So sorry to bother you on this glorious Sunday afternoon, Mr. Wilson, but I’m here to talk about a looming threat few in America are prepared for. Sure, you have insurance to protect your home, your car, your health, but what if I told you there was a threat to your family living right in your backyard? I’m referring to the danger posed by the bipedal apeman colloquially known as Bigfoot.

No, please, don’t shut the door. I’m serious.

See, look at my card shaped like a giant footprint. I’m Bradley Bergstrom, Bigfoot Insurance Salesman. For just $250 a month, my Bigfoot insurance policy will cover all manner of Sasquatch related mishaps. From a hungry Bigfoot digging up your garden all the way to a sleepy Bigfoot deciding the hood of your Toyota Sienna is the perfect place to take a nap. You’ll be completely covered.

Let’s go out to your backyard and I’ll show you why you’re at risk.

Your home is a certifiable Bigfoot magnet. This is rural Oregon, a hotspot for Sasquatch sightings. Look at your yard. Those trees are Engelmann Spruce. The perfect wood for a mama Bigfoot to construct a nest. These uncovered trash bins might as well be a Bigfoot buffet. And just one Bigfoot taking a dip in your pool will permanently clog the filter with hair.

How do I know Bigfoot is real? Well, Mr. Wilson, I lost my family to a Bigfoot.

I had the perfect suburban life. A big house, a small wife, two medium children. Until one day I looked outside and saw a Bigfoot sauntering around my yard. I ran to confront the beast, but the creature knocked me aside with one brush of his enormous paw. As I lay crumpled next to the grill, I saw my wife staring down at me with the same mix of pity and disgust she typically reserved for the baby mice she fed our son’s snake. I was no longer a man, but a squeaking hairless pinky.

Sir, I will let go of your swingset once you let me finish my pitch.

My wife never mentioned the incident with the Sasquatch, but I could see her shame. When I couldn’t open a jar of peanut butter, I knew she pictured Bigfoot’s strong hands popping that Jif. When I took my shirt off at the pool, she grimaced at my dolphin-smooth chest. It was all over when I caught her, pressed against the tumble dryer, clutching an iPad streaming Harry and the Hendersons.

There’s no need to spray me with the hose, Mr. Wilson.

I came home one day and my key no longer worked. I looked in the window and saw them there. A perfect family eating dinner. My wife pouring a glass of Chablis. My kids fighting over the last crescent roll. Bigfoot ripping open a live raccoon and feasting on the steaming entrails. And now I live alone in an extended stay motel by the airport, devoting my life to preventing Bigfoot from destroying other families.

How will my insurance stop your wife from falling in love with a Bigfoot? That’s a question I wish I had asked myself eight months ago. Maybe then I’d be… Please, not the rake, Mr. Wilson.

First, I will make your home Bigfoot proof. I will install fifty top-of-the-line motion-sensitive cameras around your property. Everyone knows Bigfoot is terrified of cameras. If the worst does happen and you are emasculated by a Bigfoot, I will allow you to beat me up in front of your wife so you may regain your masculinity. And if your wife does decide to marry a wretched Sasquatch, you are welcome to stay in my motel room for as long as you need.

Okay, I’m going. No need to rev your chainsaw menacingly, Mr. Wilson. But, when the day arrives that you come home to find a Bigfoot in your La-Z-Boy, don’t come crying to me.

Or actually, do come crying to me. I haven’t met anyone else who’s been cuckolded by a Bigfoot and honestly, I’d love to talk this over with a peer.