Do not mess with Sasquatch today, people. Just don't.
Sasquatch has had a headache from the crack of dawn. A sinus headache
that resulted in a pain between the shoulder blades due to muscle
tension over the headache.
Maybe Sasquatch was without his right-hand helper all day.
Sasquatch has tired of telling other Sasquatches in his band not to eat
the piece of Devil's Playground chicken that had been lolling about in a
baggie since last Sunday, only to have one of them declare it suitable
for consumption, and ingest it anyway.
Maybe Sasquatch had
to use up a coupon for a free pizza that expires on July 31, and the
clerk, after peeping out of the back room for five minutes, waddled to
the second cash register, and rudely engaged in a stare-down with
Sasquatch, who was lined up at the only open cash register behind one
other customer, and in front of five other customers, until Sasquatch
had to initiate the announcement of Clerk's grand register opening by
asking, "Are you open now?"
Maybe Sasquatch took offense
to the sneer and the huff of Clerk, because it is not Sasquatch's fault
that the state of the economy requires people to work until the day
after death, and Sasquatch pays enough in taxes to support Clerk on
disability for a year, if Clerk would only file for it and lay about her
home, rather than gimp her way from register to kitchen and back on two braced
knees, forgetting that the Sasquatch is always right.
Maybe Sasquatch was irritated that the free pizza he had paid for with self respect was not of the single topping ordered.
Maybe Sasquatch had to endure a lecture from his mate, pertaining
to the alleged fact that Mate cannot see Sasquatch while talking on
the phone, so it is not really Mate's fault that Mate talks over
Sasquatch every single time they converse by cellular microwaves, since
everybody knows that a proper conversation is not possible without
looking at your fellow conversationalist, those things on the side of
your head called ears being of no use whatsoever.
Maybe Sasquatch had to balance a tray of pizza on a paper plate, a
plastic cup of ice, a plastic cup of ice water, a 44 oz. Diet Coke, and
a pair of bifocals while descending thirteen rail-less stairs into his
dark basement lair where he could consume his free pizza unmolested.
Maybe Sasquatch reached the bottom step, step number twelve out
of thirteen, when his load shifted, sending the entire paper plate over
the edge of the tray like so many idiots in barrels over Niagara Falls,
at which point every single slice of the wrong kind of pizza flipped
cheese side down on the tile floor trod by barefoot Sasquatches on the
way to and from the pool and hot tub.
Maybe Sasquatch just really needs a break today.