Barry Parham's Blog: The Mooncalf Communion, page 46
January 12, 2013
Announcing…
(An open letter to the faithful followers of the Mooncalf Communion)
==========================
Dear you guys,
I wanted you to be the first to know that we’re going to try something new beginning this year: a fully-independent, subscriber-based, online humor magazine. Please say ‘hello’ to…
Our promise: plenty of free content, lots of new stuff, first-tier notifications about upcoming book projects, surprises from time to time, and the option to subscribe – for mere pennies a month – to the weekly humor columns that sucked you in here in the first place.
I’ll hope you’ll stick with us for this next phase, as we test a few indie boundaries, push a few envelopes, and joust with the Big Media windmills; but, should we lose you at this mile marker … my sincere thanks, to every single one of you, for your support of me and my “kids!” It’s been a great ride, and I’ll see you later, somewhere, some time, in the dance.
If you choose to journey with us (you can always choose to subscribe later), please update your bookmarks to point to
Okay. Let’s dance.
=======
Barry
Announcing…
(An open letter to the faithful followers of the Mooncalf Communion)
==========================
Dear you guys,
I wanted you to be the first to know that we’re going to try something new beginning this year: a fully-independent, subscriber-based, online humor magazine. Please say ‘hello’ to…
Our promise: plenty of free content, lots of new stuff, first-tier notifications about upcoming book projects, surprises from time to time, and the option to subscribe – for mere pennies a month – to the weekly humor columns that sucked you in here in the first place.
I’ll hope you’ll stick with us for this next phase, as we test a few indie boundaries, push a few envelopes, and joust with the Big Media windmills; but, should we lose you at this mile marker … my sincere thanks, to every single one of you, for your support of me and my “kids!” It’s been a great ride, and I’ll see you later, somewhere, some time, in the dance.
If you choose to journey with us (you can always choose to subscribe later), please update your bookmarks to point to
Okay. Let’s dance.
=======
Barry
Announcing…
(An open letter to the faithful followers of the Mooncalf Communion)
==========================
Dear you guys,
I wanted you to be the first to know that we’re going to try something new beginning this year: a fully-independent, subscriber-based, online humor magazine. Please say ‘hello’ to…
Our promise: plenty of free content, lots of new stuff, first-tier notifications about upcoming book projects, surprises from time to time, and the option to subscribe – for mere pennies a month – to the weekly humor columns that sucked you in here in the first place.
I’ll hope you’ll stick with us for this next phase, as we test a few indie boundaries, push a few envelopes, and joust with the Big Media windmills; but, should we lose you at this mile marker … my sincere thanks, to every single one of you, for your support of me and my “kids!” It’s been a great ride, and I’ll see you later, somewhere, some time, in the dance.
If you choose to journey with us (you can always choose to subscribe later), please update your bookmarks to point to
Okay. Let’s dance.
=======
Barry
Announcing…
(An open letter to the faithful followers of the Mooncalf Communion)
==========================
Dear you guys,
I wanted you to be the first to know that we’re going to try something new beginning this year: a fully-independent, subscriber-based, online humor magazine. Please say ‘hello’ to…
Our promise: plenty of free content, lots of new stuff, first-tier notifications about upcoming book projects, surprises from time to time, and the option to subscribe – for mere pennies a month – to the weekly humor columns that sucked you in here in the first place.
I’ll hope you’ll stick with us for this next phase, as we test a few indie boundaries, push a few envelopes, and joust with the Big Media windmills; but, should we lose you at this mile marker … my sincere thanks, to every single one of you, for your support of me and my “kids!” It’s been a great ride, and I’ll see you later, somewhere, some time, in the dance.
If you choose to journey with us (you can always choose to subscribe later), please update your bookmarks to point to
Okay. Let’s dance.
=======
Barry
Announcing…
(An open letter to the faithful followers of the Mooncalf Communion)
==========================
Dear you guys,
I wanted you to be the first to know that we’re going to try something new beginning this year: a fully-independent, subscriber-based, online humor magazine. Please say ‘hello’ to…
Our promise: plenty of free content, lots of new stuff, first-tier notifications about upcoming book projects, surprises from time to time, and the option to subscribe – for mere pennies a month – to the weekly humor columns that sucked you in here in the first place.
I’ll hope you’ll stick with us for this next phase, as we test a few indie boundaries, push a few envelopes, and joust with the Big Media windmills; but, should we lose you at this mile marker … my sincere thanks, to every single one of you, for your support of me and my “kids!” It’s been a great ride, and I’ll see you later, somewhere, some time, in the dance.
If you choose to journey with us (you can always choose to subscribe later), please update your bookmarks to point to
Okay. Let’s dance.
=======
Barry
January 11, 2013
Announcing…
(An open letter to the faithful followers of the Mooncalf Communion)
==========================
Dear you guys,
I wanted you to be the first to know that we’re going to try something new beginning this year: a fully-independent, subscriber-based, online humor magazine. Please say ‘hello’ to…
Our promise: plenty of free content, lots of new stuff, first-tier notifications about upcoming book projects, surprises from time to time, and the option to subscribe – for mere pennies a month – to the weekly humor columns that sucked you in here in the first place.
I’ll hope you’ll stick with us for this next phase, as we test a few indie boundaries, push a few envelopes, and joust with the Big Media windmills; but, should we lose you at this mile marker … my sincere thanks, to every single one of you, for your support of me and my “kids!” It’s been a great ride, and I’ll see you later, somewhere, some time, in the dance.
If you choose to journey with us (you can always choose to subscribe later), please update your bookmarks to point to
Okay. Let’s dance.
=======
Barry
January 6, 2013
The Frumpy Psychic Network
(2013: after 2012, how bad could it be, right? Right? Hello?)
Some time lately, I fell down and hit my head. I’m not sure exactly when it happened, because I hit my head.
Now that, by itself, is hardly news. At my age, I’m clumsier than Inspector Clouseau around a rake. On the Graceful-Meter, I rank somewhere between the Three Stooges and the Four Horseman.
But this time, when I came to, I discovered that all that skull jostling had left me changed in two very dramatic ways:
I could predict the future
I was Secretary of State
Understand – I didn’t want to be Secretary of State; apparently, this is just something that happens to you if you fall down often enough. But there I was, rubbing my head and wearing a frumpy pantsuit.
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December 30, 2012
Dude, Your Lang Syne is, like, Auld
(Sneaking another year past the Mayan goalie)
By the time some of you read this, we’ll have begun a brand new year. And you know what that means: over ten whole workdays before government employees will get another paid holiday.
My goodness – the things those poor (un-) Civil (dis-) Service drones put up with.
But even for us bill-paying mortals, year’s end heralds its own gauntlet of unavoidable traditions, doesn’t it?
The trick of figuring out where to store that vaguely-familiar fruitcake until next Christmas, when you can re-gift the nasty thing to whomever’s next in the Holiday Fruitcake Circle of Life
Preparing to spend somewhere between two and fifty-two weeks writing the wrong year on our personal checks
New Year’s Eve parties laced with over-dressed, under-medicated women, who spend the evening trying to fight off under-dressed, over-indulging guys, who spend the evening trying to impress the women by swilling shots of Jagermeister until they devolve into some kind of semi-simian extra from ‘Altered States‘
Another traffic snarl at the mall as millions of Americans try to return unwanted gifts – like monogrammed toilet seats or perfumes that smell like homeless yak saliva – even though they have no purchase receipts
A clutch of college football bowl games, steeped in tradition, with traditional bowl game names; like the Unfinished Furniture Liquidators Bowl (played in the Midwestern Kansas Aluminum Siding Outlet stadium), brought to you by Big Tony’s Toilet Emporium; or the Lowe’s Employees Who Got Downsized But Found A Job Across The Street At Home Depot Bowl (sponsored by “Cleveland Soccer Moms Against Homeless Yak Cruelty”)
The annual announcement that this past year’s Congress set a new record as the most useless, unproductive, and disliked Congress in history, at least until this next Congress gets a shot at the title
Top Ten Lists
It’s an unwritten law: Every old year must end with a new crop of Top Ten Lists. And every year, there are dozens of sources, compiling hundreds of Top Ten Lists cataloging thousands of categories: Top Ten Best Films, Top Ten Worst TV Shows, Top Ten Larry King Divorces. Best-Dressed People, Best Worst-Dressed People, Best Nearly-Dressed People Appearing During Halftime at the Super Bowl. Top Ten Public Insults, Top Ten Private Apologies, Top Ten Tweets That Mention Either Vampires, Zombies, Or Mayans. Top Ten Christmas Gifts That Don’t Contain Yak Products. Top Ten Reasons Why There Always Seems To Be A Lowe’s Right Across The Street From A Home Depot.
Here are some actual lists that you can find on the internet, as far as you know:
Top Ten Annoying Christmas Songs
Topping the list again this year is “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” followed closely by anything recorded by Burl Ives. Oddly enough, the other eight entries are all “Dominick, the Christmas Donkey.”
Note: “Grandma Got Run Over by A Reindeer” got several Most Annoying votes, but the judges wisely opted to put that tune in its own category, feeling that it would be unfair to rank amateur irritants with pros like “Grandma…”
Top Ten Countries That Have Disappeared
This one was a bit of a tease. Here you’ll find anti-climactic entries like East Germany, South Vietnam, and Detroit. For whatever reason, the list excluded land masses like Atlantis, Oz, and Rosanne Barr.
Top Ten Physical Ailments That Keep Hillary From Testifying
Sure, we gave her a pass on “stomach flu.” Sure, the very next week, we let her slide on “I fell down.” Yeah, we begrudgingly gave her the benefit of the doubt when she announced “the heartbreak of psoriasis.” But we believe the lady doth protest too much with this latest dodge: “I simply can’t testify in these shoes.” Stoppeth it. Shutteth up.
Top Ten Lame College Sports Nickname Changes
This year’s winners include The Rainbow Warriors of the University of Hawaii, who dropped the “Rainbow” part thanks to a marketing decision, after desperate recruiters feared that “rainbows” had too many gay connotations. Sources say that a counter-suit has been filed by two well-known rainbow aficionados, Dorothy from Oz and Kermit the Frog, but we were unable to confirm those reports due to the case’s pending status, and the fact that Dorothy and Kermit don’t exist.
The Top Ten list also includes the Syracuse Orangemen, who are now simply the Syracuse Orange. College administrators cited a desire to become more gender-neutral, and “Syracuse Orangepersons” wouldn’t fit on the faculty guest towels.
Top Ten Adam West Roles Other Than Batman (This is kinda sad. After all, three of the ten roles were Adam playing himself. Let’s move on.)
Top Ten Hobbits You Didn’t Know Existed
This is sad, too, because it means there are unsupervised people running around out there who think any hobbits actually exist. I hope nobody tells them about Kermit.
Top Ten Best Things About Windows 8
We got nothing. Anyone?
Top Ten Worst Regulations of 2012
To those who compiled this list, we have to tip our hat; after all, it couldn’t have been easy, picking only ten idiot maneuvers by Congress. Beyond the obvious mutton-headed moves, like daring each other to read ObamaCare, Congress focused this year on critical national security issues like Dishwasher Efficiency Standards and free Vatican-endorsed condom distribution.
But, in the spirit of the season, don’t be too hard on lawmakers based solely on this past year. After all, legislators as a life form were idiots far before we flipped the ol’ calendar page to January 2012.
In fact, once upon a time, overbearing lawmakers in one U.S. State passed a law that actually made it illegal for a river to rise above a certain level.
Whoa. Folks, that’s some serious megalomania. Next thing you know, they’ll be regulating toilet flushes, and banning large soft drinks.
Nah. That could never happen in America.
December 23, 2012
Après-calypse
(What if you threw an armageddon and nobody came?)
“Twas the night before nothing, and all through the Vedic Seventh House,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a Tzotzil-Tzeltal Hun-Ahpu.”
So, fellow Earthlings – we made it! 21 December 2012 is now behind us, and we’re still here! No global disaster. No earthquake or tidal wave, no volcanic eruption, no communications disruption. No meteor strike, no meteorological stroke, no fireball rainstorm. No societal collapse, except Detroit. No invading aliens or scary monsters, unless you count John Kerry and his Giant Pointy Chin of Death.
After all the hubbub, here we are…the Saturday everybody was betting against. Day One of the Fourteenth Mayan Baktun (literal translation: “kosher bakery”). The most wager-loaded weekend in the history of mankind, outside of All-Saints Bingo Night at the Vatican, and Chicago politics.
My, my. Has another baktun really come and gone? Seems like only yesterday, we were ushering in a fresh new Thirteenth Baktun (literal translation: “baker’s dozen”) with a hearty ‘Toxlpretnik.’ (literal translation: “Yo! Nice pretnik!”)
But as cataclysmic galaxy-disrupting end-of-all-things events go, this one was a real naval-gazer. I’ve seen more carnage at the grocery on “Expired Milk Day.” This latest Mayan death-to-all-fest was about as yawny as Hillary Clinton, deflecting a Congressional hearing or a conjugal offer (“Not tonight, dear. I have a ferocious diplomatic immunity.”)
No, this apoca-lapse will doubtless be ranked on the excite-o-meter somewhere between a black-and-white rerun of “An Andy Williams Labor Day Singalong” and Michael Moore’s five-hour-long, critically-panned documentary, “REM Sleep,” starring Lindsay Lohan as Nick Nolte.
Even the final curtain’s schedule was clumsy and indecisive. Some doom-watchers determined that the world would end just after midnight Thursday; other fate-junkies had called it for dawn Friday (probably the people who have to clean the universe’s bathrooms before the workday begins); still other eschatology-hounds thought it would all be over, cosmically-speaking, at midnight Friday, as if the universe ran on the same principles as an off-campus beer bar. And Mexico’s National Institute of Anthropology, History, and Colorful Beach Towels maintained that we’d all miscalculated the Mayan Long Count anyway, and so the real last Last Call would actually take place sometime the following Sunday.
(It’s contrarian nonsense like that, of course, that helps explain why nobody’s ever heard of Mexico’s National Institute of Anthropology, History, and Colorful Beach Towels.)
But it was a false alarm, as everyone now knows (except for CNN, who are still calling it an apocalyptic “trend”). And hindsight, as they say, is 20-20, especially if you’re having hindsight and your planet wasn’t vaporized.
Leading up to the non-event event, however, Earthlings everywhere were gearing up for something big. It was like a global conference of people who talk to invisible rabbits named Harvey, if all those people also wore robes, dream-catcher earrings, Birkenstocks, and were all named Zed the Scar, or Endive.
On that non-fateful Friday, 21 December 2012, if any particular place on Earth could’ve been called “downtown Doomsday,” that place would be Merida, in the Mexican Yucatan, home to the Mayan complex known as Chichen Itza. (literal translation: “Chicken Little.” See? See how it’s all starting to come together?)
In ancient Mayan culture, Chichen Itza was a sort of Roman Coliseum, according to a recently unearthed 5,000-year-old episode of that Mesoamerican hit game show, “Who Wants to Eat the Internal Organs of a Millionaire?” And on Faux Friday, there were more free spirits at Chichen Itza than there are pot-smokers at a Detroit auto plant.
But apparently, based on the reported clouds of pot and patchouli at Chichen Itza’s Armless-geddon, America’s auto unions were well-represented. Reporters noted an abundance of joint-huffers among the tree-huggers. In fact, there at Chicken Little Central during D-Day, it was a sort of bohemian Noah’s Ark.
There were Buddhists, druids, pagans, Republicans, and one guy wearing a seriously un-subtle skull ornament that was either a large, caffeine-crazed bird or an Elton John costume. Situated around ceremonial fires at the pyramid known as El Castillo, robed moon-eyed people chanted and blew into conch shells, perhaps in simulated worship of some primeval breathalyzer.
“We are in a new vibration,” proclaimed self-proclaimed spiritual master, Ollin Yolotzin, who won the event’s award for “Coolest Spiritual Master Name” and is also the head of an Aztec dance group Cuautli-balam (literal translation: “Glee”).
“We are in a frequency of love,” gasped the master, as he blew on a conch. Sadly, though, the frequency wore off fairly quickly – Vibration Boy nearly got arrested for conch-honking without a valid Apocalypse permit.
And then there was Gabriel, a Los Angeles-based spiritualist who claimed to embrace no “silly theatrics” about Friday’s no-pocalypse, while unpacking his ceremonial crystal skulls. He said this with a straight face.
Also in attendance at the Unarmored-geddon was one Dr. Nina, a minor celebrity among the baby doomers at Chicken Little, who pointed to her with their damp conchs and said she was “possibly the best credentialed spiritualist in attendance.” (literal translation: “Yo! Nice tin-foil hat!”)
Dr. Nina is president of a panel devoted to “pioneering consciousness” and another group that’s dedicated to “conscious evolution,” so she is obviously the go-to lady when you need some quick consciousness, or when you’ve overdone it on the patchouli. Dr. Nina is also known as one of the “Notable Luminaries of Evolutionary Leaders,” and I got five bucks that says there’s no such group. (If there is such a group, I’m guessing they gave themselves the twenty-five-dollar name “Notable Luminaries” at an emergency meeting of the Self-Aggrandizement Olympics.)
“I’m here to recommit myself to being free of attachments,” said Doc Nina, as she huddled to meditate in front of a small Mayan temple decorated with jaguar heads.
No worries, Doc. What with your going on and on about all that luminous pioneer jaguar consciousness, I’m guessing that you’ll be free of attachments for several weekends. No worries at all.
Of course, even though the Chick-fil-A Pyramids were getting the Mayan’s share of attention on Final Friday, there were Doom-Watches going on all over Earth. In England, a man calling himself Arthur Uther Pendragon showed up at Stonehenge and whipped the Druids into a short-lived frenzy, at least until the Druids learned that Arthur Uther’s real name was John Timothy Rothwell; once the Druids found that out, they beat him unconscious with a “Monty Python & the Holy Grail” DVD.
In central China, a group claimed that Jesus had reappeared as a woman (fortunately, there were no “Monty Python’s Life of Brian” side-effects). In Detroit public schools, classes were canceled, making it difficult for anyone to buy guns and drugs. In France, a group gathered in the Pyrenees to surrender to a spaceship, or anything else that showed up.
In San Diego, a man was detained by police just for wearing a gas mask and a machete. I mean, c’mon … in Southern California, that’s just work-a-day attire for the morning commute. For UPS drivers in Detroit, it’s standard issue.
But in our opinion, the best Apocalypse (Just Not) Now anecdote of all comes from Bolivia, that little landlocked central South American country whose primary exports are tin, cocaine, and Bolivians.
According to local reports, Bolivian President Evo Morales was ferried, on a wooden raft, to a small island in the middle of Lake Titicaca (literal translation: “Yo! Nice Tetons!”), where festive tin-snorting locals made sacrificial offerings to Pachamama (Mother Earth), Machu Picchu Mama (Middle-Aged Cougar Lady), and Nacho Mama. (you do realize I’m making up these names, right?)
Meanwhile, back at Chicken Little: we met “Angela,” who flew down from Seattle to finally meet the aliens who originally brought human DNA to Earth – and, based on recent human behavior, the DNA delivery wasn’t all that long ago. Obviously overwhelmed by her surroundings, Angela waxed poetic while contemplating the mind-boggling, mist-shrouded El Castillo pyramid looming behind her: she called it “an edgy tower.”
She said “edgy tower.” Seriously.
Back home in the Pacific Northwest, Angela teaches driver’s ed.
Seriously.
By the way: Angela’s friend and traveling companion, “Sarah,” thinks that our alien-sourced DNA might once have granted us the ability to do amazing things: to see underwater, or to fly, or to like totally eat donuts without getting like way fat and stuff.
“I’m not sure, though,” Sarah warns. “These are theories.”
Seriously.
December 16, 2012
Bottom Ten
(If a tree falls and hits a Bigfoot, can anyone still hear a lawyer?)
Every now and then, I meet someone who’s willing to admit, out loud, that they read my humor columns. If you’re one of those six relatives, then you already know that I’m a huge fan of doing research for my columns. (One day, I may actually apply some of that research to a column, though probably not.)
I work hard to put together these weekly, occasionally-proofread volleys at literacy. Contrary to what you may think, these columns don’t just leap fully formed from my forehead like some spoiled child-god of Zeus, or just suddenly appear like a new zero in Obama’s spending spree.
No, I have to do my homework. It’s my duty, and it beats vacuuming. I owe it to you, faithful reader, to get my facts straight before I dive into each week’s universe-altering topic; soul-stirring subjects like the intertwining history that connects the Twinkie to malt Scotch, or the tale of the former USSR pig that predicts World Cup soccer winners. (I mean “former” as in “pig in an ex-Soviet Republic,” not “former” as in “ex-pig.” After all, writing about a soccer bookie made out of bacon would just be stupid.)
Besides, intensive research is a luxury I can afford, for two primary reasons:
I’m a single guy, and
I have Google
Being a single guy is an acquired taste, like malt Scotch, or Rosie O’Donnell. It’s not something that simply happens, just because you’re not married, or not dating, or no longer answering your Caller ID-enabled phone. A guy is a bachelor; a guy learns to be single.
Being single means learning to cope on one’s own, or at least learning not to yell at thin air in public. Believe me, nothing queers a grocery store conversation like suddenly spinning around, pointing your finger at absolutely nothing, and shrieking, “STOP HUMMING THAT!”
No, the simple state of matelessness doesn’t do it: that’s not a single guy; that’s a bachelor. A bachelor is “in-between,” a single guy is “beyond.” What he’s beyond … help, hope, corrective medication, clothes that match … that’s a topic for another day.
The point I was trying to make, if I recall, is that single guys, because they’re single, have the time for good, solid, in-depth humor column research, and for the record, this may be the first time in the history of literature that anybody has used the words “humor column” and “research” in the same sentence. (It is, without question, the first time anyone has ever referred to my stuff as “in-depth.”)
And thanks to technology, we now have Google, a company that makes the smallest, smartest research assistants ever born that aren’t members of a workers’ union. And thanks to some more technology (if you have three or four hundred bucks to spare), we can now access Google from our smart phone, which is way better than trying to fit a 26-volume encyclopedia in your jeans pocket.
But when working with Google, you have to watch yourself, because a simple search can take you places you absolutely never intended to go.
Here’s an example.
One week, I was “researching” a story about all these advertised drugs that have up to two medical benefits, but a minimum of 414 dangerous side-effects, including nausea, persistent or recurring death, or becoming Rosie O’Donnell.
As part of my (ahem) research, I googled something like “top ten prescription drugs.” And after a ridiculous, insufferable wait (0.004 nanoseconds), Google returned some 47,000,000 results for “top ten” stuff.
Google’s like that. Serious “over-achiever” issues.
One Top Ten list in particular caught my eye: the Top Ten Strange Topics That Need More Explanation. I clicked through to have a look because, what with being single and everything, I had a noticeable absence of spouses nagging me about some garage-cleaning project that I’d been promising to take care of for six straight months, which I would handle right now if I really cared enough about her, and why don’t I ever take her anywhere nice.
The first thing I noticed on the Top Ten Strange Topics That Need More Explanation page was the phrase “State Farm Bethesda.” Personally, I couldn’t challenge that accusation, having never been in a situation so dire that it would require me to need Maryland-specific insurance.
But the actual “Strange Topics” in the Top Ten list were, I thought, pretty lame. UFOs. Bigfoot. Déjà vu. Mysterious disappearances. Ghosts. Something known as “The Taos Hum,” which turned out to be a gender-free organic potter wheezing on her turquoise-encrusted dream-catcher – an octogenarian hippie known to locals as Dakota the Emasculatrix.
Mysterious disappearances? That’s rather vague, not to mention redundant. If it wasn’t mysterious, it wasn’t a disappearance, was it, Mr. or Mrs. Amazing Randy? It just means somebody left – maybe to go clean the garage.
Here’s an actual “Mysterious disappearances” quote from the website: “People disappear for various reasons.”
Whoa. What well-funded pan-national think tank secured that little knowledge nugget?
And Bigfoot? Seriously? Somebody’s still calling in Bigfoot sightings? To this day, as far as I know, not one reputable scientist has collected one hair, one tooth, one bone. No Yeti-like lair uncovered, no Sasquatch-shaped crop circles, no great big hairy size-nineteen-tennis-shoe road kills.
Not one Bigfoot has ever applied for government benefits. There have been no Bigfoot anti-defamation legal challenges, and no snarky lawsuits filed by the P-ACLU (Proto-American Civil Liberties Union).
Not a single Bigfoot has ever appeared in an episode of Judge Judy, alleging that his dirty stinkin’ low-down Bigfoot-in-law knew all along that that Chevy transmission was no good.
And we’ve seen no rural newspaper Bigfoot obits, noting the untimely passing of prominent Bigfeet:
Oog Bigfoot (age unknown) died at his home (address unknown). Services will be held tomorrow at Mastodon Mortuary, once bright sky light-ball rise above high stone hill where is home of Bear God. The family are receiving non-carnivorous guests at the Bigfoot communal water source (address unknown), refreshments to be provided by Oog’s former coworkers from Bigfoot Local #11.
Oog Bigfoot is survived by his most recent she-Foot, Gaa, who works part-time as a claims clerk at State Farm Bethesda, and the two little-Foots, Oog Jr. and Rosie O’Donnell.
