There was a time when I was around seven or so when I was pretty much confident I could either be Bigfoot or live with him. Did I carry a lot of lead paint-saturated toys in my mouth as a child? Possibly. But Harry and the Hendersons
clinched it for me that Bigfoot was awesome and probably just misunderstood. If I could find him, domesticate him and train him to play tag, we would be the best of friends for all eternity. It was as foolproof a plan as I had ever devised.
For a solid year I was all about Bigfoot. I even attempted an expedition to track him down about a block from my house. I found tracks that I at first thought were his but later decided were probably just hobo tracks or “bum shufflins.” I lived in a really shitty part of town.
Have you ever seen a person who claims to have seen Bigfoot? These are the people that carnies turn away at the gates to the circus because they can’t handle the stress of this kind of shit. As I grew older, my mind wrestled with the realization that one of two things was occurring – either Bigfoot was a hoax or he had a preternatural attraction to mental retardation of the most dire sort.
Some research when I was old enough revealed that most Bigfoot sightings were not even something plausible, like a diseased monkey or an unhygienic mountain man. Mostly they were just dickheads in ape costumes. Any reported sightings of footprints? Frauds and hobo shufflins. Bigfoot’s stubborn insistence on not existing had let me down. Worse yet, the guy who played Harry in the movie actually contracted AIDS on the set of
Harry and the Hendersons
during a blood transfusion. Fuck you so hard, Bigfoot.
If I wanted to teach Bigfoot a lesson I’d have to go toe-to-toe with him in a manner he’d understand: cold brutality. Now, arguably, fighting a beast I’d just acknowledged had let me down by virtue of not actually existing would be a bit of a challenge but if I’d learned nothing else from numerous montages in 80s fight films it was that no adversary could stand up to a dude who’d gone through one. Bigfoot was in for some shit.
I’m gonna kick you right in your hairy chest box. Pussy.
I did some Googling to find some cryptozoologists, the people who study things like Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster while pretending to be actual scientists and not just despicable frauds who waste other people’s valuable time. Once I found one willing to talk to me on the phone, I laid it out bluntly: How can I kill Bigfoot with my bare hands, or at least mess him up real bad?
My cryptozoologist friend began explaining how Bigfoot is obviously a very endangered and peaceful being of high intelligence. I had to cut him off. I don’t give a fig if he’s the hairy, bastard child of Stephen Hawking and Mother Theresa, the son of a bitch stole my hopes and dreams and he’ll be lucky if he gets away with a black eye and some ball kicks. I was hung up on. A guy who pretends to study Bigfoot for a living was too professional to continue our discussion. This Bigfoot rabbit hole full of bullshit goes very deep. Regardless, once the ninja stars I ordered off the Internet show up he’s going to wish he never existed. Which he doesn’t.