# Small-Town Ohio Mayor Bans ‘Bigfoot Erotica’ From Library, Sparks Constitutional Crisis Over Sasquatch Smut
VINTON COUNTY, OH — In a move that has absolutely nobody surprised if they’ve ever been to rural Ohio, local mayor and self-appointed moral compass Harold “Hank” Jenkins has declared war on the most pressing threat to American decency since the Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction: Bigfoot erotica.
Yes, you read that correctly. Somewhere in the hills of southeastern Ohio, a man with a government title and way too much time on his hands has decided that the local library’s single copy of “Sasquatch Seduction: A Cryptid’s Kiss” is a bigger problem than the county’s crumbling infrastructure, the opioid epidemic, or the fact that the water in McArthur tastes like a melted tire.
The story broke Tuesday when Karen Miller, 58, a proud member of the Vinton County Concerned Citizens Coalition (also known as “the three women who still have landline phones and think Dungeons & Dragons is devil worship”), spotted the book on the “New Arrivals” shelf during her weekly trip to return a DVD of “The Chosen.”
“I was horrified,” Miller told reporters, clutching a cross made of recycled American flags. “There was a woman on the cover—barely dressed, mind you—standing next to a big, hairy creature. And he was looking at her like she was the last venison steak at a potluck. I knew right then Satan was in our stacks.”
Mayor Jenkins, a retired propane salesman who once filed a complaint against a local high school for having a “sexually suggestive” production of “Grease” (apparently the words “Summer Nights” were too much for his delicate constitution), wasted no time. He marched down to the Vinton County Public Library, demanded to speak to the head librarian, and gave her an ultimatum: either the “Bigfoot filth” goes, or the library’s funding goes.
“I don’t care if it’s fiction or non-fiction or some kind of furry fanfiction,” Jenkins said at a press conference held in front of the courthouse, flanked by a man in a trucker hat holding a sign that read “NO HAIRY HANKY-PANKY.” “We are a god-fearing community. We do not need to be reading about… about… congress between a woman and a mythical forest creature.”
Let’s pause here to appreciate the sheer absurdity of this situation. Vinton County, Ohio, has a population of about 13,000 people. It has one Walmart, three stoplights, and more deer than registered voters. The county’s biggest claim to fame is that it’s home to the “World’s Largest Frying Pan” (which, let’s be honest, sounds like something a Bigfoot would steal for a prank). And yet, the mayor has chosen to make his legacy about banning a paperback that maybe three people have checked out since it arrived.
The book in question, “Sasquatch Seduction: A Cryptid’s Kiss,” is part of a wildly popular self-published romance series that has somehow found its way into libraries across the Midwest. Written by an author who goes by the pseudonym “Fern Valley,” the book follows a park ranger named Brenda who falls in love with a gentle giant named Grover during a camping trip gone wrong. Sample passage, since you’re probably curious: “His fur smelled of pine and musk. His eyes, deep and brown like forest earth, held a wisdom that no human man could match. Brenda knew in that moment that she would never be satisfied with a mere accountant again.”
Is it highbrow literature? Absolutely not. Is it any weirder than the plot of “Twilight,” where a thousand-year-old vampire falls in love with a high schooler who smells like fruit snacks? No. But try telling that to Mayor Jenkins.
“This is about protecting our children and our values,” Jenkins continued, sweating slightly under the midday sun. “If we allow books about bestiality into our public libraries, where does it end? Next week it’s Mothman romance? The week after, Chupacabra erotica? I won’t stand for it.”
Ah, yes, the slippery slope argument. Because everyone knows that reading a book about a fictional Bigfoot romance is just one step away from a full-blown cryptid orgy in the town square. That’s definitely how things work, and not at all a logical fallacy used by people who think the local library is a den of iniquity.
The American Civil Liberties Union of Ohio has already caught wind of the controversy and issued a statement calling Jenkins’ actions “a textbook violation of the First Amendment.” They’ve offered to represent the library pro bono, which is probably the most exciting thing to happen to a small-town librarian since the Dewey Decimal System was invented.
“This is ridiculous,” said Maryanne Pritchard, the head librarian, who looks like she hasn’t slept in three days and is probably one “can I speak to the manager” away from a full mental breakdown. “We have a budget of $47,000 a year. We’re lucky if we can afford new copies of ‘Diary of a Wimpy Kid.’ This book has been checked out exactly twice, both times by the same woman who also checks out every single Nora Roberts novel we own. It’s not a crisis. It’s a joke.”
But the internet, as it always does, has turned this into a full-blown circus. The hashtag #FreeGrover is trending on X (formerly Twitter, because Elon Musk is also a menace). Someone has already started a Change.org petition demanding that Mayor Jenkins read the entire book aloud at a city council meeting. A local Etsy seller is cranking out “Bigfoot Erotica Defense Fund” t-shirts faster than you can say “Squatch.”
Meanwhile, the real victims here are the actual Bigfoot sightings in Ohio. Did you know Ohio has the second-highest number of Bigfoot reports in the United States, behind only Washington state? No? That’s because you’re too
Final Thoughts
Having spent years covering the quiet corners of America, I can tell you that Vinton County, Ohio, is a masterclass in resilience, not decline. Its struggle isn't a failure, but a stark lesson in what happens when a region relies on a single industry like coal or timber, only to see the world shift beneath its feet. The real story here isn't just about economic loss—it's about a community that is now forced to redefine what "wealth" means in a post-industrial landscape, banking on its rugged Appalachian beauty and tight-knit character as its most valuable, if undervalued, assets.