Louis C.K. and the Three Bears

I love New York. Love coming here. I’m not here five minutes and I get mugged before I even leave the airport. No, seriously. That actually happened.

Guy comes over, all, “hey, you need a cab?” And I’m like, “yeah, I need a cab.” And he’s like, “OK, now you need a cab and a new wallet, thank you very much fuckface.”

What a jerk. Seriously, that actually happened.

But I love this place. No really. Hey, crime happens everywhere. I’m from the woods — you think crime doesn’t happen there? No crime in the woods? What do you think those owls are up to all night? You think they stay up all night because they don’t want to sleep? It’s because they’re stealing shit. All night long. Do not trust fucking owls.

What, oh, did that surprise you that I live in the woods? Because I’m a bear, in case you thought maybe I’m just like a really fat guy at the Comedy Cellar who just has a bear face and bear paws and oh yeah, right, he’s a bear. Yeah, that all makes sense now. Come on.

Yes, I’m a bear. I’ve got a bear wife and a bear kid and we live in this crappy house in the woods. What? Of course it’s a crappy house. I built it.

You think I went to school or some shit to learn how to build houses? I’m a bear. They wouldn’t let me anywhere near one of those community colleges. Like, oh, we can’t let that bear learn carpentry and plumbing and shit because then the bears won’t have to live in crappy houses. Then everybody’s going to move to the woods and live in awesome houses that the bears built because animals don’t understand real estate.

If you told me you wanted to buy my house and gave me a garbage can, just filled to the brim with garbage, I’d sell you my six-bedroom waterfront mansion for that garbage. I’m a bear. We don’t understand anything. The owls don’t need to steal shit from us. They could just feed us garbage and we’ll give them whatever they want.

So my family’s having porridge one morning in our crappy little house in the woods. Usually we just go out in the forest and tear a deer in half and eat it right there in the dirt or whatever. We eat it all. Bones, fur, asshole, everything. We’re bears. That’s what we do.

But whatever. The wife wants us to start eating healthier, so this one morning, she makes a whole pot of porridge. She’s not that great a cook, to be honest. She’s terrible, really, but I mean, it’s not like she has to be a good cook. Like I said, we eat garbage and fur and assholes and it all tastes great to us. But she makes this porridge and just pours in like a ton of sugar and tops it with this big spoon of cinnamon and you just know, this is going to be good.

And I’m just in there, my snout is just two inches from the porridge and she hits me! She actually hits me with a wooden spoon. I’m having flashbacks to my childhood and she’s like, “what do you think you’re doing? That porridge is steaming hot. You’re going to burn your mouth on it.”

I’m really hungry and not too pleased because she just hit me with a fucking wooden spoon, but what am I gonna do? My kid is just laughing his fucking head off and I’m just sitting there with these bits of steaming porridge on my head from where my wife smacked me. And she’s like, “why don’t we all take a nice walk in the woods while the porridge cools off?”

What the hell? Like, how long does it take for porridge to go from hot to the right temperature for you to actually, you know, eat it? This isn’t fucking lava we’re eating. It’s not molten globs of the earth’s inner crust. It’s breakfast cereal. How long until it cools off? Two minutes? Two minutes, tops, right? But she’s all on this health kick and is insisting that we go for a walk before we eat breakfast. I’m starving and stinging from the assault with the spoon and my kid is going bonkers but fine, whatever. Let’s go for a fucking walk in the woods. Maybe we’ll find a deer or something and I can eat its asshole to tide me over.

We go out for this walk and it takes forever. My kid has to stop and sniff everything. He’s sniffing leaves. He’s sniffing trees. He sniffs the dirt. He starts actually eating dirt, like grabbing big paws full of dirt and his mom is like, “what do you think you are doing?” And I’m like, maybe the kid’s on to something, you know? I’m really fucking hungry by now. But she just gives me that look and fine, we have to walk through a whole other forest before we get back to our crappy house where this awesome porridge is probably already cold and gloppy as fuck.

We get back and I’m starving but I’m like, hold on a second. Did we even leave that front door open? Did we do that? Not just unlocked, but actually open? Ajar? Who does that? Because we were in such a rush to go on this marathon walk through the woods? Were we that stupid to just leave the door open like that? The wife notices too and she’s looking at me all weird and I’m looking back at her like, “yeah that’s fucked up”. But my kid’s totally oblivious. He just runs right into our crappy house and we go in after him because what the fuck are we going to find inside? Has the local owl gang broken into our place or what?

I hear my kid start bawling. I’m going in and I’m ready to fucking rip the faces off of a bunch of owls and I don’t see shit. What the fuck is my kid all upset about? Then I see what he’s pointing at. We hadn’t touched the porridge before we left, but now we’re back and there’s spoons in all our bowls. Some fucking dipshit went and tasted my porridge and just left the spoon in the bowl. They did the same thing with my wife’s bowl. And this fucking loser, this scum-sucking fuckface, whoever it is, they fucking ate my kid’s bowl of porridge. My kid is fucking crying like it’s the end of the world and I’m just freaking out because who the fuck is in our house?

I round the corner into the living room like I’m Charles Bronson. I got no gun. I’m a bear, I can’t even get a license for a gun. Thank you, Obama. Like what, I’m more dangerous than that fucking asshole that shot up that theatre in Colorado a couple of months back? Him, they let buy ten guns and all that other Rambo stuff he got through eBay or whatever. But I need a gun for home defence from porridge eating psychos? No way.

But hey, I’m a bear. I can handle myself. I will just find whoever it is and eat them and that will be that. I’m in the living room and I can see someone’s been sitting in my chair. My ass has what you might call a distinctive shape. It’s a big bear ass. And some loser with a teeny, pointy ass was obviously sitting in my chair because now it’s all messed up. Same with my wife’s chair — and she is seriously freaked out at this point.

My kid comes in and he just points to his chair and he can’t even cry anymore. He just looks at me with these sad eyes because his chair is actually broken. The fucker broke his chair and now it’s fucking Raganrok. It’s the twilight of the gods because his favourite chair that he likes to sit in and listen to bedtime stories is in pieces. Now he’s just rocking and shaking back and forth and not saying anything. My wife is trying to get him to talk but he won’t say shit.

The world no longer has any meaning. The world is shit. Apparently, that chair was my kid’s life. At least, that’s what he’s thinking right now. Oh man.

Well, that is it. I have fucking had it with this creep, whoever it is. I’m not scared. My wife is freaking out, my kid is going all Rain Man on me and it’s up to me to fix this. I march upstairs to my bedroom because there’s really only one room left in the whole house.

What about the bathroom? Bathroom, really? Where do you think I shit? I’m a bear? In the woods. Thank you. Fucking asshole, go to the head of the class.

OK, so I go in there and my wife and kid are right behind me. I look at my bed and it’s all messed up like someone’s been jumping on it or some shit. Same deal with my wife’s bed…

Yeah, what, you’re surprised? You’re surprised my wife and I have separate beds? Like, do they make a bed that would fit both of us? I weigh 900 pounds. I shit you not. All by myself, I weigh literally half a ton. Now, I’m not going to tell you what my wife weighs because someone here is going to spill it and it’s going to get back to her and she’s going to murder me. Like, you’ll somehow track down her email at mamabear71@hotmail.com, somehow you’ll do that and fucking go on Google chat or whatever and be like “Papa Bear told us you weigh sixteen thousand pounds — is that true?” and I just won’t be here anymore. I will not exist. I will be dead. Thank you very much, you bastards on Google chat. Now I’m dead, all thanks to you.

Anyway, it’s the same thing on my wife’s bed. Sheets are all this way and that, like an Olympic sprinter was sleep-walking in her bed. Weird shit. But of course, my kid wanders in and now he’s got some permanent mental trauma. His eyes are all over the place like he can’t focus on anything and he’s drooling and I’m like this is fucking embarrassing. Like, there’s no one else around to see my kid doing this shit, and I’m still embarrassed for him. It’s awful. But props to him because he saw the burglar first.

Not much of a burglar, I guess. I’m expecting some hard-assed owls who are going to ask me to join their owl gang or die or whatever. But it’s just a little girl there, sleeping in my kid’s bed. She’s actually snoring. Some fucking weird little blonde kid who must have walked for hours in the woods before she just wandered into my house. Now I’m thinking, well, she’s just a little girl, like what do I do? I don’t want to scare her. I mean, that would be cruel, right?

But then I’m thinking about how goddamn hungry I am and now I don’t even want to eat that porridge she already tasted and filled with her germs. She fucked up my furniture, she made my kid sad, my wife is all upset and I’m like, you know what kid? You had this coming. And I scare the living shit out of her! I roar like I’m pretty well ready to kill and eat the whole goddamn forest, like ROOOOAAAAAARRRR!!! And this little blonde weirdo practically goes from a sleeping position to a standing position in an instant, her eyes are all wide like in a cartoon and she’s staring with her mouth open. She’s frozen with fear. There’s tears coming out of her eyes.

Now I maybe feel a little sorry for her, but I see my kid all spazzing out in the corner and I just roar again! I am pissed off! My wife’s pissed off too and now she’s roaring! And I guess my kid starts coming around and he gives a half-decent roar that doesn’t even come close to making up for his embarrassing stuff he was doing before, but whatever. He’s trying.

You come into our house and eat our food, wreck our shit, sleep in our beds? I don’t care if you’re a nice little blonde kid all the rest of the time, you had this coming.

So this kid, this pint-sized burglar, vandal, porridge-eating crazy kid just runs faster than I’ve ever seen anyone go. I mean, I tried to chase her down, but she just went zoom, out of our house and back into the woods. No time to even call the cops. Call out the FBI, maybe, she’s three states away by the time we get to our front door.

We never saw her again, but man, you try living in a house where someone’s broken in. It’s fucking uncomfortable. My wife is still upset about it. My kid’s still acting weird, though I guess it’s getting better. Maybe he’s not scarred for life, I don’t know. But what am I supposed to do about this one-girl crime wave in the woods? It’s not like I can install locks on the door or get a security system with an alarm with the key code and everything… because, you got it, I’m a bear.

Thanks a lot. You’ve been a great audience. I love New York. Have a good night.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.