Where to begin? I guess I’ll start with a story I read about with this toy store in California. The shop owner received a two-foot tall teddy bear at his store. When he squeezed the bear, he described the feeling ad “hard and crinkly”. As he sliced open the teddy bear, I suspect in the manner of a CSI autopsy (maybe he just sliced the belly open, or perhaps cut the fuzzy fucker’s head off), the insides of the bear were not soft stuffing, but that of a large amount of marijuana. This business owner immediately called the local Sheriff to confiscate the bear and the weed. I would assume an investigation is ongoing, but I don’t really care. What troubles me is that this so-called businessman missed one hell of an opportunity to make some extra cash selling that grass. He could have taken the innards of his new friend (whom I’ve cleverly named “Smokey”) and sold that shit on the streets to some degenerates and made a quick buck. Hell, he could have smoked it himself. He could have found one of the many hippies that I am sure roam the California “wilderness” to buy it. Jesus, am I the only one who is not completely short-sighted?
On a note relating to hippies and bears, I also read about an 11-year old boy killing a bear that was loitering on his porch. The boy tried shooing the bear away, and when that failed, he went all Rambo on that bear’s ass. I didn’t get the privilege of reading about this via conventional news; I read about it on some bleeding-heart hippie-bear-sympathizer’s blog, saying that the boy should have called animal control, rather than busting a cap in the bear’s ass. I say fuck that bear-loving asshole. Going on and on about how beautiful bears are, and saying that blowing the head off of one is too extreme. I say sit on that shit and spin the hell around, bitch. The only live bears I have ever seen hang out at the zoo. In cages. That’s as close as a city-slicker such as myself likes to get to any animal that looks at me like I look at a pound of bacon. If I were to look out my front window and see a bear chilling out on my front porch, my last reaction would be to think about how majestic a creature it is. I would be thinking, “That’s a fucking bear on my porch, and it’s huge as hell. I need to go across the street and get cigarettes, but I am not going any-fucking-where with a big-ass bear squatting my front porch, waiting for me to waltz out the front door. Let me get right on that. How about I smear myself in a bunch of goat’s blood and kick the bear square in its fuzzy, bear nuts? Fuck that, and fuck you, bear. I’m going to get me a shotgun and blast you to kingdom come.” The act of killing a bear is not high on my list of goals in life, let alone would I describe it as an ideal Friday night, but if a bear gets anywhere near me without being in some kind of containment (at least on some kind of heavy-duty leash where it’s tied to a big-ass tree), and I have a gun, that bear is going to get clipped. And I won’t shed a single tear. I may just cut off its head and place it on a spike to deter other bears from coming near where I call home. I don’t fuck around when it comes to bears. They will kill me if I give them even the slightest reason, so I hold them to the same standard. Stay out of my ‘hood, bears, or get iced, bitch.
