The Bigfoot Club

Ding Dong. The doorbell. I know who it is. I always know who is ringing the bell on Wednesday and Saturday nights. It's Boyd. It tells me that our 'Bigfoot Club' is about to start and Boyd is always the first to arrive. We've been meeting here for the last two years and we get together to discuss whatever Bigfoot news is out there. The meeting room is conveniently in my cellar. You'll notice that I didn't say basement, because a basement is a place that one could have an actual room with a couch and recliner, maybe a pool table and T.V. versus a cellar where all my junk is stored. I affectionately call my cellar, 'Bob's Bar and Grill'. I even built what could be called a bar if one stood back far enough and I managed to squeeze it in between my table saw and wood planer. However, it does have an outdoorsy feel to it because of all my hunting and fishing stuff neatly piled up where ever I happened to drop it.

I keep the bar well stocked with a six pack of Blatz beer which nobody ever drinks. It's probibly due to the fact that it's so hard to find and no one wants me to go to the trouble of trying to find more. I do have some 'Moxie' for the hard drinkers and some other soft drinks for the non-drinkers. I kept the 'grill' part of the name in there because I do serve chips. I just view it as a technicality.

I hollar out "Come in Boyd, I know it's you!" Boyd comes through the door, "H-h-h-hey B-B-Bob! I h-h-hope e-e-everybody's here!" "No Boyd" I say, "You're the first one here. Why don't you go downstairs until the others arrive. Should be in about fifteen minutes. You can smoke four to five cigarettes until then." V-v-very f-funny Bob. Y-Y-you know I don't want to s-s-s-sit down there by m-m-myself. I'll stay h-h-here with y-y-you and keep you c-c-company."

There was a time that Boyd was not a chainsmoking, paranoid, nervous wreck. He was your normal, well adjusted, Podiatrist by profession guy. That was until I got that phone call. "B-B-Bob! I s-s-saw one! I s-s-saw one! I s-s-saw one up on Slackjaw m-m-m-mountain!" I said, "Boyd, is this a joke?" Boyd said, B-B-Bob, no! I w-w-was by myself and a B-B-Bigfoot stepped out f-f-from behind a t-t-tree!" Boyd's wife tells me he's doing better lately now that he's seeing a therapist.

Ding Dong. It's Pappy. Pappy looks like a younger version of the late, great singer Pavarotti, but not as big. He can't sing a note, but can hum a great Yankee Doodle. "Boyd, Pappys here, he'll go downstairs with you."

Ding Dong. "Hey guys." It's the fourth and fifth members, C.J. and Stonehall. The Wednesday and Saturday time slots are perfect for C.J.. Wednesday because it's the midweek do-nothing day and Saturday is date night so when one of his many lady friends asks him out, he can beg off saying he has a important prior engagement. Stonehall is the quiet one of the group. being a person of few words, he sits and takes plenty of notes. Because nobody ever sees these notes, I'm thinking that he's using them for his own website.

Ding Dong. Our sixth member, Irishman. "Bob, you know I have to be out of here in plenty of time to be home before ten o'clock. The wife'll be calling here if I'm not. so promise me you'll let me know when it's time!"

A third of the way through the meeting, Ding Dong. It's Caryn. "Sorry for being a little late Bob, but I had to finish my blog page and catch the last of the "Glen Beck' show. I'l just catch what I missed on archives."

Archives?We don't record these meetings! I'll have to pay closer attention to that broach pin that Caryn always wears.

Okay Folks, see you all next weekend. As usual, any comments, click comments.
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If you want to get ahold of either Bob or Mike, our e-mail is Bigfootquest@gmail.com