Have you gone mad, Bear?
I noticed that you’re wearing a shirt, not just into the pool anymore but all the time. You’ve changed. Are you embarrassed or something? Perhaps we could discuss over a cup of tea. Animals like you have several rights, including the right to exposure. Your outfit doesn’t even afford suitable coverage. I suppose you are a bit overweight. Does it provide some sort of unobvious postural support?
While I understand that your honey habit is a medical affliction and there’s nothing to be done about your puffiness, this is an issue of civil liberties, and as a literary icon with universal recognition, you should understand the importance of your cooperation. While it is likely that you will have trouble appreciating my gravitas—you’re not the brightest of bears—if it accommodates your schedule, I will drop by your stretch of the woods on Chuseday.
Oh, and what the F was with that dreadful new collection about you and your entourage? You already make your owners, I don’t know, a hundred billion dollars a year. Sing ho! for the sell out!
Anyway, much to discuss! I would appreciate if you would not glop the honey on the biscuits or put your paws in the honey or try to sing or spell. See you at elevenses.
P.S. Don’t take offence to this, but red is not your color.
P.P.S. I currently have 37 messages in my spam box. Do you think I should invest in some kind of security software?
P.S.P.S. In regards to your last letter, I could not possibly disagree with that more. Adding a few tiddely-poms does not make a song more hummy. I tried it and the result was disastrous, you silly, stupid old bear. Cost me my chunk of bread and a peacock feather. That feather was very dear to me. It was a gift. The bread was sourdough rye.
Friday, May 14, 2010
A.A. Milne | Winnie-The-Pooh | 1926