Dear Annie: My Wife Is Sleeping With Sasquatch
By
February 24, 2017

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Dear Annie,

Where do I begin? To even write this letter is to admit that I am a lunatic so enraptured by paranoia and jealousy that I have invented an elaborate story to reconcile with my own shortcomings. But there really is no other explanation that I – a man with a Bachelor’s Degree in communications – have been able to wrap my head around. Lately my wife has been acting…strangely. After observing her behavior for some time, I find myself forced to grapple with a fear I dread to validate: my wife is sleeping with Sasquatch.

Our seven years together haven’t been the smoothest, but I thought that recently we had found ourselves in an agreeable period that Rob Thomas might have viewed with kindness. Our jobs are decent, her father recently accepted me following a sizable bribe, and we while we live an altogether modest life – I have always felt we both were happy. But six months ago, something changed. The sex stopped. And then, one day – out back by the gazebo – I saw it in the dirt: a size 24 footprint, planted beside an enormous condom.

I figured it was a prank by Kaia Markey – the preteen jokester of my cul-de-sac – known for pelting me with pickled eggs while I walk to my Nissan Juke each morning. But then I noticed a full set of overlarge tracks made after she and the rest of the Markeys had already left to vacation in Indianapolis. My heart took an immediate nosedive when I discovered they led from the mountain biking path to the window of my wife’s private bath. On the sill sat a necklace made of long grass attached to a heart-shaped pendant fashioned from hardened mud. It was super cute and depressing.

When I bring up our love life, I meet a wall. “It’s fine,” is the response of choice, always said while she bites her lower lip and gazes deep into the woods. But I know better. If everything was kosher, how have we not touched each other in ages? Or even kissed? Why, when I shower, does she prefer to organize a set of studio lights to create a silhouette of my body and ask me to position myself like the iconic Frame 352 from the 1967 Patterson-Gimlin Bigfoot footage? If I didn’t know the real reason, I’d honestly feel kind of sexy doing it.

One day I was let go early from my job as a busser at Perkin’s because the waitresses were cleaning tables faster than I was, so I decided to pay a surprise trip to her office. As I was told she had gone home early for being sick, some coworkers stared at me with pity, but most appeared to be experiencing schadenfreude at the thought of a sad excuse for a man being bested by a dirty, primitive hobo. To compound my pain and embarrassment, I visited her cubicle to drop off a box of mixed chocolates I bought at the dollar store, only to see she had already been gifted a vase of handpicked wildflowers and two used ticket stubs to Our Brand Is Crisis. We had planned on seeing that months ago, the bastard.

In a bid to win her back, I made drastic life changes: MonsterQuest filled our DVR, all of my soap and shampoo went into the trash, and I even underwent an experimental surgery where doctors added hair plugs to every smooth part of my body. After a year of preparation – on a full-mooned Sunday night – I finally summoned the courage to ask her to make love. She declined, told me her stomach hurt, and then disappeared to the bathroom. When she came out it was Wednesday afternoon, she smelled like a zoo, and then ate all of my peanut butter – a telltale sign that she had just made whoopee with a giant, sexual Curious George.

I don’t understand, Annie. Is something wrong with me? I have given her everything – a humble home, a landline telephone, countless (failed) attempts to provide her with a child, a subscription to Entertainment Weekly, and the joy of living with my conservative, Republican parents – all the trappings of a modern family. Yet my wife must have needs that I am not meeting, or else she would not be having intercourse with a creature that has never been positively identified, save for in my mind’s eye, where I can see him pleasuring her like some sort of monkey Casanova.

My heart is broken. I have lost the love of my life to a beast that – for all intents and purposes – does not exist. Perhaps this air of mystery is what drew her to him. I guess he is a bit of a bad boy – living in the woods, never using toilet paper, doing his own thing. Meanwhile I am a symbol of a boring life lived by many and enjoyed by few. So, to combat this, I’ve decided I must fight fire with fire by spending my life savings on some scuba gear and a one-way cargo plane ticket to Scotland, where I’ll formally ask the Loch Ness Monster on a date.

I’ve never made love with a prehistoric beast before, but I’m willing to learn, and if my wife’s affair has taught me anything, it’s this: if a real human being can’t make you happy, a made-up freak of nature certainly will.

Thanks in advance,
Edgar

 

 
 

The Higgs Weldon is a humor website with funny stories, articles, cartoons, and one liners. It was started by the Los Angeles stand-up comedy community, but takes submissions from everybody. Please read and enjoy our jokes! 


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