I like to think that I’m a fairly educated person. My brain functions well. I read the dictionary on the toilet because I want to expand my vocabulary for no reason outside of wanting to expand my vocabulary. I love libraries, reading, learning in any capacity–I like to really immerse myself in whatever it is I’m trying to research. But some of the beliefs I hold are a little–I wouldn’t say controversial, but maybe comically strange. One of these beliefs is a strong one in ghosts and the paranormal. I’ve pissed away many a day watching “A Haunting,” “Ghost Adventures,” or the admittedly subpar “Paranormal Survivor” (yes, these are in order of preference). Writing this now, “Amish Haunting” is on in the background. It’s terrible, would not recommend it. But the urban legend that has the strongest vise-grip on my heart is, by a landslide, Bigfoot.
Bigfoot, Sasquatch, Yeti–call him/her/them what you will, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is they’re real. Have I seen one? No. Have I heard one? No. Did I venture away from my tent to do some nighttime wood-knocks in Yosemite? Yes. I heard nothing back and probably would’ve defecated in my britches out of both sheer delight and muted terror if I had. I have no reason to believe in Bigfoot other than the fact that I really fucking want to, and I find it difficult to think that so many people (from different cultures and countries, mind you!) have seen or heard or have had some form of Bigfoot encounter.
What I don’t get is why people are so quick to dismiss the idea that there’s some kind of bipedal humanoid that’s remained beyond our documentation, not our detection, for so long. We’re quick to believe in so many things–I dunno, clearly staged reality TV shows (Google search indicates that “Amish Haunting” is pretty fucking fake–yet I believed that a woman gave birth to a demon goat child)…GOD??–but some primate or surviving early hominid is where we draw the line? Just doesn’t make sense. More people have probably seen Bigfoot than an apparition of the Virgin Mary. I’d put money on it.
We all have an innate need to believe. We believe in Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, and that everything will be all right (perhaps the biggest fairytale of them all). Bigfoot provides me with a sense of childish awe and wonder that it’s so easy to lose as we grow into disillusioned adults. He’s my Santa Claus. The Bigfoot question is a sweet sugary befuddlement and I welcome it. I think to myself: How has nobody ever taken a picture of the damn thing? Where are the bodies of the dead ones? Where is the POOP? Laugh all you want, but a big steamy pile of Bigfoot’s shit would turn the scientific community on its head and make me one happy Squatcher. You get explanations like “they bury their dead,” or “they poop in holes that they dig”–both of which just seem so absurd and unsettlingly human that they’re more encouraging to somebody like me than anything else. I want to believe, 100% with every bit of tissue that makes up my beating human heart, that there’s a Bigfoot out there digging a hole and taking a crap right now. I want that.
I love Bigfoot because Bigfoot doesn’t attempt to answer any questions. Bigfoot, himself, is the question. He’s pure mystery. The woodland enigma. He’s a cross-cultural phenomenon that for some reason we’re all hush-hush about, when, really, Bigfoot could be a uniting force across humanity. I know I sound like a crackpot, but it feels good to get this out in the open. If you watch an episode of “Finding Bigfoot” and see all the witnesses congregated in a town-hall meeting, you can’t help but think, “well, fuck. Look at the Sasquatch bringing all these people together.” And you also can’t help but think “IF ALL OF THESE PEOPLE HAVE HAD ENCOUNTERS THEN WHY IS THERE SUCH A NEGATIVE STIGMA ATTACHED TO BELIEVING IN THE THING?”
It’s too easy to find answers. If I want to know pretty much anything, I tap-tap-tap on my keyboard into the Google machine, it processes my query in its massive black-box mystery of an algorithm (one of the few things you can’t find on Google itself, the algorithm) and it tells me what I want to know. But not Bigfoot. Google doesn’t know if Bigfoot is real. And Google isn’t capable of conjecture. I am. I do. I believe. There’s satisfaction there. My human brain is able to make a decision based off of zero evidence and against the urging of the stigma: Bigfoot is out there, you fucks.
This has devolved into a sort of emphatic rant–as my posts have tended to recently. Don’t worry, I’ll be back in form soon. But the real thing to ask here is this: If you don’t believe in Bigfoot, why not? When did you become so detached from your Santa-lovin’ five year old self that you can’t look at a cast of a giant footprint or a film of a big-ass primate walking upright and think maybe.