On more than one occasion I have been accused of getting a little too worked up about things that maybe don’t warrant the teeth-clinching, finger-stabbing, sphincter-puckering diatribes that I have been known to perform. I am a passionate person and, for that, I will not apologize. There are things in this world that are unjust, immoral and misguided that need to be called out and I have often appointed myself Head Caller Outer. I’m all right with that.
I must admit, though, that sometimes I may go a weensy bit overboard. Maybe Alanis Morissette isn’t a talentless hack with only a marginal understanding of the English language. Maybe the Jim Carrey version of “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” isn’t the “indefensible bastardization” that I claimed it was. Maybe pink lemonade isn’t a global conspiracy. Nah, I can’t go that far – ‘pink’ isn’t a flavor, people.
You get the idea.
Now that I am a father I have found a whole new field of focus for my rancor. Once spared my fury, the capitalistic shit-storm of princess paraphernalia, talking toys screaming for attention and lazily worded literature has become a target rich environment. Television is a rarity in our house, but it does happen on occasion and some of that blather leaves me dumbfounded and seething (I’m looking at you, Wiggles).
As The Dad, I am the protector, the teacher, the guide and all of that, but I just can’t get worked up all of the time over everything that isn’t perfect and pure. Not every movie is Citizen Kane. Not every writer is Vonnegut.
The Wiggles are extraordinarily stupid, but they mean well.
Some things just don’t really matter. Some things are irritating, but benign. Some things don’t deserve the venom that I feel compelled to spit.
But, some do.
So, let me get this straight. A little girl breaks into these bears’ house, steals their food, breaks their shit, passes out and, when they come home, she bolts out the back door?
You have GOT to be kidding me.
Of course, I had heard this story my whole life, but it wasn’t until I read it to my daughters as an adult that I realized just how mind-numbingly ridiculous this story is. One girl alone in the forest, two felony counts (at least) and three bears wearing pants aside, there is no discernible point to this colossal waste of time.
It doesn’t even make sense, for cryin’ out loud.
Why do the bears go for a walk when their food is ready? Why does Mama Bear get shafted with the cold porridge? Why would anyone sober decide to take a nap after breaking and entering? Maybe that’s it; maybe Goldilocks is a junkie – that would explain some of this tripe, but still not all.
Then it just ends. After her reckless disregard for these poor, be-trousered bears she just leaves with no consequence and no restitution. Like that cub will be able to sleep in his bed again anytime soon after it’s been soiled by this apparent junkie with a runaway sense of entitlement. It’s appalling.
No point. No logic. No moral. And this friggin thing is a CLASSIC? As far as I can tell, it has been in heavy fairy tale rotation for at least 100 years. On behalf of Western Civilization, I am embarrassed.
Now, at times I may over analyze and over react to things that don’t really amount to much, but this is not one of those times. We have interwoven this brazenly stupid tale into our cultural fabric and it must be stopped. Our children have been heretofore unwaveringly raised on this nonsense and it cannot continue. Just because something is deemed to be a classic doesn’t mean it’s good. Without examining that which we are being fed, we could starve to death. Quit reading this garbage – yeah, I said it.