Porridge

Sent by my old friend Barry:

Baby Bear goes down­stairs and sits in his small chair at the table, he looks into his small bowl. It is emp­ty. “Who’s been eat­ing my por­ridge?” he squeaks.

Papa Bear arrives at the big table and sits in his big chair. He looks into his big bowl, and it is also emp­ty. “Who’s been eat­ing my por­ridge?” he roars.

Mom­ma Bear puts her head through the serv­ing hatch from the kitchen and yells, “How many times do we have to go through this with you idiots? It was Mom­ma Bear who got up first, it was Mom­ma Bear who woke every­one in the house, it was Mom­ma Bear who made the cof­fee, it was Mom­ma Bear who unloaded the dish­wash­er from last night, and put every­thing away. It was Mom­ma Bear who went out in the cold ear­ly morn­ing air to fetch the news­pa­per, it was Mom­ma Bear who set the damn table, it was Mom­ma Bear who put the frig­gin’ cat out, cleaned the lit­ter box, and filled the cat’s water and food dish and now that you’ve decid­ed to drag your sor­ry bear-ass­es down­stairs, and grace Mom­ma Bear’s kitchen with your grumpy pres­ence, lis­ten good, cause I’m only going to say this one more time.

“I HAVEN’T MADE THE %@#$*%# PORRIDGE YET!!”