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!

Righteous Indignation

Judgey Bear explains why we follow rules…

In an idealized version of our world, we all exercise acts of common courtesy and minimize the impact of our actions on others. We would do these things because we care about our fellow man, because we believe in a sense of community, because gosh golly we’re nice people. The reality of the situation is that the world at large, and this city in particular, is full of assholes. Like a virus, assholitis is an exponentially spreading condition. Continued exposure to the virus leaves even the most Polyanna of us wondering, “Why bother doing unto others, when they have no intention of returning the favor? If you can’t beat ‘em, may as well join ‘em.” And another asshole is born.

There’s a far more compelling reason for exercising these courtesies and minimizing our impact on others. It affords us the warm fuzzy feelings of righteous indignation. Before gathering all that indignation about you like a cozy winter cloak, you have to be righteous. If you stoop to, say, “dibbs” or honking at birds, you cannot judge others who do. And there’s nothing Judgey Bear loves more than to judge. Technically, I suppose you could judge, but you would be wrong and a hypocrite. In which case, Judgey Bear will judge your judgment. And you. Harshly. 

What if everyone lived and treated others according to their desire to judge others from a pulpit of righteousness? In order to avoid hypocrisy, we’d have to put ourselves in someone else’s place, if only to decide what behavior would elicit judgment. Stuck in a long line of traffic? Tempted to honk? Ah, but if you were in front of yourself, being honked at, would you judge? Then lay off that horn, buddy.

We would be forced to put ourselves in someone else’s place, to contemplate how we would react when someone was in our position. Not because we care about our fellow man, no. Because we want the right to judge freely and wantonly.

Does it get us to the same place? Despite my judgey motives, am I describing a naïve and impossible utopia? I like to think that, though the results are similar, the path of righteous indignation may be an easier one for most to follow than selflessness and concern for the community.

A Judgey Bear Treatise on “Dibbs”

When it snows in the woods, not much changes. When it snows in Chicago, more than a few inches, things get…uncivilized. (This, from a bear.)

First, an examination of snowy street landforms…

Primary streets are plowed, and usually have snow parking rules that allow for complete street coverage. Secondary streets, like ours, are rarely plowed. Tertiary streets, like all others in our neighborhood, are never plowed. There can be two feet of snow, but nobody will remove the snow from the street. Cars continue to drive on it, creating predictable, but no less majestic landforms. First, wagon-wheelesque ruts run down the center of the street. Between these snow valleys; an ice plateau. Traffic packs the snow down; heat from cars melts it and compacts it into a six-inch pack of ice. Between the snow valleys and a line of parked cars? Ice mountain ranges topped with smokey silt from the street. In the creation of the wheel valleys, snow is displaced, giving rise to these majestic mountain ranges.

In which Judge Bear explains to non-Chicago residents what “Dibbs” means…

Excavating your car from the snow not only involves shoveling away regular accumulation of snow and ice from around your car; it involves forging a mountain pass to the street. After the two feet of snow here last week, it took two days to dig out a Honda; five days for the Smart. Such a feat inspires a certain sense of resentment-tinged pride and ownership. Hence the birth of “dibbs.”

It’s snowy wintertime, so you don’t need that lawn chair now, right? Who even knows what milk crates are for anymore, so the one you have is pretty useless anyway, huh? And Junior can totally eat his mashed peas from a big-person chair. His high chair can now serve a higher purpose. Plop it in that spanking new, shiny, shoveled-out spot to save it for later. Sure, door locks and a car alarm don’t deter anyone from stealing your car, its radio, or even its catalytic converter. But that milk crate is sacred. No one will think of moving it to take your spot. 

The practice of “dibbs” has been accepted and mayorally condoned in Chicago since long before Judgey Bear migrated here. No one has asked, but here it is. 

Judgey Bear ruling on “dibbs”: no.

This isn’t a simple case of “Do unto others.” You have to shovel your car out the snow, regardless. You are not doing a good deed or paying it forward or reaping what you sow by shoveling that patch of street around your car. You are performing a necessary and 100% self-serving, albeit sucky, task. It’s like laundry. You just suck it up because you need to wear clothes. You just suck it up and shovel because you want your car to go vroom vroom. Guess what. It’s the same for everyone. Few are out shoveling because snow is pretty and gee, isn’t physical exertion fun. 

So you created a free spot on the street in the process of excavating your car and leaving. Why should someone else get to capitalize on all your effort, shoveling out in the cold? Except, (caution: logic bomb) everyone has to shovel to get their car out, thereby creating other free spots on the street. If, when you get home, someone has taken the spot you cleared (not “your” spot), find one of the other spots someone else has cleared. Just as you always do on a public street. If you want a private parking space, make like your neighbors with a spot in a garage or on a parking pad, and pay for one. Otherwise, we’re all in this together, suckers.