I’m the stuff of legends. Of fantasies, if you will. And I’m here to tell you that it’s all true.
They call me Bigfoot, they call me Sasquatch, hell, my Wikipedia page even calls me a Bipedal Humanoid. But listen to me: I. Am. All. Man. I’m sure you’ve seen the pictures. I’m burly. I’m hairy. I’m a bona fide woodsman. And before I forget to mention it, have you heard what they say about guys with big feet?
Unsurprisingly, a lot of people want to prove that I’m a myth. Go ahead, ask your boyfriend if he thinks I’m real. He denied it, didn’t he? Did he look at you like you’re crazy? That blaze in his eye wasn’t judgement. It was jealousy. His name is probably a generic Mark or Jeff or Austin, and I’m assuming the rest of him is just as average. But I’m Bigfoot. Unless you’ve been living under a rock, I think you know what that means.
Now I don’t want to get your expectations too high. I’m not much of a relationship type, and civilization isn’t really my thing. You won’t find me on OkCupid or Facebook or even the Social Security register. But who doesn’t love a man with a little mystery? What I’m saying here is don’t expect to bring me home to meet your parents. If you’re down for a romp in the woods, I’m your guy. Honestly, you’ll probably never see me again afterward—I go to great lengths to keep my privacy. And speaking of great lengths… you won’t be disappointed.
So, ladies, you petite, hairless daughters of Eve: Why do you think there’s an organization dedicated to finding me? I’m telling you, baby, I’m real and out there waiting. Come and get it.
Originally published: Feb 2014