(If a tree falls and hits a Bigfoot, can anyone still hear a lawyer?)

Every now and then, I meet someone who’s willing to admit, out loud, that they read my humor columns. If you’re one of those six relatives, then you already know that I’m a huge fan of doing research for my columns. (One day, I may actually apply some of that research to a column, though probably not.)

I work hard to put together these weekly, occasionally-proofread volleys at literacy. Contrary to what you may think, these columns don’t just leap fully formed from my forehead like some spoiled child-god of Zeus, or just suddenly appear like a new zero in Obama’s spending spree.

No, I have to do my homework. It’s my duty, and it beats vacuuming. I owe it to you, faithful reader, to get my facts straight before I dive into each week’s universe-altering topic; soul-stirring subjects like the intertwining history that connects the Twinkie to malt Scotch, or the tale of the former USSR pig that predicts World Cup soccer winners. (I mean “former” as in “pig in an ex-Soviet Republic,” not “former” as in “ex-pig.” After all, writing about a soccer bookie made out of bacon would just be stupid.)

Besides, intensive research is a luxury I can afford, for two primary reasons:

Being a single guy is an acquired taste, like malt Scotch, or Rosie O’Donnell. It’s not something that simply happens, just because you’re not married, or not dating, or no longer answering your Caller ID-enabled phone. A guy is a bachelor; a guy learns to be single.

Being single means learning to cope on one’s own, or at least learning not to yell at thin air in public. Believe me, nothing queers a grocery store conversation like suddenly spinning around, pointing your finger at absolutely nothing, and shrieking, “STOP HUMMING THAT!”

No, the simple state of matelessness doesn’t do it: that’s not a single guy; that’s a bachelor. A bachelor is “in-between,” a single guy is “beyond.” What he’s beyond … help, hope, corrective medication, clothes that match … that’s a topic for another day.

The point I was trying to make, if I recall, is that single guys, because they’re single, have the time for good, solid, in-depth humor column research, and for the record, this may be the first time in the history of literature that anybody has used the words “humor column” and “research” in the same sentence. (It is, without question, the first time anyone has ever referred to my stuff as “in-depth.”)

And thanks to technology, we now have Google, a company that makes the smallest, smartest research assistants ever born that aren’t members of a workers’ union. And thanks to some more technology (if you have three or four hundred bucks to spare), we can now access Google from our smart phone, which is way better than trying to fit a 26-volume encyclopedia in your jeans pocket.

But when working with Google, you have to watch yourself, because a simple search can take you places you absolutely never intended to go.

Here’s an example.

One week, I was “researching” a story about all these advertised drugs that have up to two medical benefits, but a minimum of 414 dangerous side-effects, including nausea, persistent or recurring death, or becoming Rosie O’Donnell.

As part of my (ahem) research, I googled something like “top ten prescription drugs.” And after a ridiculous, insufferable wait (0.004 nanoseconds), Google returned some 47,000,000 results for “top ten” stuff.

Google’s like that. Serious “over-achiever” issues.

One Top Ten list in particular caught my eye: the Top Ten Strange Topics That Need More Explanation. I clicked through to have a look because, what with being single and everything, I had a noticeable absence of spouses nagging me about some garage-cleaning project that I’d been promising to take care of for six straight months, which I would handle right now if I really cared enough about her, and why don’t I ever take her anywhere nice.

The first thing I noticed on the Top Ten Strange Topics That Need More Explanation page was the phrase “State Farm Bethesda.” Personally, I couldn’t challenge that accusation, having never been in a situation so dire that it would require me to need Maryland-specific insurance.

But the actual “Strange Topics” in the Top Ten list were, I thought, pretty lame. UFOs. Bigfoot. Déjà vu. Mysterious disappearances. Ghosts. Something known as “The Taos Hum,” which turned out to be a gender-free organic potter wheezing on her turquoise-encrusted dream-catcher – an octogenarian hippie known to locals as Dakota the Emasculatrix.

Mysterious disappearances? That’s rather vague, not to mention redundant. If it wasn’t mysterious, it wasn’t a disappearance, was it, Mr. or Mrs. Amazing Randy? It just means somebody left – maybe to go clean the garage.

Here’s an actual “Mysterious disappearances” quote from the website: “People disappear for various reasons.”

Whoa. What well-funded pan-national think tank secured that little knowledge nugget?

And Bigfoot? Seriously? Somebody’s still calling in Bigfoot sightings? To this day, as far as I know, not one reputable scientist has collected one hair, one tooth, one bone. No Yeti-like lair uncovered, no Sasquatch-shaped crop circles, no great big hairy size-nineteen-tennis-shoe road kills.

Not one Bigfoot has ever applied for government benefits. There have been no Bigfoot anti-defamation legal challenges, and no snarky lawsuits filed by the P-ACLU (Proto-American Civil Liberties Union).

Not a single Bigfoot has ever appeared in an episode of Judge Judy, alleging that his dirty stinkin’ low-down Bigfoot-in-law knew all along that that Chevy transmission was no good.

And we’ve seen no rural newspaper Bigfoot obits, noting the untimely passing of prominent Bigfeet:

Oog Bigfoot (age unknown) died at his home (address unknown). Services will be held tomorrow at Mastodon Mortuary, once bright sky light-ball rise above high stone hill where is home of Bear God. The family are receiving non-carnivorous guests at the Bigfoot communal water source (address unknown), refreshments to be provided by Oog’s former coworkers from Bigfoot Local #11.

Oog Bigfoot is survived by his most recent she-Foot, Gaa, who works part-time as a claims clerk at State Farm Bethesda, and the two little-Foots, Oog Jr. and Rosie O’Donnell.