I hate bears. They’re fat, oversleeping, furry assholes. And can they leave a frickin’ picnic basket alone for one minute? I don’t think so. Bears have no emotional intelligence. None.
Try petting a bear. That’s a no go. I mean, you can try, but that bear will claw your nads off like they were two blueberries in September. And they will not apologize for that. They’ll just keep pawing through your trash like nothing even happened. Bears don’t give a shit.
Speaking of shit, the forest is full of it. That bear you see is 10% bear skin and ninety percent intestines. When a bear eats your potato salad from the campsite, the salad barely has time to turn brown before it’s getting pinched off on some innocent bush in the forest. And what did the bush do to deserve that? Nothing. You don’t see humans do that sort of thing. No human ever says, “I think I’ll drop a deuce on the cat.” We humans respect nature. Bears don’t. They pollute and they don’t give a hoot.
And what does a bear do when it has an itchy ass? Does it buy some ointment and suffer silently like a proper mammal, or does it find some majestic redwood tree that is minding its own business and use it as an ass-scratcher? These questions answer themselves, folks.
Sometimes you hear of a trained bear in a Russian circus, riding a tiny bicycle, wearing an undersized hat, and you think how cute. But you only hear of those trained bears in Russia. Oh, there’s a reason. It’s because Russian men are not metrosexuals. That bear is actually a guy named Boris who hasn’t trimmed his eyebrows or shaved his back in forty years. The circus doesn’t even pay him. They just hand him a little hat, a little bicycle, and a pitcher of vodka. The rest just happens. So don’t tell me how trainable bears are. While Boris is riding that tiny bike, bears are trying to break into your camper to eat your kids. Bears suck.
I’m afraid of anything that sleeps half the year without dying. Bears call it “hibernating” because it sounds better than lazy. That’s nothing but good marketing. Those furry bastards even managed to become California’s mascot, or state animal, or whatever-the-fuck. What kind of message does that send to our kids? If the state mammal can’t get its furry ass out of its den for six months, how are we supposed to get the kids to school by 8 AM? I want my state animal to be a wise owl, or perhaps a porpoise that saves a surfer from a shark. I think I speak for all Californians when I say we don’t want to be associated with bears. It makes the whole state look bad.
To make matters worse, after “hibernating,” those lazy bastards spend the next six months, or whatever, eating shit that isn’t even theirs. That’s right: Bears are communists. They do not respect individual property rights. You think you own that ham sandwich on the picnic table? A bear doesn’t think so.
I have never trusted bears, and now I hear they are recruiting humans to join their side. In San Francisco, for example, there are men with beards and leather clothing who identify themselves as bears. They act all nice, but after two drinks you won’t believe what they suggest doing. It makes losing a picnic basket sound like a holiday. You might try it a few times just to be polite, but you always find yourself rubbing against a redwood tree afterwards just to make the itching stop.
There’s a good reason that Wall Street calls a falling stock market a “bear market.” And when you have a hard time accomplishing something you might say it was a “bear” of a time. You simply don’t see bears associated with happy events.
Well, okay, there is one exception.
Someone once asked if I had ever had sex on a bearskin rug in front of a fireplace. So I tried it a few times, and I have to say it was great. I guess that’s why the taxidermist keeps the bear’s mouth open in the roaring position. Someday I plan to add a human to the mix and see how the threesome goes.