Go Suck an Egg

Beep. Beep. Boop.

I swipe my debit card in the machine. I use my sharp bear nails to punch in my pin number. The checkout clerk takes an interest in my bag of pre-boiled, pre-peeled eggs.

Okay, okay. You can legitimately judge me on this purchase. I am actually paying a premium because I can’t get my life together enough to boil eggs. Frankly, I judge myself for that.

I’m answering a series of increasingly annoying questions from the machine. (Is 12 dollars all right with you? Not really, but what are you going to do about the price of hummus, amiright? Are you sure you want to put all 12 dollars on your card? Where else would they go? Are you sure? Buzz off, Machine. No really, are you fucking sure?) The clerk is still reading the back of my egg package like it’s the last Twilight book. What is your deal, man?

“The thing about eggs…” (aha! Now we’re getting to it!) “…is they have so much cholesterol. Look at this! Over 200 mg in ONE egg!”

Bitch, please.

He looks me up and down, getting all the information he needs from my appearance. How DARE you, sir? You take one look at me and just assume I need to be schooled about nutrition? Look, I have body-fat reserves; it’s called hibernation. Read a goddamn book. 

Take a look at what you don’t see in that basket: your may-as-well-come-in-a-syringe cookie butter, which wasn’t a part of my life at all until three years ago. (Thank you, Trader Joe.) My basket of hummus and vegetables is fucking health food compared to the sweet, sweet liquid crack that your store invented.

And just who the hell are you to say eggs are unhealthy, anyway? Smarty pants people, like the ones here, here, and oh yeah, here figured out fifteen years ago that eggs aren’t all that bad. Where did you do your research? Oh that’s right, the back of a package with a picture of an egg on it.

Maybe you should read up on eggs and nutrition before you go spouting off. Check out this article. And oh hey, this one. By the way, this one. And this one. Don't mind me. I can wait.

I've got nothing but time.

See what I mean? Turns out eggs don’t cause the plaque building up in your arteries; it’s more like saturated and trans fats. You know, like in that cheeseburger you had for dinner last night. What did I have for dinner? Grasses and berries and a heart-healthy salmon because I AM A MOTHER-FUCKING BEAR.

Like a boss.

Know what else is listed on that label you read so closely? All the nutrients shoved into the egg, like protein, vitamins, riboflavin, and folate, which can help lower the risk for heart disease. Did you see all of that in your careful examination of my food? No? Color me shocked.

But, by all means, sell me some judgment to go with those eggs.

Spoiler

An open letter to the human who spoiled the ending of the Paddington Bear movie:

Did you ever hear about the guy who rented a van with a loudspeaker to drive around town, broadcasting the ending to The Usual Suspects the day it opened in theaters?

No? That’s because I ate him.

What about the jerk who plastered a banner on a major highway overpass, spoiling the ending of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, the day it was released?

Oh, you’ve heard of him? I ate him, too. Just didn’t beat the press to the scene.

Did I ever tell you the story about how my uncle ruined the ending to The Sixth Sense before my mother could see it?

She ate him.

Then, in the process of telling me the story, she spoiled the ending for me.

Now you know why I don’t talk about my mother; I ate her. I don’t recommend bear meat, by the way. Too grizzly.

So, about Paddington. You say I should have read the book already, that it’s on me that I don’t know how the story of Paddington ends? To that I say: GRAAAAWR. I am a well-read bear (you don’t get to be a judge without reading a few books, let me tell you). Perhaps, perhaps, when everyone was out reading Paddington the Bear, I was holed up at home, up to my teeth in law books.

Now, I want to see the movie, dammit. The fact that I didn’t read the book doesn’t give me less of a right to watch the movie, or enjoy the intricate twists and turns of Paddington as he adventures in England. But you’ve ruined the experience for me before I can so much as log in to Fandango.

I have just one question left for you. Do you think you’ll taste better à la tartare or au poivre?

Judgey Bear Goes to the Movies

Why, hello young couple. Nice of you to join us. Excuse me, pardon me, excuse me, pardon me. Except you don’t say a goddamn word like this because these are social niceties that are beyond you.

Fine. Here’s what you’ve missed. First, there were about twenty minutes of trailers—you know, the ones that begin at the published start time for the movie. Then, there was the opening credit sequence, followed by about ten minutes of groundwork-laying plot development. We like her, we’re not sure about her yet, and we hate him. Good. Now you’re caught up.

Okay dude. Your body language screams that this is not your kind of movie, you are here strictly to humor your girlfriend, and you will NOT be enjoying yourself at ALL. I mean, how could you? The main characters are women, for God’s sake. What’s more, they’re not propping up a male hero, or looking hot in a bikini. (Oh wait! There’s Kate Upton in a bikini! Does that do anything f… no? NO? Okaaaaay.) Someone actually wrote and produced a movie where women are interacting with each other outside the context of men. If you even pay attention to such tripe, they’ll revoke your Man Card. And let’s not even get started on the kind of message that will send your girl, am I right?

Your intentions have been made clear. I’ll just sit here and pretend you don’t exist.

Seriously? You need to check the clock on your cell phone to verify how much time you’re wasting at this movie?

Bro, if you wanted to check Facebook, you would have been much more comfortable in your own home. I hear at home, you don’t have to wear pants. Wouldn’t it be fun not to be wearing pants? I wish you were not wearing pants, not here, not now.

Do you get that the light from your phone burns into my retinas, no matter how much I look away? There it is, plaguing my peripheral vision with blaring white light, taking me out of the very movie I paid to immerse myself in. Some bears find that kind of thing distracting. I’m pretty sure you don’t want to draw a bear’s attention to yourself.

Look. Judgey Bear has a husband, right? (They call him Mr. Bear) Do you see him here? Exactly. Because he would not like this movie. He’s across the theater, at another screen, watching things explode. I hear there aren’t even any car chases in this movie here. Perhaps you should go and join Mr. Bear at the Man Movie over there? You know, not here.

I mean, Girl. Really? This is better than seeing the movie on your own? You’re okay with the constant sighing, the shifting weight, the passive-aggressive posture and worst of all, the iPhone-of-a-thousand-suns? You’d rather put up with all that than sit in a dark theater by yourself letting a story wash over you? You can’t peel yourself away from this one for just two hours, so you can enjoy yourself in peace?

Girl, you need to get your man in check. Stare at him pointedly, grab his cell-phone hand and hold it all romantic-like, blow on his ear, blow him, something, anything to shut down that light.

No? Okay then. I’ll make him stop. First, a friendly passive aggressive stare. You know, the kind with a not-so-sweet, bear toothy smile.

What? I'm smiling...

Five minutes of this and he still doesn’t get the message; I’m still doing my best not to see that soul-rending light. Perhaps my body language isn’t clear. I’ll sit up straight. Gosh, dude, you’re pretty small. I mean, look at you down there. Shut. Your phone. DOWN.

Fuck this. Feel the might of my judgmental wrath wash over you. ROAR.

Now that I have your attention, I do believe I’m going to bite your head off (not a metaphor). Don’t worry, though. As your hand goes limp and your phone’s light blinks out, I’ll save it from crashing to the ground. Perhaps I’ll find someone who can wield the social responsibility of a smart phone—someone who can unplug long enough to watch a damned movie.

Speaking of which…

Loogies at the Gym

ALL RISE.

Court is now in session; the honorable Judgey Bear presiding.

First case on the docket is People versus Hock-a-Loogey Lady.

DA: At approximately 8:00 am this morning, witnesses state Ms. Loogey did loudly and repeatedly hock a loogey and spit it out on the shower floor at the gym.

JUDGEY BEAR: Gross.

DA: Indeed. If it pleases Your Judginess, I’d like to call Megan Ferrell to recall the event as it transpired this morning.

JUDGEY BEAR: Of course.

MEGAN: Your Honor, I was just starting to suds up when it started. So loud. So gross. After the second loogey, I started to gag.

DA: How many times did you hear the hockage?

MEGAN: Four or five.

DA: Thank you. Prosecution rests.

JUDGEY BEAR: Loogey Lady, please step forward. What say you? Did you commit these acts?

LOOGEY LADY: Yeah, but it’s not like it was in public. It’s a locker room. Geez.

JUDGEY BEAR: Let me put it this way. Where did the loogies go after leaving you?

LL: Umm…in the shower stall? Down the drain?

JUDGEY BEAR: The same shower stall that will be used by other gym-goers?

LL: Yeah…

JUDGEY BEAR: So, basically, in a room full of women, you spit snot and bile and gunk all over the shower floor, where others will walk, possibly with their bare feet?

LL: Sure, but it’s a shower. And it’s not like I had control…

JUDGEY BEAR: Funny you should say that, because you do have control. You have to go to some effort to hock one. And to do so anywhere besides your own bathroom suggests a blatant disregard for other humans. I have no choice but to find you guilty and sentence you to a week of Loogey Rehabilitation.

LL: Your honor?

JUDGEY BEAR: Loogey Rehabilitation. Inspired by my own childhood experience, truth be told. A rehabilitation officer will pin you to the ground, hock a loogey, and dangle it over your face. Repeatedly.

LL:  But what if it falls?

JUDGEY BEAR: I suggest you keep your mouth closed.

<bang bang> Next case!