Like most Internet users, my life is a mockery of the human condition. Every day, I seem to accomplish less and less. Indeed, aside from my ability to turn oxygen into carbon dioxide and Doritos into poo--qualities that are hardly unique--I appear to have no impact upon the world at all. I often feel as if there is a cavernous void inside of me, and where others might keep "love" or a "sense of accomplishment from past feats" in such a place, I instead try to fill it with an endless stream of popular culture miscellanea. Because being able to remember all the Dinobot's names is surely going to keep me warm on my death bed. Anyways. Mondays. I bring this up because it (partially) explains how I ended up with several hundred dollars worth of mint condition Care Bears in my possession. The details of how this happened are unimportant, although I will say that it occurred a few weeks back and involved the twin scourges of eBay and expired Kahlua. (Mondays again.) Consequently, I didn't recall making said purchase, and was initially delighted to find two Care Bears sitting on my doorstep a few days later. "What a magical day!" I remarked to no one. However after further reflection, aided by my girlfriend, I realized this may not have been one of my savviest investment decisions. Using the reasoning and logic that all people who don't use the Internet possess, she observed two key points: 1) Our landlord was unlikely to accept rare stuffed animals in lieu of rent money. 2) She would leave me if I didn't return the damned things. ___ Initially I looked into re-listing them on eBay. Having never sold anything on eBay before, I was pants-crappingly annoyed to find out how high their fees were. For some reason, the idea of losing money on my very first Care Bear flip didn't sit right with me. "No way," I said, silently applauding my gutsy, Warren Buffet-esque investment genius. Lacking any better options, I decided to list the bears on Craigslist. Not only was the ad free but, judging by the people I see on public transit, the municipality I reside in has an ample supply of libidinous cousins. I was sure to find someone damaged enough to buy these off me.

MINT CONDITION CARE BEARS! HOLY CRAP DUDE, THIS IS YOUR LUCKY DAY. YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW Bedtime Bear!!!!! Love-A-Lot Bear!!!!!! COME ON DOWN AND GET YOUR *&(@ING AMAZING BEARS. THIS WILL BLOW YOUR MIND'S ASS. $20 OBO As predicted, I got a ton of responses. Sensing the opportunity to start a bidding war, I directed most of them to come by my house Friday evening. I had the place to myself that night--my girlfriend was going to be at her parents for the weekend, where no doubt my qualities as a provider and human being would be discussed. "No real job." "No prospects for same." "Can only use a digital watch." Etc. The first caller came by a little after eight. I opened the door to see a man standing there, looking kind of nervous, a backpack slung over one shoulder. He appeared to be in his mid 40s, and had the look of a fellow who'd never once lost a fight with a cheeseburger. There was something a bit off about him, though he didn't look threatening in the least. I guess this is what Care Bear enthusiasts look like. "Hi," he said. "I'm hear about the uh, bears?" "Yeah, come on in," I said, opening the door and making room for him to enter. "You were...?" "Mike. I sent you an email." "Yeah. Yeah, I remember. Mike. Come on in." He followed me into the house, past the front bathroom and kitchen to the living room. I had set out the two bears on the dining room table. "Here we are," I said, gesturing at them. "Nice. Very nice!" he said, looking around the room. He seemed more interested in the house than anything else. Eventually his eyes drifted over to the table. "Wow. Awesome bears! I haven't seen those for ages." "You don't collect them yourself?" I asked, slightly off balance. Why did he want them then? "No, no. I mean yeah, I've got a bear right. Sure. For quiet time. But I don't collect em like some of the guys." I struggled to piece all the words he had just used together into a better sentence. What the heck was "quiet time"? Before I could ask him to clarify, he excused himself to use the bathroom. I reeled, mouth hanging slightly open. Not actually recalling a time when I gave him permission to use the bathroom, I just sort of stood there, dumbstruck. Once the bathroom door shut behind him, I shook myself out of it. Well. Probably best not interrupt him now. But assuming he didn't rape and kill me, I decided he was going to be asked to leave pretty soon. That's probably the Emily Post preferred method of dealing with this sort of situation.

When dealing with a prospective raper in your home, in all circumstances make him known where the door is. If it is the Autumn months it is expected you provide a tweed coat for him. The doorbell rang, interrupting my meditations on tweed clad rapists. I walked to the front door and opened it to find two girls standing outside. They were not attractive in a conventional way, or, for that matter, an unconventional way. If pressed, I would probably have described them as "very nice people." "Hi," one of them said, "I'm Cynthia. I emailed you earlier." "Right. You were the one who asked if you could bring your friend?" I asked quizzically. "I don't see why you'd think that would be a problem." "You're so sweet," her friend said. She wasn't wrong, but I played it cool and didn't say anything to indicate I agreed with her assessment. I opened the door for them. As the pair walked past me into the house I noticed they had those huge bulky purses girls seem to love these days. Like they expect to have to set out for the headwaters of the Congo at a moment's notice. Following them in, I frowned at the bathroom door as I passed it. Mike was bumping around in there, not making regular bathroom noises. Fucking Craigslist. This was becoming a very weird scene. "Wow, you've got real Care Bears!" Cynthia exclaimed. "Of course. That's what the ad said. Look," I said, rubbing my hands together, anxious to get this over with. "Two hundred a pop. You interested or not?" "Two hundred?" The girls looked at each other, confused. "The ad said twenty." I stared blankly at them. Had I messed up the ad? It was entirely possible. The user interface for Craigslist looks like something that fell out of a monkey's ass. Frowning, I crossed my arms and looked them over. "OK, well, that was a mistake then. Each bear's two hundred." "Each bear?" Cynthia asked. "Your ad said $20 for admission." "Admission? For what?" I asked, incredulous. Behind me, I heard the bathroom door opening. "Hi Cynthia!" "Hey Tiger!" I turned around to see a fat tiger standing on its hind legs in my living room. Stunned at the sudden appearance of a bipedal jungle cat in my home, it took me a moment to realize this was Mike. "Holy cats man, what are you doing?" "Just getting a little more comfortable," he said. An incredibly disturbing sound emitted from his head somewhere. Hours later I would realize, while shaking violently, that this was meant to be purring. "Here's your money," he said, putting $20 on the table. Cynthia's friend placed $20 on top of that and, with a wink, ducked past me and headed to the bathroom. "Wait, whoa. What exactly do you people think my ad said?" Cynthia and the fat tiger exchanged a glance with each other. "You said you were a furry enthusiast who wanted to hold a party." I gaped, incredulous at what she just said. "My ad? The ad which said I had two mint condition Care Bears for sale? A Bedtime Bear, and a Love-A-Lot Bear? That ad? You read that and thought I wanted people to come over, dress up as animals and fuck each other in my house?" Cynthia squinted at me, as if I was the one being insane in a tiger costume. "You posted an ad in the Services Offered section with the words 'Bear,' 'Bedtime,' 'Love-A-Lot' and 'Come on down?'

Dude. You knew what you were asking for." "You're saying I posted a coded message advertising my fervent desire for people to get their sex smell all over my house, WHILE DRESSED AS ANIMALS!?" "Yes." "Oh. Well, that makes perfect sense then. All right. Have fun." Cynthia and Mike the fat tiger looked at me blankly. "GET THE FUCK OUT!" I shrieked at them. "DON'T ANIMALS UNDERSTAND SARCASM?" With surprising speed the fat tiger suddenly lunged at me. I recoiled in horror, stumbling to the ground as I backed away. The man-beast fell on me, using his extra 50 pounds to easily pin me down. "Growl," he whispered in my ears. It was right around here when I think my penis retracted itself entirely within my body cavity. If it helps, please visualize the remainder of the story as if told by a hermaphrodite. Full body panic spasm. I was suddenly in the middle of a very special episode of the 80s sitcom that is my life. But I knew there was no Mr. Drummond coming to make everything better. I struggled to fight the man-tiger off, but given my reluctance to touch any part of him, I found the process somewhat difficult. I was forced to devise a new martial art on the spot, using nothing but the principles of elbows and cringing. Big playful, furry slaps and terrifying noises greeted my ineffectual blows. Elsewhere in the apartment I could hear Cynthia letting more people in. Very quickly the house began filling up with people clad in costumes. Cats, dogs, gerbils, hamsters, wolves. Winnie the fucking Pooh. They were mostly just talking and chatting first. Someone found the stereo and put on some music. Did you know that furries have their own music? I do. Not long after that, Mike the fat tiger got off me, but by that point I had completely lost control of the situation. Apparently word must have gotten out on some sort of Furry phone tree, because people started showing up by the car load. In very short order the chatting and music was drowned out by an entirely different, and much worse type of sound. It was the aural equivalent of tasting someone else's barf.

I was going to actually go out and find real pictures of furry humping for this article. But then after thinking about it for a bit, I didn't. Naturally I called 911. They did say they'd send animal control over right away, but it wasn't until five minutes later that I realized they were fucking with me. My experience with Mike the fat tiger demonstrated that I wouldn't get far trying to physically throw these people out. I found a flashlight, and using the old shine a light on the ground and see who chases it trick, managed to lure a couple guys dressed as cats outside. But that was the extent of my success. This was happening. Watching it happen was out of the question. Reluctantly then, I retired to the porch, where I spent the next six hours crying and collecting admission. EPILOGUE: All told, the furries were actually OK people. The house wasn't that badly messed up at all, although I cleaned it thoroughly regardless, and in truth, will probably never stop cleaning. The Care Bears were gone. I was OK with that. I don't think I really wanted them back anyways. Some good news though: I cleared $2200 at the door. Though that's also probably bad news, the more that I think about it. __

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