Posts Tagged ‘bears’

Bear Chaps

May 14, 2009

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Fast forward, a million years, you walk into a gay bar made of ice blocks…

“CJ, where can I get a fresh one of these?”

CJ dangles a long empty beer bottle in front of his Dodge Power belt buckle, taunting Rusty with a dumb smirk.

Rusty and CJ have been buds for years. They met while attending an Ice Flow Regeneration seminar here in Iqualuit a dozen years earlier. And now, here they are at their tenth seminar on the same subject, still swinging empty bottles.

They’re both husky and strong-looking bears, so neither one of them suspects the other one of being a furry piston, and they both have the professional grace of inventing absentee girlfriends to fill in gaps in personal conversations. Rusty calculates, incorrectly, that CJ is just being a man-pig right now, and not a flirt.

“CJ, are you sure you want another beer? You’re going to go extinct tonight – if you know what I mean.”

“I know my limits…”  CJ stumbles against the white leather bar as he fails to finish his sentence, forgetting that he is in the middle of one.

“That’s it, Ceej. You’re coming back to the hotel right now.”

Rusty calls a taxi with his cell.

When the cab arrives, it’s a pink Cadillac driven by a model wearing green plastic spiked heels.

“Hey, since when does Barbie drive a cab?” CJ asks as they’re whisked off to the Conference Center at the Royal Kinderlesse Hotel.

The Suffering of Anne Bear

March 13, 2009

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Bear Petroleum Bros had the best PR in the industry.

They had succeeded in making human beings forget all about their essential Bear connection by using only their initials in their many marketing campaigns, signing off as “BPB: Beyond Polar Bears” in every single advertisement, product placement, and sponsorship.

To neutralize the bad press from their many wars, the bears managing BPB’s PR ordered that raw fish be banned from BPB cafeterias, and then they had a David Suzuki dedication plaque removed from the head office lobby. Any indication that this was a “bear operation” had to be hidden from sight.

The superficial changes just weren’t enough for the protesters.

They came from all over Canada and the US, to Bear Petroleum Bros. HQ in Calgary. And they came armed with petitions and UN resolutions

So Bear management came out to greet the idealistic young protesters, and showed them a movie free of charge. It was called The Suffering of Anne Bear, and here – free of charge – is one short chapter of the best-selling book it was based on:

The Suffering of Anne Bear Chapter 7;  The Iceman Cometh

The rain was so thick today that you couldn’t even see the tiny icebergs of the Arctic Ocean from the kitchen table. It was as if the whole sky was crying for Mommy – still huddled in my mind, starving to death in the corner next to baby Potley as the seagulls eat away at the crumbs of my memory.

The ice fields still haven’t come back, and Poppy came home drunk again and says we’re going to start eating each other unless “the iceman cometh” – whatever that means. Sometimes I wish he hadn’t been the CEO of a major bear-run petroleum company. It brought our family so much pain from other people who wish they’d had all our advantages. If only they knew how much we really suffered.

Yesterday there was a parade near the river. Everybody else’s dad had a mangled SUV from the war, except mine. “I was way too busy wiping your hairy little asses to go make myself a hero killing humans,” he said about a million times. He doesn’t have to do anything like that for me or Minnie.

Still, sometimes I wish we could all eat together as a real family instead of sifting through garbage alone all the time. Being a roobar is no life for a beautiful, young, innocent child like myself. And it might be really nice for my beautiful, innocent family to be able to do something beautiful and innocent together.

If only someone could read my diary or see one of hundreds of big-budget movies based on its candid and heart-warming story.

O Quarante

March 10, 2009

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Hot liquids melt his fur into skin as Rusty eases into the swirling water of the massive jacuzzi. His small, pert backside brushes a water jet that parts the fine white hairs between his cheeks.

He thinks silently to himself as a cloud of artificial fog comes out of one of the disco boxes near the bar:

Someone ought to throw some ice in there once in a while so the mist doesn’t burn your flesh.

Rusty closes his eyes and fantasizes about being the quirky and high strung spokesmodel for Le O Quarante.

“Is there any better way to temporarily forget the decline of our species and the gray misery outside than with a quick fix of steam and flesh at le O Quarante health club and slushee bar?”

This mix of chlorine, the other patrons’ cologne and the pot he voluntarily ingested before the sauna are mixing together to make Rusty feel dizzy and unfocused. Which is exactly what he needs.

Am I stoned? Of course, I’m stoned!  Why wouldn’t I be. Sitting here in this sauna wasted and breathing in chlorinated mist and soap products. After all, I’m a polar bear. What have I go to look forward to? Extinction?

After working in an office all day, role-playing comes easy. But now comes the hard part for after-work Rusty – relaxing. How to relax your polar bear muscles when the fate of the entire world seems to hang on every adjective of every sentence of every conversation. ‘You snooze, you lose,’ is why he drinks so many espressos.

Visualizing Antarctic penguins, he spreads his toes and concentrates on unwinding the nerve endings in his chest and upper thighs as he exhales slowly, like a Buddhist monk creaming his smock.

Rusty’s mind changes gears suddenly:

Hey, isn’t that a grizzly wading into the pool? What the…

I have a major soft spot  – I don’t know why it’s called soft – for bears from other lands. I remember I heard some smart bears at college say something about how this was my way of avoiding intimacy.

But is that really why I chase after gorgeous and healthy brown bears? I mean, I really love being intimate with bears from other lands. If I wanted to avoid intimacy, wouldn’t I stay home instead of seeking this kind of intimacy?

The grizzly emerges from the cold water of the pool and walks right over to the jacuzzi where Rusty is now trying to relax. One of his muscles gets really tense as the small but well-built brown bear submerges his lower abdomen in the chlorinated cauldron and breaks the sauna code of silence.

“Hey, do you know what time this place closes?”

Aaah, a country bear.

Rusty will be sleeping well in a few hours.

Bear Wars 3

March 7, 2009

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No one seems to notice that Rainier has just eaten the last of the sushi rations. But it means that tomorrow, his company will be digging for rusted sardine cans in the bounty-filled landfills of New Jersey.

“Grandma, tell me about the ice sheets again,” he whispers, his voice fading in and out because of the morphine.

“Well, we used to walk on huge sheets of ice, bigger than a football field, and sometimes we would float for hundreds of kilometers just digging fish out of the water with our bare claws.”

“You mean bear claws, don’t you Grandma?” Rainier grins as he catches a whiff of some laughing gas vapors wafting over from the next cot.

Her grandson’s double entendre seemingly lost on her, Grandma suddenly rises from her seat at the hospital, and walks over to the plexiglass window. An SUV is moving in the football-field-sized parking lot. The enemy is still out there.

So she walks out of the hospital carrying just an Awake magazine and a box of inexpensive visiting chocolates, and marches right up to the vehicle – a slightly damaged Kia Sorento.

“Excuse me, do you know if you’re allowed to park here after 6 on weekends?” the commuter asks, not noticing that he’s talking to a large polar bear carrying religious literature and low-quality sweets in a colorful box.

“Excuse me, do you know if we’re allowed to survive after the Twentieth Century’s industrial disasters?” Grandma cleverly responds as she quickly shreds his internal organs and thinks about how sweet avocado and wassabe will taste with them.

Bear Wars 2

March 6, 2009

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“Basking Ridge: Population 66,666. Average commute: 66.6 minutes. Percent of population that drives to work: 66.6%”

Rainier couldn’t believe what he was reading in Evangelopedia. This was probably the most anti-Bear, anti-paradise city in all of Anglo-Exxonia – at least according to the link he clicked on.

His company had been deployed to New York City where they easily blended in with the semi-homeless musicians of the lower East Side in their avant-garbage winter fashions.

“All those sixes. I don’t know what to think…” Rainier’s voice faded into the hissing of razor-claw missiles landing on the Jersey City side of the Holland tunnel.

Private Rainier was a brave, well-spoken young bear, but his voice grew thin with hunger. He had spent the last four hours vomiting up chemical-laden fish his company had found floating in the Hudson River the night before. Electric sushi, they called it.

At that moment, an SUV packed with escaping commuters failed to stop at their Holland Tunnel Bear checkpoint. Vue, a new recruit from Ellesmere Island (ice melted three months after the war started), pounced on the sport-utility vehicle and accidentally went through the windshield feet-first, her lower claws tearing off the skin of the driver’s face.

“Oops,” she giggled.

Tonight they would dine on something more substantial than the anemic trout with bleeding lesions from the day before. It’d be electric sushi with face scraps for everyone!

(Watch for “Bear Wars 3,” coming soon to a blog near you)

Bear Wars 1

March 6, 2009

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“Razor-Claw missiles armed and ready for launch?”

“Affirmative. Launch in 10, 9…”

General Escalade hadn’t wanted it to come to this. The Polar Bear Defense League (PBDL) was a non-profit, charitable organization – and its original grant application talked about climate change chats with junior high school students, pamphlets at malls – education and community type of things. They raised their first bit of cash selling plain vanilla cookies door to door.

But everything changed when Exxon moved into the ANWAR. That’s when the Board of Directors started saying very different things and planning very different activities.

The critical political change came after Exxon gave billions of dollars to the governments of the US, England and Australia to officially merge Exxon with the Anglo-Saxon “race” to create an ethnic/corporate conglomerate – Anglo-Exxon. This new hybrid would need a foe to try to conquer, and the polar bears were an obvious target because they were unarmed and owned absolutely no media or lawyers.

Then there was the NATO bombing of the last remaining polar-bear-friendly ice sheets north of the drilling zone. Anglo-Exxon proudly advertised this destruction as mankind’s way of “preparing the way for a prosperous northern freedom-zone.” Meaningless words that nonetheless stimulated the TV audience – convinced them they were one step closer to a room temperature heaven.


“Razor-claws set to reach targets in 11 minutes,” the young and well-meaning bear cub says to his superior standing next to him talking to Thomas Dolby on his cell.

“I wouldn’t want to be living the burbs when these babies start to land,” General Escalade confides. Showing a bit of sympathy to the victims of their bombing campaign helps everyone deal with the carnage that will soon follow, though the most effective strategy for coping with the collateral damage is to remind yourself of all the harm these humanoid oil-fiends would have provoked if they’d been left to live. The general’s soothing words are that – even though you can wave your right arm and kill a million humans – you are still a nice bear deep down.

Basking Ridge, New Jersey is the first suburb to be hit. The smell of raw fish and fresh commuter’s blood fills the streets with the sweet but sickly scent of polar bear revenge. Hey, isn’t that the luckiest commuter in New Jersey crossing an overpass just before it crumbles?

(Watch for “Bear Wars 2,” coming soon to a blog near you)

Cindy’s Toys

March 5, 2009

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Theodore Fellonius III, Cindy’s little white stuffed bear, begins to quiver and stretch. From where he lay on the floor next to an ice cream container full of crayons, he is invisible to Cindy’s parents who are watching reality TV and infomercials  in the downstairs den.

He starts to grow in size, doubling in height in just a few seconds. His face begins to rapidly mutate – the soft bushy nose turning into a firm wet rubbery snout – the eyes morphing from perfect little black beads into red-veined watery orbs with a fixed and angry black-eyed glare.

Cindy sleeps without interruption. She keeps her “Max-Air Plus” air conditioner in her room on maximum arctic cold and sleeps with five blankets to stay “cozy.”  Sometimes she even leaves the window open and the air conditioner on super-turbo.

Theodore’s formerly amorphous paws begin to sprout distinctly un-cute digits. And on each digit, a razor-like claw begins to pierce through the increasingly matted white fur.

Will Cindy wake up in time?


March 4, 2009

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Rusty the polar bear sloshed back his sud-soaked squeegy paw. From the other side of the windshield, he could see the bored face of yet another hyperactive and irritable rush-hour commuter ignoring his presence. For the commuter, Rusty was just another squeegy-punk loser species at another baked-asphalt intersection.

Rusty’d about had it up to here.

His clenched paw plowed through the safety-glass of the windshield. Perhaps it was all the pot, or the headache from the heat beating against his dirty fur, but Rusty felt no pain or remorse as his razor-sharp claws lunged through the broken glass and into the soft neck of the suburbanite motorist.

The sudden blood loss made the commuter drop his cell. In no time, he slumped over, dead in his Abercrombie and Fitch muscle shirt and spray-on tan.

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Meanwhile,  just a few blocks away, a few polar bears were having body-bag races and eating bean-stuffed human intestine on wheat buns. Jimmy and Orca had been chosen to organize the Polar Bear’s annual picnic and bake sale in Jasper National Park.

Jimmy had brought along some eyes for eye salad, potatoes for potato salad, and lettuce to make some commuter-on-rye sandwiches – with the crust removed, of course.

Orca, a vegetarian since her ice fields melted, decided to skip the commuter sandwiches and just eat raw nuts and berries, along with the wine.

But she got really loaded on the wine and ran into a clogged intersection full of SUVs and killed over a hundred drivers with her paws, laughing and singing Pat Benatar “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” the entire time she mangled the motorists and scratched the paint of their vehicles.

“Orc, honey, the picnic’s over here,” Jimmy whispered after her rampage, a smile sprouting on his furry white face. He knew she was just dealing with her inner demons in a creative way. This was Step 4.

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