Friends, let me tell you, bears are not logical creatures. You go through life saying “thank you” and “gesundheit”; holding up logs for pregnant bunnies to pass under; allowing coyotes to snag the freshest road waffles. My greatest fear in life is to offend somebody – what else is a bear to be afraid of? Really. It is in the context of this preamble that I shall relate to you the horrors of my day.
I appropriated some construction equipment I found by the highway for the purpose of transporting supplies for Roderick’s fishing venture. It was in the course of these errands that I met the most irrationally quick-tempered ursine ice distributor. Not a minute into our dealings, he asked me if I preferred the ice in the form of cubes or chunks. Eying a fine sow walking past, I exclaimed, perhaps more enthusiastically than is comme il faut, “Chunky!”
The ice bear gave me an icy stare as he asked where I wanted the chunks loaded, and I pointed over my shoulder and said, “Right in the back of that dump truck.”
At which point the bear lost his cool, shouting, “That’s not a dump truck, that’s my wife!” and clocked me. Knocked me out cold.
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