The Unbearable Stankness of Suiting

I feel better in the bear suit. I feel like myself. It’s not a realistic bear suit, and I don’t behave like a bear when I wear it. It does allow me to be one step removed from the human world, which I appreciate.

I can bear the bear suit. A few people complained that the bear claws were a little too sharp, but the Second Amendment clearly protects the right to bear arms, dammit, and I am proud to be in a bear suit. Now hold on, bear with me, I am not a furry. I am a man trapped in a bear.

If you're a student of folklore, you'll know the prince-trapped-inside-the-body-of-an-animal cliché. That's me, though I'm not a prince, but a viceroy, & this bear skin that's my prison is not so ugly. My problem is that the witch that cursed me never told me how to change back.

A vice what now? Nevermind. Anyways, this bear suit is starting to stink a lot, and I can barely bear its rotten foul stench. Oh well, guess I’ll never marry a beautiful princess ever since that witch cursed me — hold on — why not just give some poor lady a Stockholm syndrome?

What am I thinking?! Women love a Teddy Bear. Must be a carwash around here somewhere. I can just tag behind a Datsun. Get this stank off. The driver won’t notice past the bubbles. Then I just have to hunt down an incredibly large suit. Look out Princesses. Teddy wants a picnic.

I took the nearest exit with a gas station. “It’s not in service!” was the last thing I heard before crashing through the carwash barricade. I came out the other side damp, nervous, and wearing an elaborate bear hat. Someone call pest control because it’s picnic time!