the woods, drawing upon my vast powers as a woodsman to sneak up on the creature I sensed was near. I peered to my left, seeking an easier route through the dense undergrowth. When I turned back around, the beast was directly in front of me! As every good woodsman knows, you should never make erratic movements or loud noises at a wild animal, or it might attack. I needed to stay as quiet as possible.

“JESUS-FUCKING-ZOMBIE-CHRIST! IT’S A FUCKING BIGFOOT!” I shouted as quietly as possible, at the top of my lungs. I stealthily attempted to turn and run through a pine tree, scratching up my face while simultaneously shitting my pants. I gracefully pivoted and fell on my ass as the creature approached me with lumbering steps. It reached down with an enormous, hairy palm…

“Hey, are you okay?”

I was dumbfounded. Had the beast really spoken to me, or was I hallucinating from sheer terror?

“You, uh, really whacked your face into that douglas fir pretty hard there, man,” said the beast in a voice that reminded me forcibly of a young Morgan Freeman.

“Ur, uhm, wha?” I said shrewdly, staring at the extended palm before me.

“Here, let me help you up, man.” The creature lifted me from the ground and sat me on my feet, forcibly shifting the newly deposited contents of my boxer shorts (yes, ladies, it’s boxers, not briefs).

Pants-shitting terror aside, I was enthralled by the creatures gentleness, so at odds with it’s enormous size.

“Uhhh… So… You’re a Bigfoot, huh?” I asked nonchalantly.

“Well, I suppose,” It replied. “We actually prefer to be called ‘Sasquatch-Americans’.”

“Oh, uh, sorry.”

“No big.”

I wasn’t really prepared to conduct an interview with the creature, so I just asked the first question that came to mind:

“You’re not going to, like, eat me or anything, are you?”

It stared at me in what I assume is a quizzical manner for a Sasquatch-American.

“No, I gave up eating humans for Lent,” It said. I checked my mental calendar, quickly realizing that lent had ended over two months ago. Either the Bigfoot was cracking a joke, or it didn’t have a very good grasp of Catholic dogma. “Besides,” it said, “you smell worse than me.”

“Sorry,” I replied. “I just shit myself. What’s your excuse?”

“My HMO won’t cover a visit to the dermatologist.”

“Fuckin’ Bureaucrats, man.” I said, shaking my head.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” the beast intoned. “It’s one thing after another with them.”

“Uh-huh. So how’d you sneak up on me like that?” I asked.

“Sneak? Man, I’ve eaten logging crews that didn’t make as much noise as you do moving through the woods!” The beast shook in what I can only assume was Sasquatch-American laughter. I happen to know that my skills in woodslore are way above par, so I can only assume the beast had super-hearing or something like that.

“I’m a little drunk man, give me a break.”

“Really?” the creature said. “You got any Jack or anything on you? Maybe a flask?” I didn’t want to offend the beast by telling it that only dirtball rednecks and/or problem drinkers carry flasks of Jack.

“Here,” I said, passing it my flask of Jack.

“Ah, thanks, man.” The beast took a deep pull. “Oh yeah, that helps.” The creature pulled something white from behind its ear. “Got a light on you?”

“Um..” I fumbled in my cargo pants for a lighter. “Here.”

“Thanks,” it said, lighting the white thing, which I now recognized as a cigarette, and breathing deeply.

“So, you seem pretty cool–” I began.

“Thanks,” said the creature, looking pleased.

“Uh, you’re welcome. So, why do you ‘Sasquatch-Americans’ hide from people?”

“Hide? Man, look around. We’re not hiding, we just live in the middle of fucking nowhere. Do you know how hard it is to get broadband out here? Fucking hard, let me tell you!” It puffed furiously on the cigarette in its enormous hand. “And every time we try to hang with you guys, you scream, shit, and run away. Not always in that order.”

“Oh. That sucks,” I said, wiping off the rim of my flask prior to taking a drink. “Well… You want to get some Wendy’s or something?”

“How much more J.D. do you have in that flask?” It asked.

“There’s a liquor store on the way,” I replied.

“Then yes,” the beast said. “I’m jonesing for a Baconator.”

So we went out and got shit-faced, then ate Baconators. After the Bigfoot dropped me off at home, I tried to tell the other members of my camping party about my encounter. To my surprise, no one believed me, citing the fact that I’d consumed about 18 beers before I “wandered off into the woods”.

In summary, Georgia can blow me, because no self-respecting Bigfoot (or person) would ever live in Georgia.

~M

Advertisements

~ by mfive on August 16, 2008.

One Response to “My Experience With Bigfoot”

  1. You should make a short out of this script as a flash ‘toon.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

 
%d bloggers like this: