The plan was simple: hoax Bigfoot, then sell tours to Bigfoot enthusiasts. The plan wasn’t brilliant, and neither were Harry, Earl, and Patch. The three chemical-abusing friends only wanted to avoid the 9 to 5 rat race, but their antics attract the attention of a real Bigfoot. When the misogynistic Earl is mistaken for a female Bigfoot by the nearsighted creature and captured; it is just the beginning of their problems.
Between bong hits and water balloon fights, Harry and Patch come up with a plan to save Earl and the lovestruck Bigfoot. Where do you hide a giant, mythical creature? In an insane asylum, because who is going to listen to them?
“How much do you think the average human turd weighs?” Earl asked as he sat down at the table, pulling the plastic lawn chair up behind him and reaching across the table to dig into Harry’s basket of buffalo wings.
“Are you serious? Why?” asked Harry.
“Well, answer me this: how much does an order of wings weigh?”
“Regular or jumbo?”
“Jumbo” Earl mumbled with a mouth full of meat, spraying Three Mile Island sauce across the table. Droplets of orange-tinged spit peppered the table. Earl snatched a paper towel off the roll sitting on the table and wiped the table once, leaving an arc of smeared wing sauce across the table.
“Dude! Say it, don’t spray it!” Harry yelped, holding his beer out of the mist with one hand, while trying to cover a baskets of wings and celery sticks with the other hand.
“You know: my usual. How much do you think that weighs? The parts I eat?” Earl said, craning his neck around looking for a waitress. Harry could hear the frustration in Earl’s voice. Earl hadn’t sat down with a beer, and he didn’t usually like going for very long without one. Especially in The Beaver, not because the wings were too hot, but because Earl swore Yuengling tasted better from The Beaver’s taps. Everyone else in the village thought The Brown Beaver’s draft beers tasted skunky because the staff never cleaned the lines. “That’s bullshit!” Earl would bellow to anyone who would listen. Earl had the proud distinction of having been in two fist fights and arrested once for defending The Brown Beaver’s honor. The second fight (and arrest) was with The Brown Beaver’s owner, Seamus, who refused to give Earl any more alcohol one night.
“I don’t know. Why?” Harry said, responding to the back of Earl’s head.
“I’m just trying to figure out how much I’m eating, is all.” Earl said, holding up one finger to the waitress.
“What? Can’t shop in the Miss’s section anymore, Meatball?”
“Screw you! I’m serious!”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Good for you! I’ll support you on your diet. I hear they can be tough.” Harry was switching gears, downshifting into sincerity drive, and hoping he sounded convincing or at least supportive.
“I’m not going a diet! I’m trying to figure out, in pounds, how much food I eat.”
“Here you go, Earl” interrupted Cindi, placing his beer on the table.
“Well, thanks, darlin’, and keep ’em coming.” Earl cooed after taking a long drink. He gave Cindi his biggest smile, like a proud little boy showing his mama he ate all of his dinner.
“I sure will, honey.” Cindi cooed back. She was a good waitress. She played along with the customers’ little games, and ignored the slurred speech and rude pick up lines. She had wide hips and full breasts, her body was often described as good breeding stock by the old ranchers and lumberjacks sitting at the bar without their wives. She usually wore T-shirts with a low v-cut neckline when the weather was warm because she got better tips when she did.
“Cindi, how much does a jumbo order of wings weigh, not including the bones?” Earl probed, trying to sound intelligent in front of Cindi while still pumping out the charm.
“Uh, I don’t know,” Cindi responded sheepishly. Why do customers always think of strange things to ask me?
“No idea? Can you ask the cook how much an order of wings weighs without the bone? Do they weigh differently depending on the sauce?”
“Uh, sure,” was all she could reply as she backed away from the table. Why can’t Earl do like Harry does and just stare at my tits instead of asking weirdo questions?
“What’s this have to do with turds?” Harry asked, watching Cindi’s ass walk away.
“I’m trying to achieve neutral buoyancy within a human vessel.” Earl deadpanned, also watching Cindi’s ass walk away.
“I said I was ‘trying to achieve neutral buoyancy within a human vessel,’ that is, me.” Earl repeated with what he thought should be the impatient air of an academic.
“You see, Harry,” Earl continued after taking a long pull from his beer, “I don’t like taking shits.” Earl stated, pausing for effect. Harry raised his eyebrows. Earl mistook the raised eyebrows as a signal to continue. “I’m tired of taking shits. It is the most despicable of all bodily functions,” Earl continued, gaining speed. “Either through design or evolution, our waste disposal system is lacking. Our scatological process needs to be revamped. It’s disgusting. It smells. It can be embarrassing. Leaves you feeling uncomfortable. I’m tired of it. I’ve done some research, and the average adult turd weighs between half of a pound to about a pound and a half.”
“Really? That’s it? I’ve had some whoppers I thought must’ve been heavier than that” replied Harry, his curiosity peaked, wrinkling his brow as he pondered Earl’s latest bit of trivia. Another part of Harry’s brain was simultaneously wondering why he was entertaining this conversation.
“I know. I thought the exact same thing” replied Earl, pleased Harry was showing some interest. “Anyway, I figure the weight of turds must equal the weight of excess food we consume. Food our body doesn’t need.” Earl was now punctuating the air with the fat end of a buffalo wing as he spoke. “So, I figure, if I reduce the amount of food I eat by the weight of my bowel movements, my body won’t need to crap anymore. I will consume exactly what my body needs. So no waste. No more taking the Browns to the Super Bowl, or dropping the kids off at the pool! Close and seal the hatch. My crapping days are over.”
Harry sat in amazement by the range of subjects Earl could pull out of his ass and discuss, without fear or embarrassment, in a public place. Maybe sealing the hatch would be best? “So, how’s it going so far?” asked Harry, unconvinced.
“I’m still working on the ratio.”
Noah Baird wanted to attend the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Clown College, but his grades weren’t good enough (who knew?). However, his grades were good enough to fly for the U.S. Navy (again, who knew?), where he spent 14 years until the government figured out surfers don’t make the best military aviators. He has also tried to be a stand-up comedian in Hawaii for Japanese tourists, where the language barrier really screwed up some great jokes. On the bright side, a sailboat was named after the punchline of one of his jokes.
He has several political satire pieces published on The Spoof under the pen name orioncrew. Noah received his bachelors in Historical and Political Sciences from Chaminade University, where he graduated magna cum laude. He knows nothing about hoaxing Bigfoot. This is his first novel.
Click here to read the first chapter of: Donations to Clarity