While on an international high school curling tour, blahpolarbear was sorely harshed by a panda on the Chinese leg of the tour. By the time the team reached South Africa, bpb had full blown c-ptsd (Chinese panda traumatic stress disorder), and the moment he saw a ‘whites only’ sign in the apartheid museum, he defected. Polar bears are not the most politicised animals on the ice floe and by the time bpb realised that South Africa was not a refuge for pale furred bears from assault by panda, the team had departed and bpb was left roaming under African skies, begging for sunblock. He soon fell ill. After a demoralising and depolarising struggle with the state medical system, bpb was given some pills.
The problem did not recede. His eyes turned red, his mouth turned down and soon his mood became unbearable. After a decade of wandering aimlessly, bpb was diagnosed with blahpolar disorder and given a few more pills …
“I didn’t think I was crazy before they told me so,” quoth bpb despairingly from his pill floe. The pills had strange effects on him and by the time he was seeing faces in his morning meds, he’d begun to agree with the verdict.
bpb began to feel better. At the same time, he felt worse. It was incredibly confusing for a poorly polar bear. Hard to bear, you might say (if you weren’t concerned about working bear puns to death). “I need answers,” he muttered to himself, while packing his brand new luggage, “actually I probably need some questions first.”
He pondered, mused, contemplated; he thought. Chewing thoughtfully on some penguin biltong, he thought a bit more. “Ah,” he said quietly, “and possibly even ha.” And with that, bpb shouldered his new burden, chose a road at random and began to follow it.
(Don’t watch this space, because in all likelihood, bpb will be abandoned mid floe.)
And now, an old song.