As a Mother and Charmin Bear, I’m Resisting the Country Bears’ Agenda of Hate

Charmin Bear

I never considered myself a political animal. My philosophy has always been “all carnivoran mammals of the family Ursidae are created equal.” Is that a political statement? To me, that’s just how I was raised. But ever since the election…ugh. Don’t get me started.

I still refuse to call Henry the Country Bear “President.” Puhleeze – a third-rate animatronic Magic Kingdom Jamboree host? It kills me that Mama Berenstain Bear could have been leader of the free bears, instead of this bigoted idiot and his stupid top hat. But all we heard from the media was, “Ooh, Mama Bear is too boring, she’s too wise, she reminds male bears too much of their mothers!”

When I saw the news that Henry “won” (I say this with air quotes, because I’m sure he had help from his Russian friends Cozy Bear and Fancy Bear), a wave of nausea hit me and I locked myself in the bathroom and hyperventilated into a fresh fluffy roll of Charmin Ultra Soft Bath Tissue. Then the anger took over and I vowed that I would fight this illegitimate “president” until my last breath, if that’s what it takes.

Look, I know we’re a divided nation. We Charmins in the Bear Flag state tend to be more liberal than the Angel Soft-worshipping jug-band-twangers over in Jamboree country. But I guess I’ve been living in a bubble, because the sheer meanness of a quarter of my fellow beartizens has shaken me to my core. We’ve gone backwards into full-on Song of the South!

Here it is, months after the election, and Henry’s still ranting about building his ridiculous wall on the border of It’s a Small World. He still won’t denounce the bottom-dwellers who came slithering out of Critter Country when he drained the swamp. Did you think it was even possible for an alligator to give a Nazi salute? Me neither! And of course, Henry’s agenda of bigotry and hate is amplified 24/7 by the foxes’ Country Bear propaganda machine, and, eventually, that crap finds its way onto the playgrounds. Barely a week after the election, my youngest cub, Ethan, was bullied at school and called a “Charmin hugger.” Can you believe that?

Every day, things just get worse. The Aladdin flying carpet ban. The fascist torchlight rally at the Enchanted Tiki Room. Threatening to deport anybody who wished upon a star and had their dreams come true. But, for us, it’s the bathroom bill that’s really hit home. Haven’t you heard? Henry’s trying to ban us from bringing our own rolls of squeezably soft Charmin into public restrooms! When we first heard the Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah birds singing Henry’s announcement, I thought my husband Ben was going to have an aneurysm.

“He’s denying our identity! He’s forcing us to use Cottonelle or Scott or Trader Joe’s, and that’s not who we are!” he roared.

“Wake the fuck up!,” I growled at him. “Have you been living in a cave? Didn’t you see his rallies? He picked a fight with Mulan, a decorated war hero! He mocked Winnie-the-Pooh, a Bear of Very Little Brain!

“I didn’t think he meant it,” whined my idiot husband.

“Yeah, well thanks for wasting your vote writing in Bearnie Sanders!” I yelled, and lumbered down to the basement half-bath, where I pleasured myself with an entire mega roll of super-absorbent softness, just to spite him.

Do you know the saying, “Don’t poke the bear?” Well, we Charmins are poked as hell! Our forebears gave their lives winning our right to enjoy the go in freedom and dignity, and if Henry thinks he can make us go back to shitting in the woods, like animals, he has another thing coming.



Joyce Millman

Author: Joyce Millman

Joyce Millman is a San Francisco(-ish) TV, music and humor writer. Her work has been published in McSweeney's, the Village Voice, Salon, the New York Times, and more. Follow her on Twitter @joycemillman for existential despair and 'Seinfeld' references.

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