So whose genius idea was it to schedule IBR on the same weekend as Valentine’s Day?
Don’t they know the soul searching that must be going on amongst the bears—assuming that there is soul searching that goes on amongst the bears during events like IBR and Lazy Bear and Beef and BearBust and Polar Bear and RootBear and BirchBear and yeah, some of those are made up, or yet-to-be, or both.
These are the kinds of weekends where those couples who at least give lip service to what most might recognize (if you squint and are standing at a distance) as sexual fidelity agree to furlough (look, I made a furrrrrr joke) the quotidian relationship rules so they don’t “miss out” on what fun awaits, what lies beneath, what dreams may cum.
Because, as you might learn from being a fly on the wall, “missing out” on a chance for a quick bit of friction and an an ejaculation is a tragedy of epic proportions approaching what might pass for Thou Shalt Nots in a world full of Sure Why Nots?
Do you suppose there are couples out there who postponed their romantic Valentines Days until after the International Bear Rendezvous weekend of whomever-you-can-get-your-parts-into and whoever-can-get-their-parts-into-you, or are there couples who celebrated their romantic Valentine’s Day before they headed off to the long, long weekend of dances and drink nights and bar gropes and “oh, new meat!” and all of thus and such and of the above Tabs-A into Slots-B and Slots-B atop Tabs-A with concomitant WOOFS and GRRRRs in no-cologne-zones…
Of course there’s always the third option: combine your IBR and your VD into the same time weekend.
Call me bitter. I know you will. No, go ahead. I’ll wait.
Done now? Good. You’ve just questioned my motives in the attempt to completely avoid the content of my argument. What’s wrong with you?
But me? You can’t call me wrong.
So much of what we do goes unquestioned. Unquestioned by ourselves, each and all. In fact, we count on it. When we’re young, we count on plodding ahead with our lives and not stopping and questioning everything. If we did, we’d never get on and we’d never get anywhere. Parent’s are there to make sure we don’t fall too far off the path or go too far afield or end up too deep in the tall grass.
But as adults? Adults? We are adults, are we not? By the chronometer if by nothing else.
Is IBR for adults? IBR and things of its ilk are the perpetuation of adolescence. Partying all weekend. Taking drugs to stave off sleep. Taking drugs to borrow serotonin from the future week so that we can artificially induce fun fun fun all at the same time.
And at the end of the weekend? RECOVERY events. Yes, folks, we pat ourselves on our backs for having slogged our way through the difficult work of sustaining a weekend of backbreaking bacchanalia so we treat ourselves to comforting pleasures.
Aren’t we marvelous creatures?