A Plea from Sasquatch

Please, America.  Cool it with the Sasquatch erotica, would you?  Do you know how embarrassing it was when my son little Billy Sasquatch came home last week and asked me, “Dad, are you like some kind of porn star?” Your news programs capitalized on a politician’s foolish post to his Instagram account and it may have brought some great ratings, but it has done me a great disservice.

Ladies and gentleman, I had never even heard of Congressional candidate Denver Riggleman from Virginia.  I have never even been east of the Mississippi, if you must know the truth.  I am a piece of folklore that primarily sprung up in the Northwest Territory.  I cannot tell you where my family is living now, because, well, you know what would happen–all hell would break loose and we would be captured, killed, stuffed, etc.  All we want is to remain a charming piece of American folklore.  Not “fucklore.” This slanderous so-called Sasquatch erotica needs to stop.

Imagine how much explaining I had to do when Mrs. Sasquatch asked me a few years ago about a book that had come out, Namaste Sasquatch.  In this piece of revolting fantasy, a group of people go on a yoga retreat in Colorado “where Bigfoot and his lusty appetites await.”   It is true, I did meet a few people once who introduced me to the Sun Salutation and the Downward Dog.  But we kept our lessons completely platonic and spiritual.  Whoever wrote that book somehow got the wrong idea.  I found the yoga soothing, yes, but I did not find the humans attractive in their Lululemon pants, or the men with man buns.  There was something rather revolting about these millennial yogis.

People, you have to understand, I am over five hundred years old.  I find young people a little, well, hard to take.  I prefer the company of the ancient oaks, aspens, and the million year old rock formations in the caves where we live.

Now, about this other woman who wrote about me in a sixteen-installment piece I saw at the trading post, Cum For Bigfoot. I am not, as she attempted to describe me, “the ultimate alpha male.”

I want to be honest with you.  My wife, Mrs. Sasquatch, most definitely wears the pants in the family. I mean, if we wore pants.  We don’t.  We prefer to be naked.  But Mrs. Sasquatch is stronger than me and has very very sharp teeth which she bites me with if she gets angry with me.  To be quite honest, I am petrified of her.  I love her, but I fear her.

So please, Americans, just go back to thinking of me as a cuddly old Wookie.  Stop projecting your fantasies of male dominance upon me.  And stop making me into a sex object.  I am none of those things.

I am a being, just like you, who is trying to work out the mystery of my existence.  Can’t we just leave it at that?