WE GOT THE FEET By Nate Balding History, once unfurled, will recall that there were actually two varieties of Bigfoot. Those shadowy wild men of the forest boasting size 19s, and those whose feet were counted only as big as their heart. The former will forever be unfortunately associated with the tragic Adidas x DJ Squatch drop day stampede that killed 147 and kicked off the Sneaker Wars of 2137 (RIP Generalissimo OG Jordanzzz), while the latter shall forever be a category comprising one: Carl. Herman. Unthan. Ya boi celebrated his zeroth birthday on April 5, 1848 in Sommerfeld, East Prussia, delivered via midwife — not unusual — who immediately offered to murder the child — pretty fucking unusual. Had it not been for Carl’s father’s intervention, it’s said the midwife was poised to take executive action in a smothering event. Young Master Unthan had emerged malformed, sans upper extremities, and it was the opinion of the midwife that rather than live without arms the boy ought to be relieved of his misery statim (extra sentence points for double Latin, bb). Declaring Carl gifted as God intended, Herr Unthan ordered the baby swaddled and held his son with the stoic distance that only a 17th century German could. To wit: Upon seeing the midwife express pity he enacted the first of several rules that would apply to Carl through his childhood — that nobody should exhibit sorrow for the boy lest he learn to feel sorry for himself. A second unbendable rule would be decreed during Carl’s early toddlerhood. Normally clad in the traditional attire of the region — namely the red latex bodysuit Peter Stormare wears in the penectomy nightmare sequence from The Big Lebowski — an afternoon arose where an unsupervised and barefoot Carl crawled into his play area and took his little tootsies to a toy, manipulating a ball back and forth with some dexterity. His father discovered him midplay and declared that Carl should never again don footwear. You’d think Herr Unthan would have been worried he was giving carte blanche to raise a filthy hippie, but he had faith that the joyless environs of 1850s Germany would quash any such notion. The third and final rule would come after Carl deftly swiped a scoop of oatmeal from a bowl being passed around the table and brought the food up to his mouth, chowing down off those walkers. Gross, Carl, but I get it. I appreciate an agent of chaos. Herr Unthan stated that Carl was to be allowed to do what he pleased and that anyone who helped would answer to him, thus forever defining the word “scaregiver.” It worked, however. Subsequent years would find Carl a ready autodidact. He shouldered chores on the farm, conceiving of novel ways to lend a foot. When he heard the watery call of a cerulean oasis, he taught himself to swim. He mastered krumping 150 years before it would be invented. Mornings were spent huddled in the back of the attached classroom where his father taught. Naturally, the challengeminded Carl resolved to learn to play the violin at age 10. And learn he did. When he wasn’t planting, polishing shoes or running a basket twixt market and farm, he was playing. At 16 he was sent to the National Conservatory. A few years on and Carl was performing live. He would No. 134 take the stage with a jacket hanging loosely upon his shoulders then dramatically let it fall, revealing to an unsuspecting (for the time being, anyway) audience his difference of bodily opinion. [Begin mid80s rap] He astounded. He astonished. With nothing but his feet, Carl fuckin’ demolished. [End mid-80s rap] In his 20th year — a mere 10 years after he’d picked up the instrument — he was debuting in Vienna, soloing for an orchestra conducted by none other than Johann Strauss. Blue Danube? Check. Die Fledermaus? Check. A truly insane handlebar-into-muttonchop? Oh baby, tri. Pell. Check! Midway through the show, disaster dawns as a snapped E string brings gasps from the assemblage, and the screeching halt player finally got his meager moment in the spotlight. Carl whipped out his backup strings and, within minutes, was back in forma di concerto. Standing O face. Carl garnered national, then international, acclaim. Having conquered the stage, he was beckoned by new horizons that nobody expected a man of his particular anthroposcopy to bring to heel. He began riding horses, a pastime that would last until his death. He learned to shoot. Like really, really well, blasting the spots from playing cards at long range. He starred in 1913’s Atlantis. The clip is available on YouTube with the wildly incongruous accompaniment of Sly and the Family Stone’s “Sheer Energy.” Highly recommended. Love reared its cherubic visage in the form of singer Antonie Neschta during a multi-country tour. They married and eventually moved to America where Carl became the arch nemesis of Jesco White, regularly engaging in outlaw dance battles for control of the Appalachian methamphetamine trade. At last count it was 13-12 in Jesco’s favor. Near the end of his life, Carl scribes a bestselling memoir, The Armless Fiddler, calling it (rightly so) the world’s first pediscript. Fittingly, the boy who I suspect never considered himself having overcome anything because there was nothing to overcome — simply a differentiation of development — literally closed the book on his life with the following epigraph: “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” Have questions about the paranormal? Send them to: werewolfradarpod@gmail.com or Twitter: @WerewolfRadar It’s a big, weird world. Don’t be scared. Be Prepared.
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