But Did We Ever Ask, “Does Bigfoot Want To Be Found?”
The results may astound you
As we all know, the story of Bigfoot was first published in the Humboldt by the great Genzoli back in ’58. A magnificent beast creature dormant in the wilds of California who awoke to the rumblings of a new world. The Humboldt had recently acquired its second typewriter, so the stories were flowing. There was a lot to say back then about this thing no one had ever seen before, but still, people managed to find the words to fill the pages and the airwaves. Oh for the stories were indeed flowing, flowing like the rest of this article.
As I type these words I wonder, ‘what does this all mean?’ Like what am I actually talking about? Are we seriously still rattling on about Bigfoot all these decades later? It’s been years without a lick of evidence. I didn’t chip in for Emily’s birthday, I bet that’s why I’m on the Bigfoot story. Oh my gosh, she’s so petty like that.
But alas, the days have gone since Genzoli first reported on the matter. Night to light, light to night — poetry, poignancy, pointlessness. Much like our perpetual hunt for the haired hunchback. A little writing trick, the ‘p’ sounds hit the reader better than all other letters. Text. Filling the words with text to reach my word count. The thing about the ‘P’ sound has something to do with the puckering of pursed lips. It’s a little trick Emily taught me back in writing school.
When asked, or more accurately ordered, to write this article about the aforementioned phenom that is Bigfoot, I truly wondered how I’d fill the words which become sentences that become paragraphs and in turn, a story. After all, writing is not as much about the act as it is about the need to put letters into words to create a string of consciousness that makes sense to ideally the majority of an audience. I should talk more about Bigfoot, but to be honest I just don’t care about it.
I’d like to point out that the reason I didn’t contribute to Emily’s birthday present was because it was for a Woolworths gift card. I can’t fund two mouths this month, not in this economy! So, I made the executive decision to opt out of the gift. I don’t regret it. I regret it mildly, but only because I’m now on the Bigfoot story.
So Bigfoot exists, to some, and to others he doesn’t. I guess that’s pretty common for a lot of things. It’s almost like who cares, you know? What’s the point of it all. I should’ve contributed damn it — I could be reviewing Drake’s new album!
Bigfoot has been a contentious subject for many years, and I fear for having to write more of these articles, for many more to come. My true hope is that I do such an awful job on this Bigfoot write up that they never ask me to do another one. I still don’t have a question for the article. I guess it’s just a ‘Bigfoot’ general rambling kind of thing. Maybe I’ll work in a, ‘where are they now?’ spin. Yeah, that’ll work. Onwards!
And can I just say, Emily never contributed to MY birthday present either. She never even signed the card. I checked every name and no Emily to be found. There was Emilia, and Emilio, but no Emily. It was a perfectly reasonable gift too. A normal, work appropriate present — a paper weight that I could use in my primarily digital world.
Did you know that some people call the Bigfoot, ‘Sasquatch’? I didn’t until line three on Wikipedia.
So Emily and I used to have a thing, it’s true. Sure there’s some unresolved issues there but I mean, would you chip in for her gift if it ended the way it did? It never ended either, it just kind of fizzled. A natural fizzle. No bad blood. Certainly not enough bad blood to not chip in for my paper weight. Makes you think about the fragility of love, and when I think of love, I think back to Bigfoot because that’s what I’m getting paid to do.
People want to believe in Bigfoot. Belief is more exciting than the real thing. I wish Emily believed in us. I’m glad I didn’t chip in to her Woolworths voucher. I hope she’s just shy of a 20 pack of Bega cheese. Bega’s her favourite. Oh how she loved it. Like a little mouse. That’s what I called her, my little mouse. Mousey mouse. I’d see her eating that cheese and scurry around all giddy. What a crazy chica. I sometimes called her chica too — it was just a little inside joke. Should I call her? No, focus on Bigfoot!
Back to Bigfoot!
B-I-G-F-O-O-T — W-O-R-D — C-O-U-N-T
It’s true, Emily outranks me. She always had more ambition. Had to be the one to climb the ladder first. She assigns the stories. Before Emily, I got all the good ones. My favourites were celebrity weddings. But now, since Emily, I’m getting all of the done to death pieces — Bigfoot, white collar crime, the cost of living crisis. What I would give for a celebrity sex tape. It’s crazy that people feel the need to digitise their privates, but I should really be talking about Bigfoot.
No one will read this anyway, it’ll get sent straight to the shredder. It’s just busy work. Emily wants to control me. Keep me under her thumb. Her little lacky. I’m fine with it, and yeah — sometimes I even like it. I like not having any responsibility, and I like that I can type whatever the hell I want and no one can do a damn thing about it. I have leverage from last years’ Christmas Party. Ohhhh so much juicy gossip, I’m invincible. Invincible like the legacy of Bigfoot!
So yeah, the Bigfoot is a thing for some reason. And yeah, why there’s only one, I’ll never know. How does it reproduce? It must be really lonely all up there in the woods by itself. Maybe he likes the peace and quiet. Maybe we should respect that Emily. Maybe he’s happy doing what he does. Maybe he doesn’t want to go see your parents. Maybe his idea of a good night is a glass of wine and a good book and that’s okay. Maybe he’s not a fan of scary movies because they keep him up. So, when all is said and done, we should ask ourselves — “does Bigfoot want to be found? Or, is it that the real Bigfoot was the friends we made along the way?”
Thank you for reading, this has been yet another nonsense piece of literature for the New York Times. Remember when I talked about ‘Genzoli,’ what the hell was all that about?
