Kill Bear: Volume 1

I ask you, fair readers, is this the face of a killer?

On Thanksgiving I went to my mother’s and took Chick Magnet a newly purchased squeaky stuffed bear. I entered the house and was greeted by the dog at the door, and she lifted her front paws to my stomach and climbed them paw-over-paw up my chest until she was standing pretty much upright. She smelled me and noticed something in the inside pocket of my coat (the bear) and tugged at it until she pulled it out. She tossed it around and soon discovered that it squeaked. This was the death knell for the bear.

About two hours later I got up from the dinner table and walked to the kitchen. I saw Chick Magnet laying on the floor asleep and, to her right, the bear’s carcass surrounded by stuffing. Poor bear. It never stood a chance.

I called my family in to see the sight. My sister started to clean up the stuffing and threw it all away.

“Uh, did you find the squeaker?” I asked.

“Nope” she replied.

I grabbed the bear carcass and looked for the hole and couldn’t find it right away. I looked on the paws, on its belly, on its back, at its neck and found nothing. How did Chick Magnet get to the stuffing? I was perplexed… until I saw the bear’s tail on the floor.

“My God…” I said, trailing off in amazement, examining the hole I then found.

“What?” my sister asked.

“[Chick Magnet] tore the bear a new asshole and pulled the stuffing out of it.”

Much laughing ensued. I didn’t find the squeaker so I grabbed Chick Magnet and tried to squeeze her in hopes that she might make a sound. She did, but it wasn’t a squeak.

She burped.

In my face.

Definitely the last time I buy her a stuffed squeaky toy.

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