For thirty some odd years, I went with my family for the Easter Vigil at a Catholic church and, for thirty some odd years, I looked forward to it for all the wrong reasons. During the first ten years, I looked forward to one thing when leaving the two hour ceremony; ironically, my mom’s deviled eggs.

Three guests were responsible for bringing three critical ingredients.  Only one was wise enough to know not to arrive on a donkey with gold, frankincense or myrrh.  This wasn’t Christmas.  Jesus always struggled with the devil and bunnies.  However, He was kind to the infinite degree.

Knowing they were coming (some not invited but wishing to attend), we prepared ourselves for the best, the worst, and some in the middle.  Having faith in the greatness and significance of this day, we understood the best guest always showed up precisely when the worst was attempting to crash our pious Sunday gathering.

The Easter Bunny was kind of like the middle rodent or limbo. Delivering his eggs, we accepted him as though his was required for the deviled eggs.  I swear, sometimes I was more afraid of that bunny than I was of the devil.  To me, the bunny seemed to be much like a friendly ghost or even a friendlier sasquatch. Yet, I didn’t wish to see any of them!  Out of fear of witnessing this strange ritual referred to as hunting on this sacred day , I never wished to peer out my bedroom window and happen upon the eyes of  the 13 foot tall bunny hiding these eggs.  Rather, I relied on prayer, daylight, blinds, and my God given speed.  Courage was not on my Easter Resume.

I never saw the Easter Bunny…….thank Jesus.

Our family always had a great time locating the hidden eggs, because we knew that meant the giant rabbit was busy scaring other children in a different neighborhood, and those eggs, thanks to mom, were boiling before we even placed them in our comfortable basket.

Each Easter, we did, however, hear a sinister knock on our door when we were in the process of making the perfect deviled eggs.  Of course, it was the devil, and mom, fearlessly, answered the door knowing he was bringing his red hot paprika which mother forgot at the store.  (satan was actually bringing cayenne pepper)  Just from pure genius, our mother knew the difference between paprika and cayenne pepper, much like recognizing the difference between good and evil.

And, that’s exactly, without calling first, satan makes an unwelcome pop in visit.  The devil, annually, on this day seemed to be suffering from a tobasco sauce hangover.  His  spear shaped tail wasn’t waging and he even forgot his trident.  We actually felt sorrow for him because, even though he wished to tempt us and poison us,  he always departed peacefully, knowing who was going to knock on our door next.  He, Jesus, knocked on our door, and without saying much more than, “Have a wonderful day, and here’s the Paprika”; Mom, while inviting him in, Jesus merely, and, respectfully declined the peaceful offer.  I just think he was already full of those heavenly eggs, and just needed another nap………until next Easter.

Ingredients:  eggs, mustard, sugar, mayonnaise, sweet pickle juice provided by my sister, Mary, and paprika provided by a very humble man.

(most of this is inside joke material, but for any of my friends who read this drivel and have crossed paths with my mother and/or her sons and daughters, you may get a kick out of  it.  Initially, I was not going to post it, but some of my family members have requested it to be posted. If any of my family members who have not read it are offended, that was indeed my intent)

To my mother, from one of her sons:

Dear Mother,

You know you’re not getting a gift, right?  Let’s just clear that up real quick before you get your hopes up on some cruise ship long liner ticket with your first angry mate, sister Mary, coming along only as baggage.  I didn’t even get a call from you on my last birthday, January THE 14^TH!!!  I haven’t slept since.  Ok, now for the happy go fortunate stuff.  (I don’t believe in luck)

I had a dream the other night where I was sitting on a park bench waiting for a train.  A man next to me was holding a child not looking much older than one, so I assumed he couldn’t speak using words other than “mama”, “da da”, or perhaps “shit”.  These are the words infants use and abuse so quickly.  The man could recognize I was bored and I was chuckling at the infant, equally as bored, being fumbled about by the father’s hands trying to keep the child occupied.  Yet, it wasn’t the man who spoke first, it was the child.  The child looked at me and asked me if I had any older brothers, and I said, with a smile, yes.  The child then asked, “how many?”  Six.  This always raises an eyebrow with people, which is fun if they don’t know any of them.  He then asked if I had any older sisters, and before I could reply, the father replied, “yes, he has six older sisters as well”.  I looked at him and we both smiled and the dream ended.  I had never met this man and he had never met our family, but I looked at him as though he was an angel.  Now, you’re thinking I’m going to call you an angel since it’s your birthday, right?  Not so fast, mother.  You’re one tier ahead.

Not being much of a church going religious bloke anymore, I still maintain faith in God, mostly because of you and dad.  I believe you summon these angels to protect goofballs like me from imminent danger we sometimes bring upon ourselves.  You look at someone like me, or any other of our family members and say, “Ok, this person is going to need an angel”.  That’s where the negotiations start with you and a guy referred to as God.

God: Ok, Margaret, how many angels do you need?

Mom:  (sheepishly) Well, it depends on which son or daughter you’re talking about.

God:  Mike.  Isn’t he the one who has a great deal of arrogance……eh hmm…pardon me, confidence in one’s self?

Mom:  I guess you could say that.

God:  I like that guy.  He’ll be the angel of fun when he makes it here!

Mom:  So, probably two.?

God:  Done……..who’s next?  I know there is a long list and I have some Mormons knocking on my door who even have more requests than you so give it to me straight and quick.

Mom: Mary

God:  Hmm…….has she calmed down on the racial slur bit, and how about those meltdowns?

Mom:  Yes……..I think.

God:  As long as Anne is still in the picture, only three should do………NEXT!

Mom: Steve?

God:  None.  That guy can take care of himself.  And, don’t worry, there is a stool ready for him anytime right next to me.  I love to laugh.  NEXT!

Mom:  Glenn?

God:  This is a tough one.  I think I’ve sinned more than him.  Let’s just make him an angel and call it good, ok?

Mom:  Ok, Theresa?

God:  She’s good.  But she’s good enough to have four floating around from time to time just to keep her from developing a southern accent.  The next time I hear the phrase, “I hope ya’ll can forgive me” I’m sending them on the express way to Hell. NEXT!

Mom:  (while laughing) Anne?

God:  You’re wasting my time, Mrs. Gannon. You already know she’s an angel.  Oh, and by the way, the next time you catch her, tell her Missy is hanging out in my back cloud with a couple of llamas.  NEXT!

Mom:  Aaron?

God:  I’ve already been working on this one but none of my angels can find him.  I have like, thirteen working on the case.

Mom: I understand.  Dorothy?

God:  I can give you five…….

Mom: If you take one away from Aaron’s case, can you give me six?

God:  Done.  NEXT!

Mom:  Patricia?

God:  I have to check her file.  Hmm…..seems to be a good woman, but as a flight attendant, she does need at least one.

Mom:  But she was a cheerleader in high school…….do you know what roads she must avoid because of her good looks?

God:  You’re right, I’ll give you eight.

Mom:  Will you make sure they are civil war buffs?  Please?

God:  For you, yeah yeah yeah.

Mom: Maggie?

God:  Does she have a husband that goes by the name of Jerry, (and chuckling) aka Aldieny, aka McNuggets?

Mom:  (unaware of where this question is leading) yesssss???

God:  Ha!  I’ve heard about this guy.  We signed him up years ago.  He’s been an angel for years.  And by the way, Maggie has sent more business this way than Donald Trump has toupees.  I love that gal.  Next.

Mom:  Thank you.  Greg?

God:  This is another tough one because our angels don’t care for being hidden in a two hundred dollar bottle of balsamic vinegar.  Let’s see……isn’t he a reverend in the Catholic Church?

Mom:  (excited) YES.

God:  Well then he’ll need ten for every commandment.

Mom:  Done.  Again thank you.  Tom?

God:  You know this is a tough one as well.  When remembering him, I even have to say ten Hail Marys. I once had a dream where he screwed me over on a business deal while playing monopoly.  I’m reluctant to give him any angels just out of spite, but out of complete and utter fury, mixed in with some forgiveness which is supposed to go along with this territory, I’ll waver and give him six angels for Park Place and Boardwalk Avenue……and no, Tom will not get his railroads back in return.  NEXT.

Mom:  Ben?

God:  Don’t you think the twelve you’ve already assigned to him has been enough?

Mom:  Yes, but, with complete reverence, you forgot that he has thirteen angels.

God: I AM NEVER WRONG!!!!  (heavenly volcanoes erupt with serious lava)  HOW DARE YOU QUESTION ME???

Mom:  (unfazed)  You don’t remember the request for that Brittney girl?  Well it’s working out and I just wanted to thank you.  Cool that volcano crap down now, please, it’s my birthday.  I have enough candles to blow out on my own.

God:  Oh yes.  You are welcome.  I thought you said that girl’s name was Gortney.

Mom:  Good bye and God ble………..wait………who blesses you?

God: GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!

Mom, you are an inspiration to so many people inside and outside of our family.  You gave me hope, faith, love and laughter every time I needed it and you still do to this very special day.  Thank you.  Happy Birthday, you old bag of gifts.

Love,

Ben

I hate hurting peoples’ feelings, because I am so good at it.  Just ask my wife.

Have a good day, assholes.

“Youth is the essence of stupidity”.   My primary reason for quoting this is because I read it this morning from a letter written long ago by one of my six older brothers.    Dubiously, he was referring to me.  Personally, I’d like to whip it around by writing, “Stupidity is the essence of youth”.  But, that’s unfair because it is his quote.  To me, that’s a twisted, yet positive take on how stupid we all can be.  It’s also referred to as brotherhood.  When you grow old enough, as well as weak enough, you can only compete with your own quotes.  They maintain a sinister value only brothers and sisters can appreciate.

I hope it was an original quote, but after years of reading and attempting to write, if it wasn’t his, I don’t care.  For personal reasons, I wish it to remain his, even if it is my own suspension of belief.  Samuel Clemens couldn’t have written it any better.

People quote others commonly.  It tends to bother me mostly because they grow from a long line of e-mails seeking a fruitless donation.  Give me Shakespeare, I’ll give you a dime.  Give me Chaucer, and I’ll give you a “Kanikal”.

Mark Twain once said, (this is my favorite quote because I will admit being dreadful at the game) “Golf is a terrific way to ruin a nice walk.”  I probably misquoted that, but  quoting something is a good way to ruin a nice piece of writing.

One step at a time.  I won’t put that in quotation marks.  I will put in my own words countering that offer of a quote.  One closet at a time.  That’s what builds a house.  It is also what allows one to let go of it.  One closet at a time.

You must proceed with that frame of mind.  Love that closet..   Otherwise, the closet, maintaining many items a family must hold with great passion and wonderful strength will be littered with regret…….unless you take it on one  closet at a time.  And then, when you look at that closet, peer deeply inside, you recognize why our lives can be so fortunate.  You clean it out, but it’s never truly empty, leaving you a stomach full of wonderful memories.    . . . And you can quote that.

The last time I witnessed a shooting star was thirteen seconds ago.  The first time I saw a shooting star was when I watched Jaws for the thirteenth time.  Maybe that’s why my wife and I watch that movie every Sunday while eating pancakes, eggs and bacon.

Actually, I get to see a shooting star each day.  It comes in the form of my wife, my mother, my brothers and sisters and dear friends.  Yet, when you actually wish for one, you laugh and thank the lucky stars you have so many of them.

Merry Christmas

Who coined the phrase, “The truth shall set you free”?  The answer is irrelevant, because I will write something relevant just to set people free.  Or, as I will gracefully write, just get them out of the closet.

The Apple Cup is a game played each year between two football teams, The Washington Huskies and The Washington State Cougars.  I had to explain this because the game has fallen on hard times, and people have to look it up in an Encyclopedia Britannica to remember what it was.  Or, they can just Google it.  Today, it will be played in Pullman, Washington.  Huh?  Where?  Why?  What?  Let me explain the pain.

My wife and I graduated from Washington State University.  (after a long pause, I must muster up an idea of why we are proud of this………………….)  Well, we are proud of our degrees, but not proud of Washington State athletics.  And, we do feel, unlike Patrick Swayze, pain hurts, but memories and lies make you suffer.  Yet, we still watch the game each year around a time when we are supposed to be thankful.  I wasn’t always thankful on this day, but I have learned to tell the truth about this day, and about many others, not participating in the game on the field.  It had nothing to do with the players battling on that gridiron carpet, but it was and is more about the fans.  F you Husky fans, and F you Cougar fans.  Ninety percent of you coug and dawg fans are just jerks and a-holes when it comes to a game I used to respect.  Outside of the game, I really enjoy the company of anyone who attended the University of Washington or graduated from Washington State University.  Unless they are with their fraternity brothers who protect one another like a pack of cougs or dogs, alone, they become pretty nice chaps.  Now, here’s the truth.

I was surrounded by lying Dawgs for many years.  They always tried to comfort me, since I was just a lowly cat. The Dawg Fathers, abjectly lying, would subject me to statements such as this, “oh, we root for your team……just not when they are playing the Huskies”.  BULL…… SHIT!   I am setting myself free by common admission where, as a Cougar, I drove a great distance to watch the Huskies twice, in two Rose Bowls played in Pasadena, Ca.  I acted like I was rooting for them.  BULL SHIT!  I was rooting for Michigan all the way, and it was difficult, because I loved and respected the Husky team, but I hated their fans.  Therefore, secretly, I rooted against them.  Guilty as charged.

Now, let’s really get to the gut ugly point I wish to establish and then forget about for the next eleven months.  Patronizing.  Definition: (giving you this definitions IS the definition of patronizing, but it’s kind of funny) Treat with apparent kindness that betrays a feeling of superiority…..or (this even worse) to be kind or helpful to, but in a haughty or snobbish way.  “Help me, I’m poor”.  I stole that line from a movie.  It was pertaining to seating in first class against the coach.

Cougs: Coach (sucks) Huskies (used to fly first class, but now they are only interested in beating up their younger brother, the cougs.  That’s even more embarrassing than playing for or coaching for Washington State.  It feels like the Huskies just wander around looking for someone to beat up, laugh about it and then say, quite flippantly, “oh, we’ll root for you next week”.  This is where, years ago, I did an investigative report concerning this issue of flagrant and egregious foul mouthed phonies.  The Husky Fans.  I will soon rest my case.

Traveling to Seattle, Washington, notebook in hand, I didn’t really care if the Huskies won or lost.  I just wished to dispel the myth that a drunken Husky would actually root for, or even cared about the Washington State Cougars.  On that day, the Cougars were playing a meaningless game against Oregon State.  The Huskies, out of bowl contention, were playing another meaningless game against Cal.  Patiently, and sopping with rain, I waited for the truth to arrive.  It did.

At halftime, people waited for scores on the highlighted scoreboard at the beautiful Husky Stadium. (It truly was beautiful, overlooking some lake filled with other common liars in pretentious boats, acting as though they cared about the game)  This was my gambling tell.  The tell is when you can tell if somebody is lying in Vegas or in a stadium  littered with liars.  Easy.  I used to gamble, so I know all about liars……including me.

I didn’t even look at the scoreboard.  Rather, I looked at the reactions of those faithful Huskies reacting to the score of a meaningless game, two hundred and eighty five miles away in Pullman, Washington.  Cougs, 13, Oregon State, 27.  The stadium erupted with cheers of delight and laughter.  I only celebrated the FACT that the Huskies don’t root for the Cougars.  It solidified my theory.  My ex-mother in-law, claiming to be a Husky, said, “whoops”, when I laughed and exposed her for the Husky fraud she was.

As mean as that may sound, all of the people and fans I refer to are genuinely good people.  I am merely pointing out the fact that lying about this silly and irrelevant game should make you an honest person………at some point.

(This must end abruptly because a few very special people are on the way to our house…that means I need to vacuum and break out the leftover turkey.)

To all you Husky fans, I’ll drop these turkey drippings on your souls.  It’s ok to win, but in the long run, it’s not ok to lie……….unless you say the most profound of statements containing a grand slam of four phony words……..”Wait until next year”.

I just wait until Thanksgiving.  A good turkey sandwich always makes me honestly forget.

I enjoy reading……………….the Sport’s Page.  How’s that for an intro?

(This is not my tough guy resume, because I’m not bright enough or tough enough to develop one.  I am, however, concerned enough to appreciate those in the news lately suffering from concussions.)

Many years ago, I heard tall tales about the word, “concussion”.  Then, I began to experience them.  For many physicians, the word was only a mythological brain hemorrhage not to be questioned or trifled with by eleven year old simpletons such as me.   My only doctor, providing annual sport physicals didn’t believe concussions were anything more than one of your older brothers beating the Hell out of you.   He merely described it as though I would eventually read about it twenty years later while following the vicious sport of American football.  Football was always violent, and littered with collisions, but you staggered onto the playing field expecting and accepting what may happen on that field.

Growing up, I never really knew what the term concussed meant, or even cared, but I will begin and end these chapters beginning and ending with concussions. Still a bit queazy when one brings up the word, “concussed” in the Sunday morning news every Sunday morning, I think about the recent circumstances while following college football and the NFL.  Concussions seem to be spread around the gridiron much like butter on my white toast.  As a youngster, concussions spread around our home like winter cold sores.  They were ugly, but you couldn’t seem to get rid of them until April.

Withholding sarcasm, I take concussions very seriously.  I blame all of my concussions and lack of brain cells on my brothers, sisters, tree houses, boxing gloves, monkey bars, baseball and beer.  Strangely, and as far as I don’t know, I never suffered a concussion playing football.  I’ve just been reading about those ones.

Chapter One Concussion:  Transitioning from wiffleball to aluminum bat baseball, someone smashed a 33 ounce Easton bat smack dab and well into my forehead.  That was the one and only time I wound up in the hospital because of a concussion.  The person on deck evidently didn’t know where the “on deck circle” was.

Chapter Two Concussion:  Transitioning from a treehouse full of fun to a chicken coup full of horrors equipped with a slip knot roped tire swing, I experienced concussion number two.  Next to our chicken coup, there was a tree.  For some odd reason, an old derelict car tire sat on top of that coup, and a rope nestled close by.  The tree, thirteen feet away from the coup, persuaded the rope, tire, and my brothers to form a unity.  I became the test dummy.  The rope was suffering from its own concussions and wasn’t strong enough to hold me or that tire.  We all crashed, and my brothers all laughed.  Only the chicken coup was left standing.

Chapter Three Concussion:  Elementary Monkey Bars.  Show me a child who has not been concussed when showing off for the first girl he may kiss, and I’ll show you an apple.  They grow, fall off trees and end up on monkey bars.  Shortly after, they fall off the monkey bars, hit the pavement, and eventually talk about it in a monkey bar.

Chapter Four Concussion: Boxing Gloves.  Way overrated.  This was, by far, my worst concussion.  Making the mistake of entering our basement, my brother, Tom, and I laced on a rusty pair of boxing gloves after watching a Sugar Ray Leonard vs. Roberto Duran fight.  For me, the rest is concussion history.  Four years older, Tom was extremely nice for sitting in a chair, thus, according to him, providing me an advantage.  I did have a one punch advantage.  After nailing him once, he proceeded to pound me to a point where he threw in the towel because Gilligans’s Island was starting on our basement black and blue T.V..  After removing the gloves,  I stumbled upstairs, vomited, and with eyes wide dilated, couldn’t see anything on that day.  Sincerely, that scared the heck out of me.

Chapter Five Concussion:  (High School baseball practice on a High School practice football field)  Challenging one of my coaches to hit a ball over my head, my head ended up discovering the dirty goal post forty feet past center field, thrusting me into baseball and football infamy.  After this experience, for one evening, I was known as The Elephant Ben.    My good friend, a man I still know as Chuck, laughed at my disfigure, but would not allow me to drive home.  He provided the cab ride home, and he remains a good friend of mine.  I can still sense his compassion, and additionally, hear his laughter.  Later that Friday evening, our coach contacted my father quite sure my parents were seeking legal counseling.   Quite the contrary.  My parents just appreciated his concern, kept me awake upon concussion’s orders, and didn’t allow me go to the Friday night party I promised to attend with my future wife who still takes care of me.  My excuse for accepting her kindness:  Concussions.

This concussion stuff is terrific.  You mention a few concussions, and wham, everyone assumes you have brain damage.  Does anyone not love Rocky?  Other than receiving quality beatings, his redeeming qualities were concussions and after the 15th round, maintaining a good attitude.  By law, you are required to love this man.

Chapter Six: Conclusion

O.K., enough playful banter.  During our Seattle deluge yesterday, I called and or texted some of my old friends inquiring much like The Enquirer about their own concussions.  Flippantly, most of them replied by saying, “oh, yeah, I’ve had a few”.  I asked them to elaborate just because I thought concussions were serious matters of the brain.  Kind of the contrary.

(I’ll try to protect the innocent by using phony names because some of these concussion excuses are a little fuzzy)

Yawn:  “My asshole mormon brother, while giving me a piggy back ride, deliberately let go of my feet as soon as we commuted from grass to concrete.  Asshole.”  These are his words.  I don’t know why Yawn had to include the word, “Mormon” to enhance his story.

Nate: (our High School quarterback)  “I don’t remember calling plays in the huddle”.  That’s because he didn’t call any plays other than, “I’ll just give it to you on two……ready……break.”  We lost most of our games.

Chuck:  “I only remember one…….yours”.  (as a former college lineman, he’s probably had a thousand, but has since chosen to be a successful business man as opposed to suing his former coaches……..that’s just far too stressful)

Fed Ex Guy ringing our doorbell:  “Your dogs give me headaches, but I don’t consider them concussions”.  (Finally, an honest man)

The UPS guy says he gets a concussion every time he has to use one of those pens not containing any ink.  That’s referred to as confusion…….not concussion.

Beer:  “I’ve never experienced one, but I’ve created about a Billion”.  Actually, that was George W. Bush.  I recognized his laughter after his statement.  I couldn’t believe I could find him just dialing 411 and more.

Thanksgiving is a couple days away, and if your relatives give you a headache, just call it a headache, unless you have a really good lawyer.

This piece is dedicated to those who are bored, thus spending evenings watching “Finding Bigfoot” on the Animal Planet Network.  The BFRO team behind the show is not working for me.  They stink as much as common charlatans in the woods.

Irrefutable Evidence of Sasquatch

Upon receiving the Eight Billionth award for a man not believing in Sasquatch, I will provide my acceptance speech….with a few exceptions.

This is embarrassing, yet personally rewarding.  Officially, I am out of the closet.  I don’t believe in Sasquatch.  There.  Are you happy?  (Applause from existing hairy, but not that hairy bipeds…. and  grizzly quadrupeds clapping)  That makes a little sense.

I have a gathering of people I wish to thank for opening my door called reality, sanity, and get your head out of your ass, you idiot.   It was a sturdy door for thirty years, but that door made of particle board and ten cent penny nails has officially fallen from Squatch Land, or as many now call it “Sasquatchlandia”.  My beliefs have crumbled like this hard taco disgracefully falling upon a carpet on this day of reckoning.  Sadly, truth is much harder than fiction.

Before the music starts, I will, with great brevity and furious anger, thank those crushing my imaginary dreams that a kind and gentle giant roaming the woods of the great Northwest could possibly exist.  They are the Bigfoot Research Organization (BFRO), or now referred to as the Big Fraudulent Research Organization.  Although you are disgraceful to those who drive cars and pay taxes, I thank you for keeping me and others from staring out of our heavily wooded northwestern hillside just to catch a glimpse of something that no longer exists.  Now, my nephews and nieces wishing to stay in the Sasquatch Guest Room (something I once took pride in designing), overlooking that hillside, will no longer have nightmares, and will just enjoy the view.   I thank you for that. Good luck.  Stay bipeds.  (more awkward applause, because the crowd, much like a shark smelling blood from a mile away, can equally sense the smelliest of odors in the first row……sarcasm)

The real story:

At a confused and influential age, (that means from the time of conception until now) I have imagined and dreamed about something existing which didn’t include my six older brothers and six older sisters.  Something more exciting, less painful, and perhaps a breakthrough in science.

Let’s talk logic.  Forgive me, because I’m not really used to the word logic.  I am familiar with the terms, Anthropology and Cryptozoology.    These are the studies regarding specimens known to exist and those we wish to exist.  The late and great, Grover Krants, a professor at Thee! Washington State University, at the very least, provided scientific knowledge of how this Gigantopithecus could exist.   It wasn’t a joke.  It was scientific, and further, a bit intriguing.  This hairy biped could roam the earth smelling the dandelions and hiding in caves while tricking us all to believe he or she may or may not continue to stroll through areas humans have infested.

We strive for honesty, and in this world, there is very little.  But, evidently,  little proof is better than none at all.  This is when we grow up.   We try to believe in things such as Bigfoot and baseball’s designated hitter.  Neither will ever exist because of two reasons.  Sports writers won’t acknowledge one and the other simultaneously.  That statement sounds as cloudy as all the pictures, film strips, drawings and voice recordings combined regarding the elusive Sasquatch. (I can’t believe I have to use a capital “S” when spelling it.  It’s simply ridiculous.  Yet, not quite as ridiculous as the Five Sasquatchions making money off of people watching Animal Planet.

These people make entertaining the notion of the unknown deem laughable, and have demolished my fantasy of having a Sasquatch over for Thanksgiving.  It’s just not going to happen.

Myth: The people hosting this show on the “Animal Planet” in the woods maintain some sort of credibility.

Fact:  They don’t.

Myth:  They set the bar high for those who wish to discover items such as the moon or the Pacific Ocean.

Fact: The only bar they set is at a bar.

Myth: Definitive evidence……something that crunches in the darkness does not mean a Sasquatch is arriving for dinner, even though he or she may be hungry.

Fact: Disputing and debating a frozen leaf falling from a tree can only be described as irrefutable casual evidence.

Fact: The Joke is on us.

My wife and dogs were convinced the other night our woods were filled with squatches. After detailed investigation, our deck was just covered with falling leaves and crap.

Go on with your lives, and stop trying to tease me.