An Encounter in the Woods

I was taking a walk through a local state park, enjoying the turning fall leaves, when I almost caught Bigfoot. He tried to tell me he was just a hairy man on a mountain bike but you can’t fool me. After all, I see those Jack Links Jerky commercials almost every day. I think I know Sasquatch when I see him.

I was deep in the woods when I came upon a sylvan glen. A placid breeze wafted across my skin as a yellow-red leaf broke away from its home on a gnarled tree limb and drifted to the semi-hard ground in front of me. Suddenly the calm was shattered by a horrible huffing and puffing. Leaves on a nearby bush were swatted aside and he appeared: Bigfoot!

Huge and as wide as a barn door, only his head was covered in dark fur. I was surprised to see his body encased in blue and silver spandex. He rode a steed made of hardened aluminum with round rubber legs. I had never seen a creature like it. The Bigfoot species must have spent hundreds of years breeding and taming these beasts to use as transportation through the forest.

Knowing this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance I chased after him. He turned onto another path. I cut through some painful brambles to catch up, leaping and grabbing hold of one of his steed’s rubber legs. The creature dragged me twenty yards before stopping and then Bigfoot spoke!

“What the hell are you doing man?” he screamed at me. What a strange, guttural language! I tried to communicate back.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I reassured him.

“I’m going to hurt you if you don’t let go of my bike!” he bellowed back. I had no idea what he was saying but he was clearly upset. I tried reaching out and stroking his spandex skin.

“Good boy, good boy,” I said sweetly, in a sing-song voice. He looked down at me weirdly then through yellow, gritted teeth said:

“Dude, if you don’t move your hand right now, I will snap it off and SHOVE IT DOWN YOUR THROAT!”

He was roaring now, flailing his arms about like a mountain gorilla. Perhaps they’re related somehow physiologically? I backed off, not wanting to overexcite him.

“What is wrong with you?” he yelled at me in his odd language, spittle flying from his lips. I held out my hands in a gesture of fealty. Finally he calmed down, turned and got ready to ride off on his animal. I had to act fast, my moment was slipping away. I grabbed a hefty tree branch from the ground, swung and caught Bigfoot in the back of the head. He went down in a heap, tangled with pieces of his steed.

I dragged his carcass to my car. He’s in my garden shed for now. When I’m done studying him we will make our grand presentation to the International Sasquatch Convention in Belgium next summer. I have a lot of work to do between now and then. I’m still trying to decipher his language. Last night he said to me, “Let me out of here NOW, you *&6%&^* piece of $#@#. I’m going to kill you! When I get my hands on you I’ll break every %^$#@@&(* bone in your ^&%#@@#$% body, let them heal and start over again!”

If only I knew what that meant, I could be the first person to communicate with one of the great mysteries of the world. When I take him his dinner of dried leaves and stink bugs I will try again.

Billy Goat, Billy Goat, Get Off My Bridge

I have been occupied. I opened my blog up this morning and found four protesters eating corn muffins and drinking half fat, low foam lattes with just a whiff of cinnamon. When they saw me they lifted up home made signs and began shouting slogans through mouthfuls of crumbling baked goods. The slogan wasn’t very catchy:

“Irrelevant blogs clog the arteries of the internet thus making it more difficult for discerning readers to find blogs of more noteworthy content!”

I told the three young men and one woman that they sucked as protesters to which I received this retort:

“Yeah . . . well . . . you use too many big words.”

They then began chanting “No big words! No big words! No big words!”

I asked them what exactly the problem was.

“We don’t like your blog,” the tall skinny one who hadn’t bathed in a few days said smugly. “And we’re going to sit right here on the admin page until you delete it.”

“Yeah!” added the female whose lazy eye kept wandering to the donut I had sitting on my desk.

I asked what specifically they didn’t like about Cosmic Overdrive.

“You don’t write about what’s important to us. I don’t care if you go to Office Max or you don’t like grocery stores that sell lawn furniture. And these politicians you write about, who are they? I’ve never heard of these people.”

You mean the one’s who are running for the republican nomination for the office of president of the United States, I asked?

“Yeah, duh, who cares? We want to read blogs about video games and snowboarding and protesting.”

Just because you don’t like what I write doesn’t make it irrelevant or mean you have the right to demand it not exist anymore. If you don’t like it just don’t read it, I told them.

“You can’t tell us what to do!” they screamed indignantly. “Fascist! Fascist! Fascist!”

That’s it, I tried to be nice. I’m getting out the taser.

“Run!”

Too late, you pissed me off.

ZAAAAP! ZAAAP! ZAAAAP! ZAAAAP!

I didn’t want my blog to become a police state but they pushed me. All four are down, splayed out all over my admin page. Oddly enough the girl’s lazy eye is still dancing over my donut. I hope I don’t get any bad press from this incident.

Oh no. There’s already an article about it on Huffington Post. Damn it.

Contractual Obligation Post

I didn’t really want to write a blog post today but then I was informed by myself that I was contractually obligated. Apparently sometime during the summer I made myself sign a contract I had written that forces me to write on certain days. I can be such a jerk sometimes.

I’m trying to figure out how I knew how to write a contract in the first place. I know me, and a law degree is something I don’t have. I have half a jar of peanut butter, a glass Snoopy bank filled with pennies, a lifetime supply of sarcasm and assorted notebooks filled with ideas, observations and knock-knock jokes but I don’t have a law degree.

Wanting to breach the agreement, I simply refused to write, but I was too smart for myself. I had had a clause put into the contract that if I refused to write a blog on this date that tomorrow I would be forced to write a sonnet about kittens sleeping on rainbows while John Denver songs play in the background. I didn’t know I could be so cruel.

It only got worse as I read further. If I don’t sit down and write a poem on Wednesday, I’ll force myself to watch Katy Perry videos on You Tube. By Thursday if I don’t have a short story started I will have to watch a marathon of Joey Lawrence’s sitcom on the Family Channel. Where did I come up with these heinous punishments? Why would I subject myself to these vile tortures if I don’t comply with my contract with myself?

I wanted to hire a lawyer to fight the contract, but I told myself I couldn’t afford one. I may have been lying, I don’t know if I can trust myself anymore. Feeling I had no choice I’ve taken a drastic measure. I’ve hired a hit man to kill me and make it look like an accident. I know it sounds crazy but I will not let me control myself with flimsy legal papers.

I have to go make my dinner now. Funny . . . I don’t remember that ottoman being right in front of the refrigerator where I could easily fall over it and hit my head on the kitchen counter.

The Governors

Coming this fall on Fox it’s the sitcom that puts politics where it belongs: under the banana peels and coffee grounds in the trash!

It’s The Governors starring Sarah Palin and Chris Christie

Opening scene: Sarah and Chris sit at the breakfast table in the apartment they share in a brownstone in New York City. Sarah is reading the paper while Chris eats breakfast.

Sarah: Can you believe this? Roger Ailes says that he only hired me on Fox News because I’m stacked. What about my intelectalizin’?
Chris: Your what?
Sarah: My analizin’ skills.
Chris: Huh?
Sarah: My smarts!
Chris: Oh. Mmmm.

Chris stuffs a pastrami sandwich into his mouth.

Sarah: Now Chris, how many sammiches are you goin’ to eat for breakfast?
Chris: As many as I need to stay in the news as a fat loudmouth.
Sarah: You got other things goin’ for ya.
Chris: Like what?

Sarah thinks for a moment, then gets up and walks to the refrigerator.

Sarah: Ham and cheese this time?
Chris: Wait. You’re right. I’m more than just a rapacious appetite and crude opinions. And you’re more than a pair of sweater kittens.
Sarah: I didn’t think ya noticed!
Chris: We need to do something big!
Sarah: I could shoot a moose!
Chris: And I could eat it! Wait, no. Don’t think about food, don’t think about food.
Sarah: And I won’t think about anything,
Chris: Good, now we’re getting somewhere.
Sarah: Where?
Chris: As God is my witness I don’t know.
Sarah: Hey, I know God too. He told me not to run for president in 2012
Chris: I thought it was because you’re a whore for money.
Sarah: Oh yeah.

They both walk into the living room and plop down on the couch.

Sarah: Do you really think I’m smart?
Chris: Do you think I’m thin?
Sarah: Next topic.
Chris: I want to do something that will change the world.
Sarah: That’s why you became governor, huh?
Chris: No, that’s why I became a boy scout. But they accused me of eating the scout master.
Sarah: Ookay. So then you became governor.
Chris: No, then I volunteered at the hospital, taking food trays to the patients.
Sarah: Hoo boy, I don’t like where this is goin’
Chris: I really loved the Jello.
Sarah: How much did you love it Chris?
Chris: They found me naked in one of the whirlpools covered in the strawberry flavor.
Sarah: Let’s fast forward through this story, ok? Why did you become governor?
Chris: Free sandwiches. You?
Sarah: Oh, free everything. I haven’t spent a dime of my own scratch in years don’t ya know.
Chris: What are we going to do?
Sarah: We’ll just keep bein’ ourselves.
Chris: You mean two stupid people who feel a sense of entitlement and have absolutely no frigging clue what we’re doing?
Sarah: Yeah . . . I guess, although it sounded better in my head.
Chris: Let’s go eat lunch.
Sarah: Its only 8:30 in the morning for Pete’s sake!

Chris drops his head sadly.

Sarah: Ok ya big lug. Let’s go.

Cue music

Tune in next week when Mitt Romney spends the night and can’t decide whether to sleep on the couch or in the spare room.