An Armed Bear

John Birch Bear had always been somewhat more conservative than the average bear. But starting with the Civil Rights Act of 1964, through the oil embargo and resulting economic downturn in the ‘70s, he declined from quasi-respectable, wire-rimmed glasses-wearing business bear to ranting conspiracy theorist, eager to explain to anyone unfortunate enough to be pulled into conversation with him that homosexual Mexican bears had infiltrated the Food and Drug Administration with the aim of slipping oral contraceptives into Ketchup packets distributed to public school cafeterias.

I hadn’t seen him since he left in 1996. When I found him, he was holed up in his den, playing cribbage with a posse of possums. Naturally, Fox News was blaring something about the threat of Obamabear and the creeping European-style welbear state.

I rapped timidly on the door. In his deafness, he was alerted to an outside presence only by the intrigue on the faces of his toothy compatriots. Convinced that the feds had finally caught up with him, he leapt from his recliner and in dashing across the room for the nearest firearm, slipped on a Teflon pan set on the floor for his dog to pre-wash – he had sautéed kippers and capers for lunch. Having knocked his head in the fall, only a glimmer of recognition flashed in his eyes as I knelt at his side.

“Dad!”

An expression of horror swept over his face.

“It only took one careless evening when your mom and I forwent condiments.”

He still possessed whatever dented marbles he ever had, though he was incapable of moving. I beseeched the marsupials to summon medical help, and one of them rang up the local clinic.

Resting the receiver, the critter said, “Nurse Sherry Bear is en route.”

Tennessee

I realize I haven’t posted in nearly three years, but I’ve been a busy and beleaguered bear. I’ll offer no further excuses, just my story. When last I wrote, I had left the bikers, and rode into the sunset on my unicycle. I was Tennessee-bound to ensure my estranged right-wing father didn’t hurt anyone in his derangement. After days on the trail I rolled into the majestic forests of the Iron Mountains. Once I knew I was in the vicinity, I accosted a wise old owl – what other kind is there?

“Do you know John Birch Bear?”

“Who?”

“John Birch Bear. Do you know him?

“Who?”

“Well, you should ask, ‘whom?’ since he was the object of my question.”

“Who?”

At this point I realized I was dealing with an idiot, so I peddled on. Shortly, I came upon a diner that advertised fresh baked bear claws and took it as a sign. As I ordered at the counter, I noticed a possum eyeing me from across the room. The bear claw came out, and as I started eating, the little marsupial wandered up.

“You Birch Bear’s boy?” Before I could answer, he continued, “He’s been expecting you.”

Normally, when a rodent-like creature implores me to follow him, I have my reservations. I knew a British bear who followed a slick little mouse on the premise of visiting “the happiest place on earth.” I haven’t seen the bloke since, but the word is that he’s being held hostage for a few billion dollars worth of merchandising revenue.

Having no other option, however, I followed this toothy critter to my father.