A Note from Uncle Hairy

I have a good friend who's in touch with a band of Bigfoot. Every once in awhile he sends me the latest going ons. He just sent me this:

Hi Rusty! I just heard from a friend in western Colorado, who wishes to be anonymous and only identifies himself as Uncle Hairy. Here's what he had to say:

I'd like to say Happy Birthday to my little buddy Solcfeet, seems like only yesterday he turned 243 and was telling me about the first golf course he ever saw.

At first he hated the fact he lost so much of his wilderness backyard to a backward human, but when he discovered that the water sprinklers came on at night, his whole clan would sneak out there and they'd have a grand time slipping and sliding all over the manicured greens, waving around the white flag on the long pole, and burying themselves in the sandtrap. Also they played mock golf, pretending to hit a ball into the pond or sandtrap, then howling and breaking their clubs over their knee. And of course, some Bigfoot dufus would always sit on a bench pretending to smoke a cigar while talking on an imaginary cell phone. No matter how many times that was played out, it was a hoot.

Then during the day Solcfeet started sneaking around stealing golf balls (which at first he thought were hard eggs). He told me he'd have uncontrollable fits watching the humans curse and beat the bushes with a shiny club looking for them. He never felt bad about stealing them because the humans seemed to have so many of them in a great bag they carted around.

One day, Solcfeet began to notice that ever so often a human would accidently leave behind a shiny club on the ground after knocking a ball in a hole. So he began to sneak in there and steal the club before the player came rattling back in their golf cart looking for it. Again, Solcfeet mused, the humans had a lot of clubs in their great bag so he saw no harm in taking one from time to time when the coast was clear.

Besides, any Bigfoot worth his salt is apt to do anything when there are no cameras about.

Wup, this became a full time hobby, and the last time I trekked over to visit Solcfeet he proudly showed me his great collection: 438,231 golf balls, 6,872 clubs, and 153 pairs of sunglasses.

But the real centerpiece of his collection was the Cushman golf cart.

According to Bigfoot legend and lore of this incident (and there are many, many variations) the Cushman Encounter went something like this:

One fine drizzly Bigfoot morning Solcfeet and his cohorts sallied over to the golf course and noticed a human park his golf cart and go into a small green box and did not come out for several moments.

There were no other humans around, and especially, no cameras. So after much badgering and encouragement from his fellows, Solcfeet snuck down and grabbed the cart, picked it up and turned to run for the woods.

But suddenly he stopped, turned abruptly with a wide grin (some say to wave to his fellows hiding in the bushes, others say he wanted to peek into the green box to see what the human was doing) and accidently smacked the side of the green box, spilling the great bag of clubs and balls from the cart and completely knocking the green box over on its side, door side down.

In a stunned moment of silence, Solcfeet first looked at the big green box laying on the ground. Then he looked at the scattered pile of shiny clubs. Then he noticed the little golf balls, celebrating their sudden flight of freedom, dribbling merrily down the trail and plopping harmlessly into the pond.

Panic then hit poor Solcfeet as the human within the box began to scream (so eerily that it was almost Bigfoot-like) as his Bigfoot fellows laughed and beat the bushes as we are known to do, that is, uncontrollably.

Solcfeet took two long bounds and leaped into the pond still holding the golf cart. The cart sank and Solcfeet hid in the tall reeds all day until darkness.

Throughout the day, he watched in amusement as more people came and rescued the smelly human from the box. Although visibly agitated when rescued, the smelly one became quiet when they handed him a beer and a cigar.

The rest of the day, the humans spent hours barking and pointing in different directions, apparently with differing opinions on what happened to the missing cart.

Lucky for Solcfeet, the pile of clubs and balls did not tell the humans a thing, but then again Solcfeet noted that the humans did not even ask or examine them about the indicent.

Later that night, a soaking wet Solcfeet came sloshing into the central tribal cave holding a white golf cart over his head roaring in great triumph.

After much yelling and back slapping, everyone took turns sitting and pretending to drive the cart while smoking an imaginary cigar, blowing smoke, guzzling a beer and filling out a score card. It was an all night hoot, and from that time forward we all called him Cush Man.

Happy Birthday, Cush Man! And many, many more!