The Great Methamphetamine Satan

0511 meth lab
Actual meth lab photo I took.

I went through brief period of trying to write fiction. I’ve since learned I’m better at writing the truth.

For about a year-and-a-half — the longest 18 months of my life — I worked as a crime reporter in southwest Oklahoma. This was in 2007 toward the end of the meth lab, we’ll call it golden age, in America when people used to knock pseudoephedrine into methamphetamine.

People were were pouring anhydrous ammonia over allergy pills and metallic lithium and smoking, snorting and injecting the resulting product. They robbed, stole and sometimes killed people. One time a guy ran from the cops and backstroked in a cattle pond until his high wore off.

It seemed like good fodder for a book. So I started writing it down. And then goddamn
“Breaking Bad” came out and it just seemed like I was writing fan fiction. Thanks a lot, Vince Gilligan.

“I’m Vince Gilligan. John Bear hates me for thinking of and executing an idea before him. He’s weird like that.”

Anyway, this would have been a chapter in a book called “Hurdy Gurdy Man.” The title originated during a conversation with a friend about how the Donovan song of the same name would sound cool during a shoot out in a meth movie. I later found out that a hurdy gurdy is a crank-turned instrument, much like the protagonist.

Here goes:

The Cowboy shot Mud at Boot Scoot’s this evening.

I was having a beer with my ex-girlfriend Trisha. She strips down at Mr. Peepers. We were sitting there, drinking Corona’s and The Cowboy walked in and shot Mud dead right there at the bar.

It wasn’t that crowded in Boot Scoot’s that afternoon, but The Cowboy will probably get the death penalty thrown at him for killing even a scumbag like Mud in front of a dozen drunks and a couple of heads.

The Cowboy told me last week that he was going to kill Mud if Mud didn’t pay him the money he owed him. It was about $1500 he said. I had stopped by Irish’s apartment last week to pick up some camp fuel and the Cowboy was there with his eyes wide open. He had old 12 gauge pump and had sawed the barrel and stock off.

I asked to hold it because I have an affinity for sawed off shotguns. He had taken the slide down to about five pounds and filed the serial number off.

After checking it out, I wiped the thing down because it constituted a parade of felony charges.

‘Why you gonna kill Mud, Cowboy? ‘I asked, playing along.

Another hot item in Oklahoma. (photo by Scott Rains)

That’s when he told me Mud had burned him for an ounce of dope. He wanted $1500 or he was going to ‘pop a cap in Mud’s ass.’

I didn’t ask too many questions. I told him he shouldn’t be fucking with AIDS heads like Mud in the first place.

‘No shit, Sherlock,’ he fired back through clenched teeth. He was spun.

I thought he had just been talking shit and would cool off, but I was wrong.

The thing that stands out most in my mind is the music that was playing. Scoots is owned, operated and frequented by people with no taste and no class, so the usual music is country pop bullshit like Garth Brooks.

“As the lines in my face grow deeper, And the well of my soul runs dry, I find that I drink more and more From the memories of you and I.”

But for some reason, “The Memories of You and I” by Waylon Jennings was on. It was a freak occurrence.

I noticed it right off because its the kind of song that just drops you into a scene that seems like it’s been going on for a million years. The slide guitars, the sloppy drumming and Waylon drinking and crying about some rotten woman. It’s beautiful.

I had noted Mud’s presence when I got their with Trisha, who is an exgirlfriend but we still get a beer now and then. Needless to say, I did not say hello to Mud, as I find him to be a filthy junky who probably has AIDS. But I like to be aware of my surroundings.

We ordered and I went into the men’s room and took a rip off the pipe to tune myself into Trisha’s fucked up wavelength.

When I walked out is when “Memories of You and I” came over the PA, and I was pleasantly surprised.

The whole world slowed down at that instant. I suddenly felt as if I was way faster than everyone in creation. Only me and this swaying twangy song. I like that funky twangy 70s country.

The Cowboy walked through the door and the light flooding in from the outside outfitted him with a sinister aura. He was wearing a dirty white Stetson, shooting glasses and and a white shirt and jeans. The cowboy had transformed into the Great Methamphetamine Satan.

He levitated across the bank of tables near the front door. Once he hit the bar glided toward a seated Mud.

That furball Mud had his back to the door. He was drinking a Budlight and selecting a ring tone on his phone, oblivious to tuned up death floating up behind him.

The Cowboy was carrying the shotgun he had shown me the week before. I hadn’t noticed it until he pulled it up to his shoulder and fired one round into Mud, who was taking a sip of his beer.

Mud’s body rocked violently forward, then he slumped dead on the floor.

I snapped out of it. Everything sped up. I ducked down and looked at the Cowboy. His eyes met mine and and for a second I thought I saw him smile. He took Mud’s now vacant seat.

“A beer,” he said, setting the shotgun down on the bar.

This is Mickey Rourke, but he looks like The Cowboy.

The Waylon Jennings song was still playing. It sounded like noise. I couldn’t stand it anymore.

The Cowboy was looking at himself in the bar mirror, which was now stained with Mud. He took a sip of his beer and lit a cigarette like nothing had happened.

Most of the people in the bar were still on the floor. The music stopped and the room fell silent. I took a long circular route around the inside of the building and slipped out a side door.

Trisha yelled out my name as I walked out the door. She sounded like Leonard Cohen.

I reached my truck started it up and peeled out of the parking lot. The sun hurt my eyes and I didn’t have my sunglasses so I pointed it south toward Texas.


Legend has it RTJ said FU to NFL

“NFL been trash,” said el-p when declining to give NFL free song at Superbowl

It was with great joy I read a tweet from my favorite rapper, el-p, regarding his and  Killer Mike’s — the two form Run the Jewels —  declining of a National Football League request to use their song “Legend has it” during this year’s Superbowl.

El-P writes “NFL been trash. they asked for the rights to play legend has it in the stadium during the superbowl. we said no because fuck them. they operate like they’re an indispensable public utility. they aren’t. they are gone with the flip of a channel. fuuuuuuck you.”

Good on you guys. I was going to talk about how much I appreciate you having integrity — rappers being kind of notoriously whorish when it comes to appearing in advertisements — but el-p tweeted a little later on that the NFL also wanted to use the song for free. Fuck that noise, Jack. (I feel cognitive dissonance in appreciating that my favorite rappers wouldn’t let the NFL use their song while also feeling disgusted that the NFL wouldn’t pay for it.)

The follow up tweet was also great.

Thursday’s news that the NFL will be punishing players for not standing up for the National Anthem is lame for numerous reasons. Sure, the NFL is a private organization and can do what it wants, but censoring and fining mostly black players — who make the  team owners millions and millions of dollars — seems like something Americans will be collectively cringing about in 20 years. (And good decent folk are cringing about right now.) Not to mention many of these players will suffer terrible injuries and brain damage for the privilege.

The whole thing smacks of racism and pandering to a relatively small group of jerky people who think they are better than everyone else because they can stand up for two minutes and listen to “The Star Spangled Banner.” I for one am cool with doing away with the National Anthem, because it, like saying “Thoughts and Prayers” on Facebook following a mass shooting, allows people to feel superior while not really doing anything.

The same goes for the Pledge of Allegiance. I pay my taxes. I’m allegianced as hell. In any case, this is America. You shouldn’t have to stand up if you don’t want to.

Back to the National Anthem. It’s dated, and the guy who wrote it, Francis Scott Key, was a slave owner. (As a lawyer, he sometimes represented slaves, according to the Baltimore Sun, but let’s not muddy the waters. Anyway, he also represented slave owners.)

Hi, I’m Francis and I owned slaves and shit. I also wrote one song.

Aside from being written by a slave owner and containing a passage bashing on slaves who fought against the United States, “The Star Spangled Banner” is also a bitch to sing. As a journalist who has covered way too many Labor Day festivals, city council meetings, sporting events and other goings-on that begin with the song, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard some sweet-faced teenage girl fail to hit the high note on “Rockets Red Glare.” It can be ear-shattering and makes one ponder how this girl made it this far with no one telling her she can’t sing. It’s sad, really.

So I propose we change the National Anthem to “Kick out the Jams,” by MC5. There are no high notes, and I love the thought of sweet-faced teenage girls who can’t sing yelling out “Kick out the Jams, Motherfuckers!” at high school softball games.

In my perfect America, you can stand, you jump up and dance, you can take a knee or you can stay seated and yell out “Kick out the Jams sucks!” It’s all good, baby.

Ladies and Gentlemen, please stand, or not, for our National Anthem.

The Sean Hannity Show: 1858 edition

Hi, my name is Sean Hannity, and I’m an asshole.

Imagine if someone like Sean Hannity had a radio show in 1858 (and that radio existed in 1858. Let art flow over you, as my mom is fond of saying).

“You’re listening to Sean Hannity, and today we have special guest Rep. Alexander Stephens of Georgia. Hi, Alex.”


“So, we are talking about this new Republican Party and the existential threat they pose to the United States.”

“I’m just sickened by it.”

“Right, so we have this new party, obviously very anti-slavery, and you know, that’s just the tip of the iceberg with these people. Next, they will want full rights for blacks. And who knows where it stops?”

“Well, Sean, it’s an assault on our rights is what it is.”

“Oh yeah, you have these Northerners, these interlopers. They want to come down and take hard-working Americans’ slaves away from them. And barring that, I’m sure they will propose ‘slave control’ or some other way to get their foot in the door. Either way, you are right, Alex, this is an assault on our rights.”

“What I think these abolitionists don’t get is they think that slavery is cruel, but it’s quite the opposite. I know lots of slave owners, and I can tell you they are good Christians and they care about their slaves. Sure, there might be an outlier who abuses his slaves, but why punish everyone?”

“Right, they are feeding these people, housing them, looking out for their health. Really, banishing slavery would be a disservice to slaves everywhere.”

“Right, Sean.”

“I’d go as far to say that slaves really owe their masters a debt of gratitude. And if they don’t, you know, they should remember that they aren’t even from this country. If they don’t like being slaves, they can go back to Africa as far as I’m concerned. Nobody asked them to be here.”

“Preach, Sean.”

“And really, banishing slavery would have, you know, a terrible impact on the economy.”


“I think our listeners need to know that these Republicans aren’t and never will, if I’m being quite honest, looking out for the white man. Who knows what they’ll be up to in 160 years if we don’t stop them now.”

“Really, I mean we might have a black president.”

“I shudder at the thought.”

“And this Abraham Lincoln guy, what’s with the hat?”

“That’s a stupid hat, Alex. It certainly doesn’t look like the type of hat a good American would wear. And he is like 6 foot 4. What’s he trying to prove? He seems like the kind of guy who would eat fancy French mustard.”

“Ugh, French mustard. Too fancy for me. I’m a grits and drop biscuits boy myself.”

“A quick word from our sponsor Johnson and Johnson leaches. ‘When you need medical-grade leeches, think Johnson and Johnson.’ And Wilson Surgical Saws: ‘When you have to amputate a leg to stop the infection, accept no substitutes.’ The time is 8:45 p.m. and the temperature is 63 degrees.”

Remember: It’s leech, not leach. Asshole.

Confessions of a private equity manager

We turned a 17 percent profit last quarter. Alas, I feel empty.

Her name is Anabel. 

It’s almost impossible, even now, for me to keep my eyes open when I say it. I see her on my eyelids and I wish I was blind. My breath becomes labored. I shudder slightly, and when I open my eyes, she is gone.  

I think about her every day. At meetings. When I’m pouring over spread sheets. At the golf course. When I make love to my wife.

Anabel is five feet tall and can’t weigh more than 100 pounds soaking wet. She ties her curly  brown hair into a haphazard pony tail. Sometimes she keeps it up and in place with a chopstick. She is so serious, but she betrays a playful side when she does her hair that way. 

The light creases on her forehead conspire with those lovely eyebrows that dance over her hazel eyes. Such an expressive face. The cute nose, just a little off center. Full lips that always curl up on the right like she is failing to keep some private joke to herself. Her skin is just dark enough to make her ethnicity ambiguous. I love her. 

Anabel, you keep your slender body hidden from all of us under ill-fitting, dark clothes. I can’t  take my eyes off that drab green ruck sack of notepads and pens and whatever else the assistant news editor at the school paper might need. I want to see inside. 

Every weekday, you sit under the trees by the duck pond and read before disappearing into the building where the student journalists work. I watch you through the windows, serious but enjoying yourself. You always make your coworkers laugh. You’re a funny girl. I want you. girl reading silouette 1

I major in business administration and play football, tight end, second string. You never write about sports. I never read the paper except for sports and the stocks, which aren’t in the school paper. 

You covered the scandal. We lost seven good players. You nosy reporters ruined the entire season. I contemplated murder.  But not you, Anabel. You are an innocent. Your intentions are pure. I forgive you for making my team mates, my friends and my brothers look like monsters. 

What I can’t forgive you for, Anabel, is saying no to me when I asked you out. You smiled nervously and said something about it being “unethical.” You showed me your cruel side. I shouldn’t have screamed. You stepped back and out of my life. 

I never forgot you, Anabel. The pain has never subsided. I feel nothing else save for the rush that accompanies a profit. I am empty. 

When I went into private equity, I convinced investors to buy up a chain of newspapers. And I’m going to destroy them, Anabel. One by one. Maybe one day I’ll get to yours. I’m going to sell off all the assets and fire all the reporters. Then all the reporters I saw through the window, the ones laughing at your jokes, will know my pain. Everyone will know my pain. 

Especially you, Anabel, You will know my pain.

A bear looking for bears at Chautauqua

That’s me!

My name is John Bear.

Ever since I was 5-years-old, people have drawn the connection between my name and the fuzzy animal who lives in the woods. My father and brother always bought bear-themed items for the home, and my brother has a Native American-style bear claw tattoo.

Aside from a t-shirt with numerous photos of bears wearing crowns, gold chains and grills, I’ve never much bought into the bear merchandise. It’s just a last name. Sometimes I do get compared to a bear, because I’m moody and I’m not a huge fan of the winter.

It’s spring time in Colorado, so the bears are waking up and coming down into town. I came into the office on Friday and had barely sat down when someone called out “Bear up at Chautauqua!”

Suddenly, all my coworkers began to chant “Bear! Bear! Bear!” And “You’re a bear! You should go look for the bear, Bear!”

“We need the first bear of the year photo,” my editor said. “Why don’t you go scout it out.”

“I’ll go,” I said. It was nice outside, and any excuse to not be inside this nondescript office building is a good excuse.

“Take a selfie with a bear.”

“I think that is generally frowned upon, like a good way to get eaten.”

“Try not to get eaten by a bear,” a second editor said.

“Maybe it’s not a bear,” I said. “Maybe it’s a mountain lion.”

That’s a cat.

“Try not to get eaten by one of those either,” he added.

I set out in Friday afternoon traffic, never relaxing, and started to yell at my phone when I read an email from a spokeswoman asking me to pay for a ticket to an event.

“Calm down, John,” I told myself. It was too early in an eight hour shift to be so pissed off already. And stop looking at emails while you are driving. That’s an excellent way to end up saying “Your honor, I’d like to apologize to the family of the man I ran over.”

A car had broken down on Baseline, so I pulled around it and yelled “nice job” to no one in particular. About five minutes later, I had navigated the one lane each way road and made it to Chautauqua National Monument. There was even a parking spot for me! My luck was changing.

For the middle of a weekday, the place was packed with hikers and joggers coming up and down the mountain. Some had dogs and others were in various states of undress. As someone who grew up under the blazing New Mexico sun, I’ve always stuck to the rule of staying out it between noon and four pm. People in Colorado, many of whom I suspect are from hazier places, don’t seem to abide by this custom. They will likely look like lobsters tomorrow when they realize the extent of their sun burns, I thought.

I saw plenty of dogs, but no bears.

0706 kitty city
 Those are also cats.

After scanning the horizon and snapping a quick photo of the Flatirons for no particular reason, I walked into the ranger office. I’d never set foot in there before, and when I stepped inside, a stuffed great horned owl looked back at me. Next to the owl sat a large golden eagle, and on the counter was a small hawk, also dead, inside a glass case.

The ranger was speaking to three women who appeared to be from another country as their English was broken, but I was not sure what country as one woman was obviously Latina and the other two were Asian. They were chatty, and I hoped they wouldn’t take forever.

The ranger, an affable looking fellow of about 60, finally looked my way.

“Yes sir,” he said, a friendly smile that only park rangers can muster.

“Hi, I’m John Bear,” I began, realizing that I was wearing a shirt with bears on it. “I’m a reporter with the Daily Camera. Did you have a bear up here?”

“Yes, we did but he took off as soon as he saw us.”

“Ah rats. We wanted to get a photo of him, the first bear of the year and all.”

“Oh we’ve been seeing a lot of bears,” he said. “They’ve been coming down.”

“Ah, well that’s cool. We like to get photos of them.”

“You’d need a really long lens.”

“Oh, we have those.”

“It was a really cute bear.”

  Those are mountains lions.


“Yeah, a cute young bear.”

“We maybe next time.”

He nodded, and, oddly enough, clenched his fist and extended it over the counter. I clenched my fist and gave him a pound.

“Have a nice day, man. Thanks for the help.”

“No problem, sir.”

I walked outside and started toward my truck. It was about 75 degrees and lovely outside. The thought of going back to the office made my stomach sink. I meandered over to a tree with a clutch of large rocks scattered beneath and sat down on one of them.

A sudden rush of calmness settled over me. I hadn’t been so relaxed in weeks. Even if it was only a for a few minutes, I decided to stay where I was. I had a pack of notebooks in my back pocket, but I momentarily forgot about them, pulled out my phone and started writing haiku on Twitter.

Even drug traffickers agree: Private equity fund owners are jerks

“We understand the desire to turn a healthy profit, but come on.”

The International Brotherhood of Narcotraffickers on Wednesday condemned New York-based private equity firm The Carrion Group for what the consortium of drug dealers, smugglers and manufacturers says is greedy and unethical behavior by the investment organization that owns dozens of media outlets across the United States.

“While we are used to a making a healthy profit margin — really sometimes as high as 15 percent — we try to take care of those in our employ,” said a masked man who would identify himself only as “Snake.”

“Here’s the deal: You can’t have a successful, long-term business if you lay off two-thirds of your employees and overwork the others until they hang up their triple-beam scales and automatic weapons, as it were,” Snake said. “It’s not rocket science.”

Snake added that he is troubled by what appears to be a lack of long-term goals or any interest in the news business by Carrion.

“I don’t get not wanting a company to succeed in the long term,” he said. “I mean, I’m not handing out drug rehab literature with every half gram. It’s just silly, really.”

Leaked documents from Carrion, a secretive hedge fund, show that the company has been making 20 percent profits while stripping media outlets of staff and infrastructure since it bought the controlling shares of Cutting Edge Media in 2011.

Carrion did not respond to repeated phone calls, emails, smoke signals and telepathic messages seeking comment.

“I left my government job for something much more lucrative. But even I have my limits.”

“Why would you want to buy a company just to ruin it?” John “El Cortador” Johnson, a former Central Intelligence Agency deep-cover operative and current spiritual leader of the notorious Puño Negro Cartel, said in a phone interview Wednesday.

“I have always, historically at least, worked in cocaine,” Johnson said. “It’s very profitable. But I realized that methamphetamine is the drug of the future. It’s entirely synthetic, which cuts down on international trafficking. I only have to get it over one border.”

Johnson added that he invested several million dollars in setting up three “super labs” in the jungles of the Yucatan Peninsula in Mexico, and he has seen improved profits and a product that he calls “state-of-the-art shit.”

“You can’t really call a company ‘Cutting Edge’ if you aren’t investing in cutting-edge technology,” he said. “It just doesn’t work that way. You have to spend money to make money. To do otherwise does a disservice to customers as well as your employees.”

Chad Todderson, who describes himself as an “upper echelon” member of an American-based opioid sales team, said he formerly worked at a private equity fund but resigned because “you just can’t trust those people.”

“I saw the story about Carrion’s profits, and I must say, I was disgusted,” Todderson said. “That’s why I moved on to narcotics trafficking. It’s just a better way to make a living and way more ethical than investments. I have to be able to look at myself in the mirror every day.”

“Yeah, private equity people just give me the creeps.”

I’m not a polar bear: A tirade in 3 acts

I’m not a polar bear


Point Barrow, Alaska — A polar bear lashed out at the media during a press conference on Tuesday that was called to address the tape recording that surfaced last week of the animal bragging about his prowess as a seal eater to an arctic fox ahead of a broadcast of Arctic Fox and Friends.

No one was at all surprised to discover that a polar bear eats seals, and interest in the story grew solely because the bear has so vehemently denied that he eats seals.

“Really, it’s just kind of weird that a bear would lie about something this obvious,” said a walrus that asked not to be identified.

The press conference featured a contentious exchange between the bear and a snowy owl who is a reporter with the the Daily Arctic Observer. The bear accused the owl of being a member of a “cabal of elite liberal media owls obsessed with making me look bad.”

A partial transcript of the exchange has been reprinted here.

“Mr. Bear, can you address why you are denying that you eat seals, even though everyone knows bears eat seals, and no one has a problem with bears eating seals?”

“I don’t eat seals.”

“Mr. Bear, you are clearly heard in the tape recording saying that you do in fact eat seals. You at one point say quote ‘I am the greatest seal eater in the history of the arctic circle. No one eats more seals than I do.’ End quote. Is it not usual for a polar bear to eat seals? Why the steadfast denial?”

“This is obviously more liberal arctic media fake news. I have never eaten seals. And if I did, I would always get permission. I wouldn’t just go gobbling up seals without their consent. And I don’t eat seals.”

“Sir, I …”

“I’m done talking to you. You aren’t a real reporter. In fact, you look like a snowy owl to me.”

“Uh, I am a snowy owl. I think maybe you are taking this the wrong way, Mr. Bear, but isn’t it normal for polar bears to eat seals? We still aren’t sure why you are denying you eat seals.”

“I don’t eat seals. And I’m not a polar bear.”

“Uh, sir, clearly you are a polar bear.”

“No, I’m not. You’re a polar bear.”

“No, I’m a snowy owl. You are a polar bear.”

“That’s just like a liberal media owl. You insinuate that just because I weigh 1,500 pounds, am covered in white fur and eat seals that …”

“So you admit that you eat seals.”

“Damn it. That’s not what I meant. You tricked me into saying that. You dirty polar bear.”

“Again, sir. I’m a snowy owl. You are a polar bear.”


[The polar bear produces a seal from behind the podium and begins eating it.]

“Mr. Bear, you are eating a seal right now.”

“I’m not a polar bear. I’m a seal.”


“This press conference is over.”


I’m still not a polar bear


A polar bear who last year denied he was a polar bear has again lashed out against the media following the publication of a book “Fire and Furry” that raises questions regarding the polar bear’s mental stability.

The author, an arctic fox, defended himself against allegations by the polar bear that the book is a “work of fiction,” particularly a segment that detailed a contentious exchange between the bear and a reporter with the Daily Arctic Observer during which he denied he was a polar bear.

“TPress conference never happened,” the polar bear wrote on his Twitter account @ImNotAPolarBear. “It’s another attempt by the liberal snowy owl media to paint me as a polar bear, which I’m not and have never been. Losers! … Lots of people are saying I’m not a polar bear. Even more are saying I’m a very furry genius!!”

The bear sent out a second tweet with no explanation that said “Any allegations by dumbass reindeers are untrue! #MakeItRein!!!”

The press conference was recorded and widely reported, but that has not stopped the bear’s press team from denying that the press conference happened. On Tuesday, the bear’s press secretary, a snowshoe hare, attacked the arctic fox and appeared to double down on the assertion that polar bear is not a polar bear.

A portion of the press conference is reprinted here:

“I mean it’s just obvious that there is an inherent bias in the liberal arctic press, and no one can deny that. Also, the polar bear denies any of the allegations made in this piece of trash book, particularly that he is, in fact, a polar bear,” the hare said. “I’ll take some questions now, although I’m sure they will be awful.”

“Snowy Owl, Daily Arctic Observer,” a snowy owl began.

“Oh no, not you. Next reporter.”

“Uh, I am a member of the working arctic press, and I’m credentialed to be in the polar press pool, I have a question, Ms. Hare —“

“Yeah, I’m not a snowshoe hare, and I don’t know how you got that idea.”

“Oh my, are we going to do this again?”

“Doing what again?”

“Ma’am, last year Mr. Bear denied he was a polar bear for reasons that are still terribly unclear, and now you are denying that you are a snowshoe hare, when it is abundantly clear that you are, in fact, a snowshoe hare. What is the long game in taking this tack?”

“You’re a snowshoe hare.”

The snowy owl threw up its wings in exasperation. The hare snickered. All of a sudden, the polar bear emerged from the door in the back of the room. He appeared to be dressed in a penguin suit.

“Rar, I’m a penguin,” he announced to the room.

“Sir, has it occurred to you that it’s not helping your case that you are mentally stable when you deny you are a polar bear and are dressed as a penguin,” the snowy owl asked, mostly rhetorically.

“You’re a polar bear!”

“Sir, there are no penguins in the arctic.”

“Fake news!” The bear and hare yelled in unison.

I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that I’m not a polar bear.


A polar bear who has repeatedly denied that he is a polar bear has lashed out against a stand up comedian who, during the Arctic Circle Press Correspondents Dinner on Saturday, took multiple shots at the bear’s claims.

The bear announced on his twitter account @ImNotAPolarBear that the comedian, a wolf, had crossed the line when she joked during her monologue that the bear is, in fact, a bear.

“I’ve said multiple times that I’M NOT A POLAR BEAR but #FakeArcticNews continues to lie. Also, wolf not funny, total hack!!!! Worst correspondents monologue ever,” the bear said.

The bear has on multiple occasions denied it is a polar bear, even though it is off white, weighs 1,500 pounds, has lots of sharp teeth and claws and has been photographed on multiple occasions in the company of other polar bears. When reached for comment on Wednesday, the bear said “Fake News. I’m not a Polar Bear. You’re a Polar Bear.”

The wolf also joked about the bear’s press secretary, a snowshoe hare, and a majority of the jokes involved snowshoe hares not actually wearing snowshoes. While the correspondents dinner has generated controversy in the past —  the Alaskan malamute monologue is a notable example — some members of the arctic media say the wolf’s comments went too far.

“Really, we are all here to celebrate the First Amendment and joke about the sometimes contentious relationship between the arctic press and the polar bear,” said a snowy owl reporter who has been in several past heated exchanges with the bear.

“This really goes beyond the pale,” the owl said. “It’s never OK to make fun of a snowshoe hare not having any snowshoes, even if it’s true.”

Numerous journalists were quick to criticize the snowy owl’s comments, among them a fat, facetious black bear from Colorado who appears to have gotten lost and ended up in the arctic.

“It’s ironic that a journalist, in this case a snowy owl, would stand up for an snowshoe hare who has gone out of the way to lie to the public and constantly attack the Arctic Press,” the black bear said. “I mean, come on, the polar bear is a polar bear. It’s so obvious. Why is this even up for debate?”

During a campaign speech inside an igloo that coincided with the correspondents’ dinner, the polar bear lashed out at the arctic media and made numerous unsubstantiated and false claims, mostly about seals.

The bear spent nearly three hours saying one sentence that never appeared to end and was mostly about how he is not a polar bear.

“Let me tell you, the fake Arctic news, they love, and their are a lot of them here,” the bear said, pointing at the rear of the igloo. “They will love to tell you, and there are a lot of them, believe me. They will tell you I’m a Polar Bear, but it’s just not true. I’m not a Polar Bear. You’re a Polar Bear.”