Why did I write about Bigfoot going to Alcoholics Anonymous? I don’t know. Why do you do any of the stupid shit you do?
My name is Philip Bigfoot, and I’m an alcoholic.
[Hello, Bigfoot! Welcome to AA]
I guess the drinking started around the time my second wife left me.
I came home to an empty brush pile after a long day of gathering pine cones and wood grubs.
She had taken everything: the kids, the furniture, even my scratching stick—she knew I loved that stick.
Things were pretty rough there for awhile.
I stopped hunting and gathering in the forest.
I quit picking the lice off my body and eating them.
I didn’t even bother scraping the poop off my leg fur anymore.
It was about six months later while drinking tequila and licking a big block of salt outside a human hunting cabin that I had the epiphany that made me give up the drink.
You see, I’m normally a pretty happy drunk. But, when those hunters started shooting at me, I went berserk. I chased them into the cabin and started screaming and foaming at the mouth.
Seeing the terror in their eyes had always been enough before, but something inside me was broken.
I was beating this hunter over the head with the stump of his buddy’s arm when I caught my reflection in a Coors mirror.
“Who is this bloodthirsty savage?” I asked myself. “What happened to the Phillip K. Bigfoot who used to play slow pitch softball and moon truckers out on the interstate?”
That was my rock bottom moment.
Well, needless to say, my apology didn’t go very far.
It was then I knew I had to get my shit together.
In the days following, it took some soul-searching, but I finally realized Sharon didn’t leave me because of who I wasn’t. She left me because of who she was.
Sure, I’ll never be rich like the Yeti or handsome as the Sasquatch. But, if the Skunk Ape can hold his head up high, then by God, so can I.
I’ve been sober for almost three months now, and I’m feeling good.
I’m back to banging rocks against trees, and my bloodcurdling night screams can be heard all over the forest.
The other day I even let a reclusive nutcase take some grainy video of me walking through the woods.
A couple weeks ago, I began dating this real nice black bear. Who knows, she might be the one.
Sure, her parents disapprove, but they’re from a different generation.
And, if I can change for the better, then so can they.