Big Hairy Furballs Make Friendly Overtures
Q-man, I know your party was 17 days long, and you're feeling a little god-like, what with all those kids chasing you and screaming your name, and their moms wanting photos with you, and it must be kinda tiring, and maybe you're ready to head straight to Bermuda, and shave down. But I’m getting ready to party too, so I'm reaching out, one furball with a biodynamically unsupportable head to another. On Saturday, April 17, I'm turning 7. Me and the gang (Pemberton Potato Jack, Gizmo, RCMP Safety Bear, Bart the Bear) will be dishing out the cake. (And I know you Olympdoods like your cake.) We’ll play a bunch of party games, like limbo and the dance-off, and crown the Mascot Champion of the Universe. (Ever since I turned six, I realised that I didn’t have to be the winner at my own party, so I’d even let you win. Maybe.) I know we’ve been kind of competitive in the past – but I just came out of an amazing yoga class in which I realised that my bendy-ness may never really improve, but the universe is a vast and benevolent place. Look, Q-man, these little kids have a lot of room in their hearts for us big friendly fellows. There’s room in this town for all of us. This segregation thing? It doesn't have to be so. So, I hope you can make it to my party. Bring Miga and Sumi, too. We'll keep it loose. Peace out, B.A. (Big Air aka badass) Bear
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