HELP! A Bear Is Eating Me! - Mykle Hansen [6]
Still stuck. I tried wriggling, yanking, squirming. I can’t feel my legs too clearly, but that’s just fine considering. I’m biding my time, waiting for my opening. Mister Bear is fast asleep. I’d be asleep too, if Mister Bear didn’t snore so incredibly loud. I thought animals were supposed to be silent, so they can’t get snuck up upon and eaten by other animals. But bears don’t worry about that, do they? Other animals don’t fuck with bears. Bears rule the animal kingdom. Okay, I respect that. But I’m not from the animal kingdom, I’m from the United Fucking States. The animal kingdom is our colony. Mister Bear, you may think you’re the carnivore and I’m the carne, but time will prove you wrong. Time will prove you a bear-burger breakfast and a soft warm place on the floor upon which to get nasty with Marcia from Product Dialogue.
Wish I could sleep. These pills are just a tiny bit speedy. That’s usually how I like them. I think I’ve got some codeine in here someplace but I can’t see at all, feeling slightly lightheaded under a Range Rover in the middle of the night in Noplace, Alaska. There’s just the tiniest eau de petrol in the mix of hideous nature smells I’m choking on. But I’m cheerful, I’m upbeat.
It’s funny … I used to fall asleep with a bear, a cuddly toy bear my parents gave me when I was small. He was a brown bear, and he wore reflective sunglasses and leather motorcycle clothes — the jacket, the hat and the chaps. He looked just like the singer in Judas Priest, Rob Halford. I called him Bomber — Bomber Bear. Technically Bomber was my little brother Jimmy’s bear, but Jimmy was too young to really appreciate bears. During the pre-divorce meltdown I used to have a lot of trouble getting to sleep and I really grew to depend on Bomber. So when I went off to live with Dad I appropriated him: I told Jimmy that Bomber had been killed in a motorcycle accident, and we had to bury him in a closed casket because his corpse was too mangled to look at, and we had held a nice funeral but we forgot to invite Jimmy, and Bomber never liked Jimmy anyway. Jimmy cried about that. Jimmy was a big crybaby, but we all cried a lot back then. So I said goodbye to Mom and Jimmy, and me and Bomber went to live with Dad in Orange County, and I slept with Bomber every night until the ninth grade when I found out Rob Halford is gay.
Knowing what I now know about bears, I think it’s just sick that people give cute fuzzy stuffed gay ones to children. What are we teaching these kids? Bears aren’t cute, they’re not friendly or helpful, they’re vicious, stupid, bloody-minded people eaters. You might as well teach children to play with infected rats, or foamy-mouthed doggies. I read tons of stories on the Internet during my extensive bear research phase about little kids climbing into bear cages at zoos to pet the bear, and getting mauled and eaten. Polar bears especially. I ask you, should we even be surprised? We’re just setting kids up for that … Look, mommy! See the bear? Oh, so cute, so white, so fluffy. Watch him dance. Back and forth, back and forth in his little home in the zoo. The bear looks sad. Why is he sad, Mommy? Does he not like the zoo? Maybe he is lonely, and needs love. I will hug him, Mommy, like I hug my own bear at home. Rrrrrrr … splat!
On my father’s grave, on my mother’s grave, on the graves of my bear-eaten subordinates and on the grave of my own foot I solemnly swear that when I get home I’m going to pitch