The plan was simple: hoax bigfoot, then sell tours to bigfoot enthusiasts. The plan wasn’t brilliant, and neither were Harry, Earl, and Patch. The three chemical-abusing friends only wanted to avoid the 9 to 5 rat race, but their antics attract the attention of a real bigfoot. When the misogynistic Earl is mistaken for a female bigfoot by the nearsighted creature and captured; it is just the beginning of their problems.
The U.S. Government has a plan to naturalize the mythical creatures living within the U.S. borders. The problem is the plan needs to be carried out carefully. You can’t just drop little green men and Sasquatch in the middle of Walmart without warning Ma and Pa Taxpayer. The naturalization program is not ready to be set into motion, and the rogue bigfoot is bringing too much attention to itself, including a feisty investigative reporter who uncovers the truth of the government conspiracy and two bigfoot researchers. No longer able to contain the situation, government agents are tasked with eliminating the bigfoot and all witnesses.
Between bong hits and water balloon fights, Harry and Patch come up with a plan to save Earl and the lovestruck bigfoot. Where do you hide a giant, mythical creature? In an insane asylum, because who is going to listen to them?
Along the way, the three friends learn Star Wars was a government training film for children, the truth behind Elvis meeting President Nixon, and the significance of the weight of the human turd.
“Part love story, part thriller; Donations to Clarity is wickedly hilarious. Its X-Files meets Tina Fey and Christopher Moore, with a heavy dose of Coen Brothers thrown in to smooth out the edges. Noah Baird writes with one goal in mind: to have the reader thrown out of bed for laughing too hard. Baird takes the reader on a wildly fun romp through what men think. Every woman in America should read this book, find the man in her life, and throw it at him.”- E. Jean Carroll, Emmy nominated writer for Saturday Night Live, writer/ creator of Elle Magazine’s Ask E. Jean, and author of four books, including Hunter: The Strange and Savage Life of Hunter Thompson.
“...Bodacious bigfoot book...”Mojo Nixon, musician, actor, the “Loon in the Afternoon” host of SIRIUS Satelite Radio’s Outlaw Country, and honorary captain of the U.S. Luge Team at the 1998 Winter Olympics.
"If you love conspiracy theories and pot, turn off 'Pineapple Express' and read 'Donations to Charity.'..."Natasha Lewin, Managing Editor of High Times Magazine
"From the very first sentences in Donations to Clarity, the author had my complete attention. By the middle of the page I was spinning. By the end of the page I was in awe. Baird has a style that is trippy and circuitous, but never confusing. The details of his story are impressively well researched, which only adds to the fun. The words seem to tumble off the page in a strange, but perfectly descriptive way that often take the reader on one of many unexpected tangents. They are detailed, fascinating, cerebral journeys of introspective thoughts that will have you doubled over in laughter. The implausible plot doesn't seem far-fetched for very long and the incredible characters are super-glued in my brain forever. If you want to take a rib-tickling ride, read this book! I think it will be the first of many amazing and zany novels to come from Noah Baird. I certainly hope so!"- Phil Polizatto, author of Hunga Dunga, Confessions of an Unapologetic Hippie.
"This is nothing like the Bigfoot I saw!" -Tom Baird, reluctant parent of Noah Baird, and author of numerous articles on oceanography, marine biology, and education; who steadfastly refuses to discuss his Bigfoot encounter unless he's drinking.
"I haven't laughed this hard since 1967."- Genny "Honu" LaFontaine, who refuses to disclose what was so funny in 1967.
“How much do you think the average human turd weighs?” Earl asked as he sat down at the table, pulling the plastic lawn chair up behind him and reaching across the table to dig into Harry’s basket of buffalo wings.DONATIONS TO CLARITY
“Are you serious? Why?” asked Harry.
“Well, answer me this: how much does an order of wings weigh?”
“Regular or jumbo?”
“Jumbo” Earl mumbled with a mouth full of meat, spraying Three Mile Island sauce across the table. Droplets of orange-tinged spit peppered the table. Earl snatched a paper towel off the roll sitting on the table and wiped the table once, leaving an arc of smeared wing sauce across the table.
“Dude! Say it, don’t spray it!” Harry yelped, holding his beer out of the mist with one hand, while trying to cover a baskets of wings and celery sticks with the other hand.
“You know: my usual. How much do you think that weighs? The parts I eat?” Earl said, craning his neck around looking for a waitress. Harry could hear the frustration in Earl’s voice. Earl hadn’t sat down with a beer, and he didn’t usually like going for very long without one. Especially in The Beaver, not because the wings were too hot, but because Earl swore Yuengling tasted better from The Beaver’s taps. Everyone else in the village thought The Brown Beaver’s draft beers tasted skunky because the staff never cleaned the lines. “That’s bullshit!” Earl would bellow to anyone who would listen. Earl had the proud distinction of having been in two fist fights and arrested once for defending The Brown Beaver’s honor. The second fight (and arrest) was with The Brown Beaver’s owner, Seamus, who refused to give Earl any more alcohol one night.
“I don’t know. Why?” Harry said, responding to the back of Earl’s head.
“I’m just trying to figure out how much I’m eating, is all.” Earl said, holding up one finger to the waitress.
“What? Can’t shop in the Miss’s section anymore, Meatball?”
“Screw you! I’m serious!”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Good for you! I’ll support you on your diet. I hear they can be tough.” Harry was switching gears, downshifting into sincerity drive, and hoping he sounded convincing or at least supportive.
“I’m not going a diet! I’m trying to figure out, in pounds, how much food I eat.”
“Here you go, Earl” interrupted Cindi, placing his beer on the table.
“Well, thanks, darlin’, and keep ’em coming.” Earl cooed after taking a long drink. He gave Cindi his biggest smile, like a proud little boy showing his mama he ate all of his dinner.
“I sure will, honey.” Cindi cooed back. She was a good waitress. She played along with the customers’ little games, and ignored the slurred speech and rude pick up lines. She had wide hips and full breasts, her body was often described as good breeding stock by the old ranchers and lumberjacks sitting at the bar without their wives. She usually wore T-shirts with a low v-cut neckline when the weather was warm because she got better tips when she did.
“Cindi, how much does a jumbo order of wings weigh, not including the bones?” Earl probed, trying to sound intelligent in front of Cindi while still pumping out the charm.
“Uh, I don’t know,” Cindi responded sheepishly. Why do customers always think of strange things to ask me?
“No idea? Can you ask the cook how much an order of wings weighs without the bone? Do they weigh differently depending on the sauce?”
“Uh, sure,” was all she could reply as she backed away from the table. Why can’t Earl do like Harry does and just stare at my tits instead of asking weirdo questions?
“What’s this have to do with turds?” Harry asked, watching Cindi’s ass walk away.
“I’m trying to achieve neutral buoyancy within a human vessel.” Earl deadpanned, also watching Cindi’s ass walk away.
“I said I was ‘trying to achieve neutral buoyancy within a human vessel,’ that is, me.” Earl repeated with what he thought should be the impatient air of an academic.
“You see, Harry,” Earl continued after taking a long pull from his beer, “I don’t like taking shits.” Earl stated, pausing for effect. Harry raised his eyebrows. Earl mistook the raised eyebrows as a signal to continue. “I’m tired of taking shits. It is the most despicable of all bodily functions,” Earl continued, gaining speed. “Either through design or evolution, our waste disposal system is lacking. Our scatological process needs to be revamped. It’s disgusting. It smells. It can be embarrassing. Leaves you feeling uncomfortable. I’m tired of it. I’ve done some research, and the average adult turd weighs between half of a pound to about a pound and a half.”
“Really? That’s it? I’ve had some whoppers I thought must’ve been heavier than that” replied Harry, his curiosity peaked, wrinkling his brow as he pondered Earl’s latest bit of trivia. Another part of Harry’s brain was simultaneously wondering why he was entertaining this conversation.
“I know. I thought the exact same thing” replied Earl, pleased Harry was showing some interest. “Anyway, I figure the weight of turds must equal the weight of excess food we consume. Food our body doesn’t need.” Earl was now punctuating the air with the fat end of a buffalo wing as he spoke. “So, I figure, if I reduce the amount of food I eat by the weight of my bowel movements, my body won’t need to crap anymore. I will consume exactly what my body needs. So no waste. No more taking the Browns to the Super Bowl, or dropping the kids off at the pool! Close and seal the hatch. My crapping days are over.”
Harry sat in amazement by the range of subjects Earl could pull out of his ass and discuss, without fear or embarrassment, in a public place. Maybe sealing the hatch would be best? “So, how’s it going so far?” asked Harry, unconvinced.
“I’m still working on the ratio.”
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