Too stoned to run from bears

Too stoned to run from bears

We live in pill crazy culture.  Nowhere more evident than the emergency department.  It’s a lot like a fairy-tale, really.

So, the bears go on a walk.  They feel good and want the exercise.

Along comes Morphilocks, with her long and storied history of drug addiction.  She has some several chronic pain syndromes; diagnoses assigned to her by assorted forest doctors because they couldn’t actually find anything wrong and because she kept showing up at their charming little woodsy offices, making noise, handing them paperwork, frightening the smaller creatures with her shocking purple eye-shadow and occasionally waking them from hibernation for refills.

So, the bears are actually exercising for a change.  Turns out, Papa Bear was told he had terrible coronary disease, Mama Bear has back pain since that terrible accident when she was hit from behind by a speeding squirrel and Baby Bear may be bi-polar.

Quietly, ever so carefully, Morphilocks walked into their house unannounced.  (She saw them leave while lying down in her El Camino reading US Magazine, Woods edition.)  She went through the kitchen, ignored the sumptuous, vitamin-enriched porridge, and headed for the bathroom, wherein she located a nicely arranged assortment of medication.

Papa Bear had lots of pills for his heart, and some antibiotics for diverticulitis (the bones of small creatures, hikers and nuts kept getting stuck in his expansive Ursine colon).  Those pills tasted icky, and Morphilocks realized pretty quickly that she wouldn’t get even the slightest buzz from them.

In another bottle was baby bear’s Ritalin, since he just couldn’t focus on normal bear activities like eating, sleeping and…other things bears do in the woods.  He was forever running in small circles, aimlessly, harassing bunnies and driving his parents crazy.  Morphilocks took the Ritalin and felt slightly excited and energetic (she cleaned the bathroom)…but realized it wasn’t nearly as good as the Ice her friend Opossum cooked for her.  C’est la vie!

Finally she found Mama Bear’s bottle.  Mama bear went to some of the same doctors as Morphilocks; her chronicfibeardystonia was simply ‘unbearable.’  Her bottle was full to the top with yummy extended releast Morphine.  And next to it was a bottle of Dilaudid.  And near that, another half-full of Xanax.  On further inspection, even little Baby Bear had some Ambien and Papa a few Percocet for breakthrough chest pain and porcupine quill incidents.  She tipped them up, ate them all, and said, with slurred words, ‘This is just, exactly, perfectly, wonderfully, just right.’

The bears returned home, sweaty from walking while extremely overweight.  Baby bear said, ‘someone took my pills!’   Papa bear said,  ‘someone spilled my pills!’  And Mama Bear, always suspicious of her trashy cousin Panda Bear (who often stole medicine from her purse on vacation), said, ‘someone’s been taking MY pills too, and there she is!’

Sadly, Morphilocks was lying on the bathroom floor, eyes pin-point, pulse faint and mumbling something about her 10/10 pain.

Everyone was deeply annoyed…not so much for the mess as the fact that they’d all come up short when it was time for re-fills.

‘Shall I call the bear-a-medics? Huh Papa, Huh Mama?’  Baby bear danced in circles around the deeply stoned girl.

‘Nah,’ said Papa Bear.  Just fetch me some Paprika and a big pot.  This sure beats foraging in garbage cans in the National Park!

No one is immune from the drug culture of our day!  Let that be a lesson to everyone.


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