8.26.07 - Kidnapped

When last I wrote, I was just about to leave for Tennessee. Not a day into the trip, as I was relieving myself, some gentlemen made me an offer no bear would pass up. On the promise of a bucket of blueberries, I followed them to their truck where they turned on me and forced me into a cage.

They kidnapped me because they thought I would make a perfect mascot for their traveling motor sports show. I would be lying to say I wasn’t a little bit flattered. I’ve always had at least one paw in show business. Hell, when I was in college I took a bit part I’m not very proud of in a Stanley Kubrick horror flick where I gave a butler a blow job.



Anyway, I spent the better part of a month with these guys. Things got off to a rough start, however. We pulled into a Wendy’s, and I was feelin’ some Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers™, like maybe 400 of them. I don’t speak any English, and they didn’t understand Bear, so I ended up with 3 Fish Sandwiches™.

On top of that, everyone in the parking lot was taking my photo. And then half of the Wendy’s staff came out to get pictures with me, Abu Ghraib style. There I was, sitting naked in a cage, with this uniformed nincompoop grinning for a picture. I hope Dave Thomas’s ghost court-martials him.

7.21.07 - A Taste of Honey

I meant to leave a couple days ago for Tennessee, but as I was readying my unicycle, I received a most considerate offer from a chap across the pond named Heir Bear.

To make a long story short, his great uncle Sir Millionaire Bear was a honey magnate in England. Upon his death, through some legal fiddle-faddle, the Queen expropriated his apiaries.

I’m not sure how he found me of all bears, but Heir Bear offered to cut me in on a sizeable portion of the honey yield if I would help finance his lawsuit by transferring the deeds to a couple thousand acres of Warren County’s forests to his financial institution of choice, Bear Stearns.

Needless to say, I leapt at the opportunity. As I landed, my foot sunk into a groundhog hole, spraining my ankle.

I was not displeased because I knew this would warrant a visit from the very lovely Dr. Mary Bear. Now I’m not one to let my mouth run, though I must convey that Mary harvested a sweet batch of honey whilst I pollinated her flower.

Later on, as the orchestra swelled, she shed a few tears and promised to wait for me to return from my deployment to Tennessee so that we could be wed.

7.13.07 - If there is a bear

I read the letter from my dad today, and I am concerned about his mental health. Mom always said he was a right-wing bear – he was featured in a 1984 Reagan ad – but now he has become a paranoid conspiracy theorist too. He thinks the government is tracking him with ear tags and collars. This has gone too far.

"Harry,

"I haf’nt writen too you since I lefd 11 yers ago because I never really likked you, you wer an axident, but a few nites ago i was out carowsing with my possum frends eting mushrumes off the forest floor, past a point I ca’nt rememember anything but I woke up in a kettle of a streme filled with chunks of ice, the goverment stole my kidny to sell on the black marcket and now they’re funnelling money to Hillary Clinton Bear and the United Nations, the Black Helicopters are flying all around me, some spooks from the forest service are spying on me too, their monitering me with tags they put in my ear and a coller around my neck, i think they stuck some sort of device up my ass, i hate the government, and I’m warning you to be on the look out for forest servis assholes.

"Your dad,

"John Birch Bear"

I must go to Tennessee and get him into a nursing home before he hurts someone.

7.6.07 - There were fireworks

July 4th was a blast, a bust, and a bang. In that order.

Ralph has a lot of experience with fireworks, so I agreed to let him do the honors. On my count, he launched the first batch.

I should have realized that fireworks would also send me into the flashback of my childhood run-in with the hunters. In my dream, I felt the bullet hit my leg, but this time, I turned around and dove on top of the hunter and his gun. When I woke up, I had a big hole in my side where the fireworks had exploded.

To my delight, Dr. Mary Bear was tending to my wounds once again. I gazed deep into her eyes, as brown as nutrient-rich dirt.

“I’ve been seeing too much of you recently,” she quipped.

“Well, you can see a lot more if you’d like.”

She did. I’ll leave the rest to your imaginations, though I would like to add that some more fireworks went off, and again, I was blown away.

On another note, I received a letter from my estranged father today. After mom gave up her combination-diner-and-adult-video-store outside of Hackettstown and ran away, never to be heard from again, my father went off the deep end and moved down to Tennessee. This is the first time he has contacted me since he left eleven years ago.

7.3.07 - ... and the Pursuit of "Flash 'n Bash"

As you all know, tomorrow is the 4th of July, which can only mean one thing: EXPLOSIONS! I decided to get in on the festivities and hop a riverboat to PA to buy some illegal fireworks.

I stopped by The Rusty Rudder, a dingy watering hole where I knew I would find the master boatman, Ferry Bear. After some finagling, he agreed to get me across.

Once there, I walked into the fireworks store and asked for a “Fort Knox,” a “Dazzling Diamond Fountain,” and a “Flash ‘n Bash” before the guy behind the counter said, “Whoa there Chester. You’re a bear! I can’t sell fireworks to a bear. I don’t have that kind of license!”

Demoralized, I sauntered out to the parking lot where I lay despondent on the curb. Had everyone but me forgotten the true meaning of July 4th? The inalienable right to blow shit up?

NO! Just as I was about to give up all hope, an old drunk stumbled past. I accosted him, and without hesitation, he agreed to buy me my fireworks.

With a heart full of love and arms full of explosives, I crossed the Delaware to New Jersey, just as George Washington had done 230-and-a-half years earlier.

6.30.07 - Up Shit Creek

These past few days, I’ve been so bothered about my genealogy, I’ve been gorging on raspberries. These have yielded some unusual turds to say the least. Yesterday, it all started with one that was loose and full of seeds, sort of like raspberry jam. This morning, I woke up and excreted a pile of small dry nuggets. Later in the afternoon as I was laying a log, I happened to read in the newspaper that they were casting dancing bears for the circus.

Needless to say, I jumped at the opportunity and hightailed it to Hoboken. I waited for hours in a tent with other bears from all over the world. There were some seasoned pros, let me tell you. Most of the bears had managers and agents and lawyers and dieticians and spiritual advisors. All I had was my God-given talent and some gumption.

The audition piece they called was a personal favorite: the Macarena!

I danced it like I had never danced before. My big furry paws seemed to move as if guided by a divine force. And when it came to the part where I shook my hips, I really let ‘em fly. It was about that time when it became evident that I had been slowly leaking a sticky seed-filled substance down the backs of my legs.

For some reason, I didn’t get the job – the judges must have had shit for brains.

6.27.07 - Can't see the forest for the family trees

It’s not often that I seek advice, but when I do, I can always rely on good ol’ Ralph the Raccoon to offer some sage words. After all, he knows everything – he’s omnivorous.

I had become romantically entangled with a certain Ms. Mary Bear, but got to thinking one night and realized that we share the same last name. This presented an obvious problem.

“Hey man, if you go back far enough, everyone was incestuous,” replied Ralph. “Sometimes, it’s not even that far. My parents, Rudolph and Rae, were uncle and niece. I’m not sure where that puts me.”

At which point I interjected, “You’re a good guy, and that’s all that matters.” But really, I was not satisfied with his answer.

He continued, “Hell, every bear I’ve met in this forest has the same surname: Jerry Bear, Terry Bear, Gary Bear, Larry Bear, Queer Bear, Claire Bear, and of course the cute mentally challenged one, Teddy Bear.”

On that note, I left Ralph to take a long walk and contemplate everything I thought I knew. My world had become so complex. Was Paddington Bear, a British chap with a terrible sense of direction, really related to the Berenstien Bears, a nice Jewish family? And what about Corduroy Bear with his impeccable fashion sense? Could he really be related to that mangy toker Smokey the Bear?