Fuck the Care Bears: A Manifesto by Brave Heart Lion

[Ed. Note: Read this entry at The Phat Phree.com]

I've had it up to my hairy yellow balls with the Care Bears.

All I ever hear about is how cute the Care Bears are. Oh, how they laugh and play and fuck around so merrily in Care-A-Lot, occasionally saving some pussy kid from having a bad day because he ate too many cookies or took a dump in his pants or something. Way to go heroes; why don't you make another straight-to-video ass pie for the kids?

I say, fuck the Care Bears! What about the Care Bear Cousins? Why are we relegated to Scrappy Doo status just because we came second? We were fresh, original players to the game that got bent over by the network bigwigs when they started packaging us with the Care Bears. I'm a lion, how am I going to be some bear's cousin? Look, maybe I didn't finish junior college, but I know enough about science to know that this "Cousins" thing is a sham. A lion is a lion and a bear is a bear and if a lion and a bear get busy, you don't get a Care Bear Cousin. That's ridiculous. You get an abortion, that's what you get.

But I digress. My point is that the Care Bears were hacks. They were just rehashed Smurfs and nobody said dick about it. Don't believe me? Think about it:

Champ Bear was just Hefty Smurf without the alcoholism.

Funshine Bear was clearly just the gayer version of Vanity Smurf, and yes, Funshine was really a dude. Actually, I've got to give some credit to Funshine because Vanity was already gayer than a three-dollar bill and Funshine made him look like Wilt-fucking-Chamberlain.

Bedtime Bear was actually taken to court by Sleepy Smurf in '87. Sleepy contended that there was only room for one adorable, blue narcoleptic on children's programming and that Bedtime was liable for hundreds of thousands of dollars in royalties. Sadly, Bedtime Bear was murdered by his Ludes dealer before the trial got underway which is really crazy because, really, who does Ludes?

Then there was Grumpy Bear. You have to realize that Grumpy Smurf had been around since '81 and that Grumpy Bear had the rocks to actually steal his name four years later. That's a whole new kind of bullshit if you ask me, but no one does.

Then, you had us: the Care Bear Cousins. We were fucking rad and nobody gave a day-old dog shit about us. The Care Bears were thieves; we were heroes. The Care Bears were all about feeling happy and prancing around like Snuggles after a jaunt in the spin cycle. We stood for bravery and loyalty and nobility and all that other crap that's supposed to get you laid. You think we got laid? I'm a lion with a fucking heart on my big, fat stomach. The Battle Beast White Lion had a heat-activated flame on his chest and a bitchin' sword. I, on the other hand, was a joke to the lionesses. I couldn't get laid with an eight ball of catnip in my jockeys and a dead gazelle riding shotgun in my H2.

I don't have an H2...

The Care Bears had H2s. They were spoiled jerks who lived in an awesome castle in Care-A-Lot. They had sidewalks and street sweeping and a very respectable school district. You know where we lived? In a fucking jungle, that's where. The Forrest of Feelings was no West Beverly. We didn't even have sewage, bro; we pooed on the ground. You never saw the Care Bears pooing on the ground. Hell, you never even saw the Care Bears coming down to the ghetto to visit us, either.

Wish Bear and I used to be boys. We played high school football together. Now he's always like, "Yeah, Brave Heart Lion, I'd love to play squash, but why don't you come up here instead? The Bentley's making this weird clunking noise and, well, you know..."

Yeah, I know. It means my poor ass is taking the bus if I want to score a free meal at the country club I'm not allowed to join. Typical.

The absolute worst thing about the Care Bears, though, was their arrogant-ass Care Bear Countdown. They loved that stupid Countdown. To make matters worse, we had to do a Care Bear Cousin Countdown that was basically the same thing except that we didn't look like homos when we did it; we looked like unoriginal homos. After doing the Care Bear Cousin Countdown ten or eleven times, I just stopped caring and started drinking and running with a pretty tough pride…

I’d rather not talk about that part of my life.

Fast-forward to 1995. I sold my name and my story to Mel Gibson when he decided to do a movie about my life and times as a Care Bear Cousin. He told me he really wanted to use the power of cinema to convey my side of the story: the trials and tribulations of living life in the Care Bears’ shadow. I jumped at the opportunity.

As it turned out, “Braveheart” had nothing to do with me! It was all about some smelly Irish dude that hated the English and combing his hair. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the only thing I hate more than the Care Bears are the Goddamn Irish. Regardless, I made enough money in residuals from the movie to be able to afford a tight little condo in the suburbs with Gobo from Fraggle Rock.

I like Gobo because we see eye-to-eye on most things like hating the Care Bears, the Muppets and pretty much everyone involved with Eureka’s Castle. Gobo and I have been talking about putting a reality show together about us and the wacky things that happen in our everyday lives. I swear, sometimes when we’re just hanging out, we come up with the funniest shit. Like, this one time, we were fixing a cabinet in the kitchen and I said, "Hey, could you grab those knobs for me?" and Gobo was like, "That’s what she said!" Classic!

You put a camera on us and you’ve got television gold.

Please, put a camera on us…