The Last Bigfoots of Wisconsin
I've been working on this story for about 1 and half days to get it sounding just right for my friend @WillaKissing. Remember you started this 🤣🤣🤣
You know you’re living in Wisconsin too long when your family tree looks less like a genealogy chart and more like a wanted poster from 1820s
My family is the last known clan of Bigfoots living right here in the Badger State. And let me tell you, the fame has gone to our heads. Mostly because we can’t fit under doorframes anymore.
It used to be quiet. Just us, the woods, and a lot of cheese curds.
Now? It’s like we’re the Wisconsin Hollywood elite.
I can’t even walk to the mailbox without someone screaming,
“OH MY GOD, IT’S THEM! THE SASQUATCHES!”
Next thing you know, I’ve got a line of tourists waiting for autographs. Autographs! I don’t even have thumbs! I’m signing things with a stick!
People are camping out on our lawn. They’ve got lawn chairs, telescopes, and those night-vision cameras.
One guy yelled at me yesterday, “Can you do the roar? Just one little roar for the ‘Gram?” I’m like, “Buddy, I’m trying to eat my breakfast. This is oatmeal. It’s not a performance.”
And the paparazzi? Don’t get me started. I tried to go to a Brewers game last week - just wanted to see some baseball maybe blend in.
Wrong.
The second I stepped out of the car, flashbulbs went off like it was the Oscars.
“Over here! Look at the fur! The texture! Is that organic?” I’m just trying to get a bratwurst, and suddenly I’m doing a red carpet interview.
My mom says it’s the price of being legendary.
I say it’s a nightmare. Last week, someone tried to sell tickets to our house.
“Step right up! See the legendary Wisconsin Bigfoots! Only $20! Extra $5 if you want to see them try to fit in a Prius!”
We’re thinking about moving. Maybe Minnesota.
But knowing our luck, they’ve probably already got a fan club there waiting with merch.
“Go Bigfoots Go!”
You know you’re living in Wisconsin too long when your family tree looks less like a genealogy chart and more like a wanted poster from 1820s
My family is the last known clan of Bigfoots living right here in the Badger State. And let me tell you, the fame has gone to our heads. Mostly because we can’t fit under doorframes anymore.
It used to be quiet. Just us, the woods, and a lot of cheese curds.
Now? It’s like we’re the Wisconsin Hollywood elite.
I can’t even walk to the mailbox without someone screaming,
“OH MY GOD, IT’S THEM! THE SASQUATCHES!”
Next thing you know, I’ve got a line of tourists waiting for autographs. Autographs! I don’t even have thumbs! I’m signing things with a stick!
People are camping out on our lawn. They’ve got lawn chairs, telescopes, and those night-vision cameras.
One guy yelled at me yesterday, “Can you do the roar? Just one little roar for the ‘Gram?” I’m like, “Buddy, I’m trying to eat my breakfast. This is oatmeal. It’s not a performance.”
And the paparazzi? Don’t get me started. I tried to go to a Brewers game last week - just wanted to see some baseball maybe blend in.
Wrong.
The second I stepped out of the car, flashbulbs went off like it was the Oscars.
“Over here! Look at the fur! The texture! Is that organic?” I’m just trying to get a bratwurst, and suddenly I’m doing a red carpet interview.
My mom says it’s the price of being legendary.
I say it’s a nightmare. Last week, someone tried to sell tickets to our house.
“Step right up! See the legendary Wisconsin Bigfoots! Only $20! Extra $5 if you want to see them try to fit in a Prius!”
We’re thinking about moving. Maybe Minnesota.
But knowing our luck, they’ve probably already got a fan club there waiting with merch.
“Go Bigfoots Go!”
