Backyard Encounter with Bigfoot
December 26, 2011
Dear readers, it's me, Thurston Thornton, back once again. Did you miss me? Wait. Don't even bother to respond, since I could care less whether you did or not. Really. Don't take it personally.
On second thought, go ahead and take it personally. It's a free country, at least in theory, but that's a topic for another day.
Some of you out there are probably wondering:
"Well, Thurston, where have you been? What's been going on? I don't know what you are talking about. Please give me a written summary, with a dollop of sweet cream, chocolate sprinkles, and a red cherry on top."
Look here, you lazy, imbecilic, worthless sack of cow patties. Just check out my last column (unacceptably and disastrously written on my behalf by that wimpy, pathetic, totally brainwashed, and thoroughly discredited Marxist-Leninist fraud that goes by the absurd nom de plume of Somebody Else) and find out for your own dang-blasted self. Confound it! It's people like you who make my blood boil over. You have no excuse whatsoever for living and breathing.
I've been out of the hospital for some time now. For awhile there, it seemed like I was on my way to my mansion in heaven, and I was looking forward to opening the letters in my mailbox up there, especially the one from Publisher's Clearinghouse, but the hospital intervened, so I've been condemned to share God's earth with people like you for Lord only knows how much longer.
They got me back on my psychiatric medication, and a fiendish, satanic, venomous and pinko-commie (what else) government case worker came by and interviewed me, asking me all kinds of idiotic questions about how I ended up in the hospital -- why I had "an episode," as she put it in a totally misleading way.
I told her to go stick her fat head where the sun doesn't shine, so she pulled out her phone and said, fine, you want to be that way, I'll just call the authorities and we'll be sure to have you permanently committed to the nuthouse funny farm down the road. I'll send someone over to strap you into a straightjacket and toss you into a padded cell the very second you check out of this hospital.
I wanted to grab that phone from her and crush it to dust in my bare hands, but the cool voice of reason within me prevailed, and I leapt out of my hospital bed and tearfully begged her on my hands and knees not to have me locked up. It was the best acting job of my life, so utterly convincing that for a moment there even I ended up thinking that it was actually real.
I'd offer my thanks to those of you who dropped by to see me at the hospital, if only anyone worth half a rip had come, with the exception of my honorable and distinguished mentor Winston Lee, to whom I owe a debt of gratitude which I can never possibly repay. Who called upon me, you ask? Read my last article, you insufferable, nit-witted nincompoop! Several contemptible visitors wrote their inconsequential commentary in my notebook while I was in the hospital. When I got back home, I tore out those pages and allowed my beloved canine companion Mr. Twinkle to relieve himself upon them.
So, as I said, I've been back on those god-awful medications, of course as a matter of strictest necessity only, since I've been warned that the next time the alien-controlled powers-that-be are alerted to any independent or free-thinking behavior on my part, they'll have me put away for good.
But this is only a temporary setback. As you should know, I have acquaintances on the county commission, people who fully understand that I am a man of clout and influence in this county, and who thoroughly realize how much they themselves personally stand to benefit from acting on my behalf. In other words, I know a thing or two about pulling strings to get what I need. There are ways to take care of these situations, if you know what I'm saying -- of course, being as thick-headed as you are, you probably don't -- and I'm working on it even now as I write this. Once those meddling government officials find themselves subjected to extensive tax audits, we'll see just how much time they have to make problems for me, which should free me up for psychic battle with the aliens yet again.
As soon as I was discharged from the hospital, I was ready to go home and get back to my usual routine, but my sister Myrtle insisted that she stay with me for awhile just to make sure I would be okay. I protested heatedly for quite awhile and completely lost my temper more than once, but to no avail, since she couldn't be dissuaded in the least.
My ridiculous and intolerable neighbor Karen, who hovered over my bedside practically every hour that I was in the hospital, and to whom I must begrudgingly express a tiny sliver of gratitude for taking care of my dog Mr. Twinkle while I was indisposed, drove behind my sister Myrtle as we returned to my home, and followed us into my house in spite of Myrtle's firm protests that she didn't need any of Karen's help, thank you very much. I don’t think that she particularly likes Karen, whom she calls “that flaky loser weirdo” behind her back.
They got into a big throw-down argument, and I must admit that I found the spectacle of the two of them yelling at each other over me to be rather amusing. Mr. Twinkle, normally distinguished by his sagacious judgment and perspicacity in all matters, began to growl menacingly at Myrtle, since he was clearly offended by my sister's aggressive behavior towards Karen, who seems to have bewitched and beguiled him in some unexplainable way. Myrtle got the message, and in deference to Mr. Twinkle's wishes, decided to allow Karen to stay over at my house for a week, and to accept her assistance in caring for me during that time.
For a few days, all seemed relatively well with the world, and things quickly quieted down between Karen and Myrtle, but a palpable tension nevertheless remained in the air. Despite their similarly atrocious liberal political leanings, those two can apparently agree upon almost nothing else.
While Myrtle painted her nails, watched her daytime soap operas, and flipped through the latest edition of her favorite poodle-based magazine, Karen busied herself with her yoga exercises in the living room while listening to her New Age ambience CDs, which to me sound like something that must be played as piped music in extraterrestrial elevators, and only fuels my lingering suspicions that she is working as an undercover agent for the alien-controlled government.
One night Myrtle cooked up shepherd’s pie with a big side of macaroni and cheese, just like mother used to make before she became senile. Mmm-mmm good, that’s what I say. I went for fifth and sixth helpings of that one -- it was all so scrumptious that I ran out of room for my usual strawberry-flavored Twinkies for dessert.
Well, Karen turned up her nose at Myrtle’s masterpiece and made all kinds of unwelcome commentary about it, saying that there were all these artificial, industrially-produced chemicals in it, that it was going to clog up my heart and give me colorectal cancer, blah-blah-blah. Alright, fine, Myrtle finally said, you cook dinner tomorrow and we’ll see how he likes it.
So, the next evening, my plate was loaded down with a bunch of Brussels sprouts, raw carrots, chopped celery, boiled chick peas, eggplant, and other gag-worthy ingredients that I’d prefer not to mention. I toyed around with it for several minutes using my fork, fruitlessly trying to work up the will to actually take a bite of the stuff.
Finally, Myrtle said, enough, you lose, and popped two large frozen sausage and pepperoni pizzas into the oven. While these cooked, I was given two cans of Pringles to take the edge off my hunger. The uneaten contents of the plate that Karen had prepared for me were scraped into the garbage, which is where they rightfully belong.
I know that some of you must be thinking by this point:
“Why the hell hasn’t he said anything about bigfoot? That’s why I started reading this freaking article in the first place! What do I care about Karen and Myrtle? They mean nothing to me! I want bigfoot right now! I’ve been patient long enough!”
Look here, son. Nobody is making you read this far. If I could, I’d jump right out of your computer screen and smack you right square on the keister with my belt. Obviously, you weren’t raised properly, so it would do you some good. Just hold your horses, because bigfoot is coming right up.
One evening, I was sleeping soundly, when suddenly I was awakened by Mr. Twinkle’s barking. Now, I know my canine companion quite well, and I can readily distinguish between his different barks. The barking I heard that night had nothing to do with an intruding squirrel, or any other such kind of innocuous and harmless animal. No, it was the type of deeply hostile and adrenaline-charged bark that could only be provoked by the presence of something much larger, something much more ominous and threatening. It was the bark of a dog that has steeled himself to protect his master unto his very own bloody death, should that be required of him.
Thinking that a midnight thief could be closing in upon my residence, I reached for my bee-bee gun, which I always keep right next to my bed, and went to where Mr. Twinkle had taken up his strategic defensive position at the back of the house.
At that moment, I smelled something that I had never smelled before and which I hope to never smell again. Now, don’t get me wrong, I had caught a whiff of skunk many times prior to that, and we all know how bad that is. But this -- my friends, this was in an entirely different category.
Suffice it to say that it was the kind of excruciating stench to sizzle your nose hairs, to make you instantaneously break out in hives, to cause an electric jolt of pure, unadulterated fear to shoot up your spine like a bolt of lightning. My dear readers, it was that class of odor. Alas, mere words fail to adequately describe it.
In addition to Mr. Twinkle's frenzied barking, I also heard some rummaging activity coming from the metal trash cans in the back yard. For a second there, I felt a sense of false relief, and imagined that an opossum or raccoon had approached the house to make a raid upon our domestic refuse. Of course, that didn't quite explain the horrid stink I have just mentioned, but at that point I foolishly allowed myself to entertain vain hopes that nothing sinister was afoot. How wrong I was, my friends, how wrong I was.
I opened the back door, expecting Mr. Twinkle to run out towards our nocturnal visitor, but instead, he stood by me at the door, and for the first time I can recall since he was but a wee pup, he seemed truly afraid. The barking ceased, and a high-pitched whine replaced it. I started to feel rather nervous again, and cocked my bee-bee rifle.
"Sic him, boy," I commanded in a low voice, but Mr. Twinkle did not budge. My eyes gradually began to adjust to the darkness, and next to the trash cans I could make out something that was considerably larger than a mere opossum or raccoon. At first, I thought it was a man, and then it occurred to me that no man could be that tall and hefty. It also appeared to be covered all over with thick, matted hair. Could it be a bear, I wondered. It removed its head from a trash can and turned to look at me.
Let me tell you, and I'm not in the least ashamed to admit it, my bladder gave way when I saw that face. Dear readers -- that was no bear, mark my words. That was some kind of simian creature with flaming red eyes, and it menacingly bared its fearsome teeth at me.
Without delaying for a single instant, I shouldered my bee-bee gun and commenced to firing upon the beast. I hit it in the stomach and the chest, which caused it to roar out in pain. The sound of its voice was so otherworldly, so terrifying, so strange and awful, that I almost fainted dead away right then and there.
But my desire for self-preservation overcame my extreme terror, and I continued to pump bee-bees into the monster, which grabbed the metal lid to one of my trash cans and began striding towards the house.
Seeing the bigfoot approach, Mr. Twinkle also managed to put aside his initial fright. He suddenly sprung forward into the yard, and sunk his teeth into the animal's hindquarters, causing it to howl out in agony, a sound so petrifying that the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. As I was cocking my gun, the creature pulled back its arm and slung the garbage can lid at me like a giant Frisbee. The lid hit me in the head full-force and knocked me to the ground, unconscious.
When I came to several minutes later, I sat up and Mr. Twinkle licked me in the face. I looked around and saw no sign of my attacker.
Fearing that it had gone into the house, I ran inside and switched on all the lights and went through all the rooms (fortunately, it was nowhere to be found), waking up Myrtle and Karen in the process, both of whom asked me what in the blue blazes I was doing.
Incredulous, I questioned them: Didn't you hear all of that? And they responded that no, they had been sleeping, and hadn't heard a thing. How is it possible that anyone might sleep through such a horrendous racket? My friends, it boggles the mind, it truly does.
But the other day I saw my Puerto Rican next-door neighbor when I was taking Mr. Twinkle for a walk, and he told me that the bigfoot's cry had woken him up that evening, although he tried to convince himself that it was all just a bad dream. So, don't you go telling me that I was just imagining things. I know very well what I saw and heard.
Mark my words -- the alien-controlled government conspiracy is behind that one. The bigfoot is a genetically-engineered monster created in an interstellar laboratory currently orbiting the star Betelgeuse. They've been deposited all over the world, and work as agents and information gatherers for the Kremlin. That's why it was going through my trash can. No doubt it was looking for the written correspondence between Winston Lee and yours truly. Well, it didn't find anything, because I've burned all of those letters. Who do you think I am -- a complete and total buffoon?
Anyway, Myrtle eventually departed, thank God, and not a moment too soon. It was a bit more difficult to convince Karen to leave my house, and she did indeed succeed in getting one extra night by giving me a three-hour backrub, very nicely done, I must say. But I finally had to threaten to call 911 to get her out, and in the end, she finally picked up her stuff and left, hallelujah! Free at last!
Well, free at least until she decides to pop by unannounced, which could be any minute now. Speak of the devil, the doorbell just rang again. Maybe if I ignore it, she'll just go away.
Copyright 2011 by Somebody's Webpage