So, what am I exactly? Well, in some circles, you might call me the freak of the week. Other circles view me as some sort of a demagogue. The truth is somewhere in between I suppose (but I'm leaning toward demagogue). I am what I am: a genetically manipulated bear who lives on the outskirts of Chicago in an abandoned warehouse. How did I get the way I am? The details are fuzzy, but I gather that I'm the product of a secret government-funded experiment, probably funded with your tax money for all I know. All I remember was that I was walking around in the woods one day following a snake when a net flew over me. I felt a needle go into my backside, and I was suddenly overcome with wooziness. I collapsed in a heap in the dirt, and when I awoke, I was in a laboratory of some sort.
This laboratory was in San Mateo, I came to find out. Horrid place, truly full of nightmares. The doctors were nice and all, but everything else about the place stunk of filth. Let me give you an example. Their was a TV in my room, but no channels. All that played was a continuous loop of "B.J. and the Bear" followed by "Mama's Family" reruns. And I didn't have any control over the television. It hung from the ceiling and was too high for me to reach. The damn thing turned on everyday at noon and shut itself off at 6pm. 6 hours of pure torture. I asked the doctors if they could just turn the TV off, but their answer was usually something like, "Sorry, I don't have any control over the TV system. That's set by the laboratory administrator." Repeated requests to see the laboratory administrator were met by responses like, "Let me get back to you about that."
At the compound, I was inmate # 73.
The gene therapy inflicted on me was painful and immediate. Day after day, hour after hour, I could feel the neurons in my brain expanding. I became more self-aware everyday, and after only a few weeks, I had learned the English alphabet. The first book I ever finished was Flowers for Algernon, ironically.
After two years in the laboratory, I finally hatched a flawless plan to escape. I was on the run for about a month, but I think the doctors have finally stopped chasing me. Unfortunately, I'm limited in how I can live my life. Society would reject me if I tried to absorb myself into it, and I would probably just be recaptured and brought back to the lab. And of course I have no desire to go back and live like a savage in the woods. So, I sit in this secluded warehouse and run this website. A truly splendid life.
You might be wondering how I am able to type with my pudgy paws. Well, at the compound, I eventually learned to hold pointer sticks with my paws and poke at the keys. And no, I cannot talk. The doctors weren't kind enough to give me human vocal chords. It's kind of annoying. My feeling on creating human-animal hybrids is that if you're gonna do it, go all the way.