Bigfoot. She’s a dirty old girl, slumming through the forest city, chomping on bits of foliage and twigs with the best of the creatures. She swings her bigfoot titties and sways her long, swanky bigfoot arms, trolling for a hairy beast of a man to quench her healthy, if somewhat sickening desires of the flesh. Trollin’ and swollen, she is.

Once Bigfoot sets her sights on something, she won’t relent until she attains its glory. If it’s a trophy in the form of a man’s head, she’ll hang it on her tree wall. If it’s a bunghole cut from the anus of a stripy zebra, she might eat it for dinner or savor its delicacy for a special time later. If it’s the remnants of a shit toboggan gone off the Colorado rails, she’ll rub her face in it to mask her scent from other bigfoots who might try to prey on her feminine wiles. She’s full of candor, and she’s not afraid to use it, especially with those big testosteroney males looking for a poo-well to dip their wicks into. Fire! Fire! My candle’s on fire with flaming shit and bird nests and seagrass and worms! Blow it out, big Bigfoot with your staunchly republican values and your emaciated testicles, hungry for the man-fuels of your forebears.

If the violence doesn’t get them, the tsunami will. It washes the shores of Bigfoot country, snuffing out their scent, rendering copulation virtually impossible because those sperm need a place to swim. Upstream like a salmon on its way to die. Death is the great beginning for those Bigfoots of the forest. Like her, they wear their tits on their sleeves, shaking them at foreigners with their strange currency and ideas.

“Don’t bring those horribly tasteless pants into this country, mister! You’ll never live those things down with your balls dipping out the cuffs of the too-tight shorts.”

The least they could do under the circumstances is share their languages with the Bigfoot people, who are inherently brilliant with languages. Those linguists can curse with the best of world leaders and the worst of priests and cardinals and blue jays, mocking the “normals” for their loose ideas on women and guns and profiteering. Get back in your cave and sort things out. One day, your ship will come, and Bigfoot Queenie will captain that bitch. She will pitch the wide sails high and ride the seas until they mount the dike, all the while wearing their favorite death clogs, painted blue and white for posterity.

And when the curtain falls on the darkest night, Bigfoot will rally against the light and drag some bitches into hell, screaming like meddling kids on their way to solve a mystery. Those bitches will melt with ice and snow, fire beaming from their eyes, and they will lament their coarse lives as men who wished they could be as good as Bigfoot. She who has the biggest feet blows the biggest farts.

Amen, sister Bigfoot. Amen.