"It's a bonsai bigfoot . . . " Crow T. Robot, MST3K

 

A fuzzy, grainy picture of what could be an unexplained, undiscovered biological specimen: a celebrity that admits that they didn’t finish college because of all the weed, dude, and don’t really know the difference between global warming and the Harlem Globetrotters® bigfoot.

I was on the Intertubes the other night, and came across a most curious web page. No, it did not involve Paris Hilton’s vow of chastity, but instead focused on “The Ten Stupidest Things You Can Buy from an Airline In-Flight Catalog.”

In it I saw the statue pictured above: “Bigfoot, The Garden Yeti.” (Search for this, and you can find him online, if you dare.) I laughed. Ha ha. How stupid it would be to buy that. Inside, however, warm waves of love for the statue flooded the core of my being, which isn’t nearly as comfortable as it sounds. The waves lead to sloshing when you walk, so that would explain why I list to the left when I amble about Casa Wilder . . .

Anyhow, I motioned The Mrs. to come over and look.

“We have to have it!” she exclaimed.

Really? My feverish love for Bigfoot, The Garden Yeti might have led my brain filter to mistranslate “We have to have it!” from the root base language, “What fool would buy that?”

I checked, “So, you . . . like it?”

“Yeah, order it up.”

Inside my heart did little pitter-patters of love for The Mrs. Between the pitter-patters and the sloshing of the waves of love, I guess I just passed out.

But, fortunately, The Mrs. poured cold beer on my face, stuck my credit card in my hand, and I purchased “Bigfoot, The Garden Yeti.”

It arrived a day later, before we even had the opportunity to make up the guest room for it. We pulled it out of the carton (which was approximately the size of an elephant’s kidney) and were pleased that it was the size of a two-year-old, but with feet that approximate a women’s size nine (I think women’s shoes are in metric, so I don’t really know what that means).

When I was in high school, I occasionally played Dungeons and Dragons® with my friends. We would joke (often over an illicit beer) about the various character classes. Since we were all nerds, we made up a character which was a giant dwarf, who, while looking like a normal human, was, indeed, a giant dwarf. Beer and nerdiness made that funny. I’m still nerdy, and still have beer, so The Mrs. and I, noting that we had a tiny-bigfoot, christened it “Normalfoot.”

The Mrs. response on seeing it?

“Oh, we need one for inside, too.”

I passed out again from the pitter-patter-sloshing again.

The following bigfotos show just how much fun you could have with your own bigfoot. (Bigfotos courtesy: The Mrs. You may click on any of them to embiggen it.)

 

The cunning bigfoot stalks his prey, the roaming gnome.

 

Tropical bigfoot.

 

Bigfoot, friend to man’s best friend. Which makes him our second cousin, I think, which means he’s marriageable.

 

Apparently bigfoot is afraid of sliding. He’s also afraid of Adam Sandler. You’d think bigfoot watching “Big Daddy” would be a natural. You’d be wrong.

 

After a hard day of bigfooting, what’s better than a dip in the pool?

 

Spring break, baby, bigfoot style.