My Path to Untold Riches; Or, How I Plan To Capture Bigfoot

Bigfoot, as we all know, lives in each of the forty-eight contiguous United States (except Rhode Island, because that dinky little state can’t possibly support a viable breeding population of large bi-pedal, heretofore unknown hominids) and Alaska, not to mention most of those provinces up there in Canada. This being the case, coupled with my fervent desire for untold riches (I’ve always wanted untold riches because I don’t even know how to tell anyone about them … that’s why they’re untold), has given rise to the following idea:

I’m going to capture a bigfoot.

Here’s the plan (and I bind you all to secrecy in this matter): I have already checked all sighting reports for the areas to which I can easily drive. I have little confidence in being able to spot and have someone else net a specimen in the densely-populated states within a short drive. Plus, I don’t want to. I want to go to Maine. So, in my objective and exhaustive search for Bigfoot sightings in a place that seems probably to support a sizable population of the unwary hirsute beasts (which I constrained to Maine), I have discovered an area in Maine, of all places, that seems promising. Seems that I must go to Maine, after all.

“Someone else.” Yes, someone else shall net the creature, after which they shall be dispatched, and buried in a shallow grave in the Maine wilderness whereupon they may be discovered years later, enabling the fine Maine police to call in the FBI to do hair and fiber analysis, run DNA, and try to track me down. Fat chance of that! By that time I will have spent a small portion of my untold riches buying a ranch on the Galapagos Islands, and bribing the Ecuadorian officials to allow me to live there full time (90 days a year my ASS). There will be an investigation, hindered by it taking place partially in protected Sasquatch habitat, doubly-hindered by the Sasquatch themselves, who, as we all know, detest backhoes as much as the rest of us, and triply-hindered by my untold wealth and power. But I digress …

The genesis of this plan was much cleaner than the Psalms of it. The more I think about the “someone else” idea, the muddier it becomes. Plus, Sasquatch are like … really big. Really really big. And strong. So the net idea doesn’t seem so good anymore. Therefore, I shall draft my sharpshooter brother-in-law to shoot one, with me first annoying it sufficiently for it to attack us. There will be no talk of dispatching after that, since there are enough riches in untold to go around, plus he’s kinda cool. Oh yeah, and he has guns. Lots of them. So, you know, self-preservation kicks in. Moving on … sasquatch shot (preferably in the head) we need to transport the corpse. That’s where the zombies come in.

Broadly, that’s the plan. Here is how I envision it taking place: We drive ten hours to (redacted) Maine. North and East of (redacted) is a large, undeveloped and wooded tract of land on several hundred square miles where lots of incidents have been reported. We take the first unmarked road we find, carrying our load of bigfoot attracting and killing paraphenalia:

• One large bag of apples
• Three really big rifles(names to be added later by B-I-L)
• One stick (to bang on other stick)
• Other stick (see previous stick)
• Two Desert Eagle .50 revolvers
• One large ham sandwich
• One large net (backup)
• One can of Mace
• One bullhorn
• Two high-definition camcorders (in case we chicken out)
• One Elmo doll (use redacted)
• Five pine cones (as bait … and potentially, as ammunition)
• Ammunition (not to be confused with pine cones)

Upon reaching our destination, we will see a bigfoot walking away from us across a large meadow. It will be a large, humanoid creature with long brown hair with gray tips. It will sway its arms and walk away nonchalantly. Here is where I trigger the plan. First, annoyance, which I accomplish via a cunning combination of hurled apples, profanity, stick-beating, and arm-waving. Second, sasquatch shooting, which occurs when the thing, annoyed beyond belief, charges me in an attempt to literally rip me to pieces. I hope BIL is a crack shot, otherwise all ends here. Third, zombie summoning, which I accomplish via (redacted). Fourth, zombie control, which is a mite like the proverbial herding of cats, except much harder, and with things that aren’t alive, are as dumb as rocks, and are engaged in an inexorable shuffle towards my brain. Fifth: UNTOLD RICHES! Finally, I shall get to live out my life long dream of driving a Lamborghini along the unspoiled and endangered tidal flats of Madagascar, all the while eating fast food and throwing the wrappers from the window (as if zombie summoning wasn’t the be-all end-all of life long dreams already)!

See you in Puerto Ayora (or not)!

It’s Uncanny

I have decided that it is time to learn how to can stuff. Perhaps even food. I’d like to can everything, especially beets. If there is one thing I know about canning, it’s … well, nothing. I may even can cans. I am not sure about that last idea. It’s up in the air. To discuss …

After successfully planning my canning architecture, I shall test it. Post-testing comes implementation, after which I shall buy land in West Virginia, and build a bunker. Into said bunker shall go the cans. At that time, if I feel adventurous, I shall also include jars. Jars are good because 1) you can see into them, and 2) they can be hurled through the air against a solid surface resulting in shrapnel. Think of them as food grenades, if you will. Or don’t, I really don’t care. Some, upon reading the previous few sentences, might wonder why jars make better weapons than cans. I don’t know. But I refuse to eat canned beets. Ever.

I would also like to store dry goods and foodstuffs. I am not sure what those are, but they sound like the types of things that will last through a holocaust of apocalyptic proportions… provided they start in a bunker. I think oatmeal may be a foodstuff. Maybe only the whole oat, or the steel cut variety. I may have to can some cows. And bees. We cannot have oatmeal without milk, butter, and honey, at the very least. Can bees be freeze-dried?

I think freeze-drying is also a useful skill to have. In a bunker. In West Virginia. If there is anything that was ever placed upon this mortal coil that needs to be freeze-dried, it’s meatloaf. So a good meatloaf recipe would be very helpful. I aver and state herewith that I shall forfeit any and all application fees for one member with a good meatloaf recipe, preferably one that lends itself to freeze drying. Membership, you ask? Aye. Which brings me to my militia:

I am going to start a militia. What we will have:

• one bunker
• cans
• jars
• land in West Virginia
• a neat emblem featuring some form of fowl
• flannel
• a pickup truck
• foodstuffs

We will also have some weapons, but in an attempt to avoid an FBI/NSA/CIA raid, I shall not include them in the preceding bulleted list. Verily, we will have weapons (what good is a militia without them?), but they will not be guns. I am thinking about rubber bands and mallets. The mallets come in handy for close quarters.

As omissions are often as important as inclusions, what we won’t have:

• an overabundance of teeth
• a willingness to listen to reason
• good personal hygiene
• Cher records
• freeze-dried donuts

Why all of this? Simple: we need to make preparations for the fall of civilization. Once the people wake from their slumber and realize that they are merely Eloi to the elite Morlocks, hellfire and damnation shall rain down upon us all, and there will be no donuts. (Except for the ones I have canned. Or jarred. I am not sure about the proper storage media for donuts as of yet.) So, if you are with me, brothers and sisters, join my militia, start hoarding rubber bands (and maybe some mineral oils), go buy a mallet (one per member shall be fine), and look for me in some godforsaken wild part of West Virgina.