A note from BIGFOOT: I turned 40 this year. And I went through something of a midlife crisis. This is the third part of my story. You can read the first part here, and the second part here.
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My adventure in Amish Country totally backfired.
I may have looked svelte in all black, but even monster trucks gain weight and feel lethargic when we eat delicious pies all the time and get pulled around by horses.
The only thing going my way was total anonymity because they treated me just like all the other horse buggies. One time, I thought my cover was blown when I heard someone say: “Hey, look! Bigfoot!” But it was just a kid who thought he saw a Sasquatch because one of the butter-churning ladies was a little on the hairy side.
My cover wasn’t blown, but it didn’t take long for a new level of shame to set in.
I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.
I had tried a bunch of new jobs in an effort to be less destructive. It was a total disaster.
Then, I embarked on a series of misadventures that led me to the conclusion: I needed EXTREME.
An extreme makeover.
BOOM.
The only thing missing was the mustache. It’s because trucks can’t grow hair. Not even monster trucks.
I was a brand-spanking-new red Corvette and NOW—FINALLY—everything was going to be different!
I would spend hours looking at myself in the mirror and saying: I’m pretty sure there’s a lot more to life than being really, really, ridiculously good looking. And I plan on finding out what that is.
I got some ink because it seemed like the obvious thing to do. A bunch of people told me I was going to regret it when I was older, but they’re probably just jealous.
“What’s that even supposed to mean?” people asked.
“It’s tribal,” I told them. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Are you part of a tribe?”
They obviously didn’t get it.
I had bangin’ style.
I wasn’t reminiscing much about the good ol’ days, but one thing I certainly missed about being back in Hazelwood, MO at BIGFOOT headquarters was enjoying the company of family and friends. Even a smoking-hot Corvette gets lonely, sometimes.
It was time to find others to spend time with.
So, I hit the clubs.
It was a little bit “Stayin’ Alive” and a little bit “We be Clubbin’.”
Needless to say, the club scene had never seen anything like me, and I didn’t have much trouble finding companionship.
A guy at the bar told me I should “watch out for that one,” but I didn’t listen because I’m a sucker for Europeans. They just sound different.
She had a Barbie vanity plate that I thought was a hilarious joke, but her name was actually Barbie. She was half my age. What am I doing!?!?, I’d think. I have newer versions of myself older than this Fiat!
Anytime other sports cars tried to approach her, I would roar my engine really loud and yell: “Do you even lift, bro!?”
I was now the kind of truck that said “Bro.”
Clearly, things were getting out of control as I lost myself in the club scene.
After a lifetime of running on high-octane specialty fuels like methanol, people were handing me 87-octane and other regular pump gas, and I’d just guzzle it down, no questions asked.
I didn’t feel like myself and it all came to a head one night when I found myself in a nightclub bathroom arguing about who was a better actor—Martin Sheen or Charlie Sheen?—with Dennis Rodman and Charlie Sheen. It was 2-to-1 in favor of Martin.
Rodman and I both really dig The West Wing.
As much as I liked looking and feeling like a shiny new toy, I was finally realizing that everything I had done since turning 40 had made my life worse.
It was time to go home.
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Artwork by OnAllCylinders contributor Mike Bloomhuff.
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