Goldilocks and the Three Bears

Once upon a time there were three bears—spunky, wild, lusty bears with huge, quivering thighs, who lived and loved together within a brownstone country cottage located upon one of England's fertile, rolling plains. One of them was a Little Wee Bear, one was a Middle-Sized Bear, and one was a Great Big Bear. These were no ordinary bears. They were not your run-of-the-mill conservation park animals, but Bears in the darkest, most human sense of the word-fated, doomed, limited. This strange sense of fatality in the Bears—as if they were limited to one form of existence, one activity, one Bearness, a sort of fatal halfness, which to themselves seemed wholeness—always overcame the Bears and brought on a profound, ominous sadness, which seemed to extend into the very depths of their souls. 

Original title illustration by Kevin Finney as appeared within the printed article.

It was Sunday, a wild, lusty Sunday, and the Bears, numbed by this constant essential suffering, this knowledge of unavoidable finality, decided to cook up a batch of dark, country porridge to take their minds off this presentiment of horrible and indomitable evil. A flame ran secretly through their innermost beings as the porridge boiled in the black, cavernous pot. When it was finally ready, the swirling, bubbling mixture was so hot that the Bears—although their eyes were all lit up with a little flame of keen, curious desire decided to take a short walk in the thick, dark woods until the porridge's fire should be quenched. And off they went, slowly, terribly slowly. 

By and by, a young girl, wandering through the forest, stopped at the Bears' cottage. Her name was Goldilocks, and she was a pretty, country-looking girl with soft blonde hair, sturdy body, and slow movements, full of unusual energy. She had big, wondering eyes and a soft, sensual voice, and craved the love connection. She craved the fire of the wild tumult, craved the heaving of loins, craved the rapturous thrills of passion she had experienced with the splendid, sturdy youths of her village. At the moment, though, she was lost, tired, and hungry, and so, seeing no one home, entered the cottage with a dark foreboding of the hopelessness of her situation.

Upon entering, she found the cottage surcharged with a potent atmosphere of intense, dark callousness. And yet she found herself the possessor of a secret sense of power, and of inexpressible destructiveness, and of fatal half-heartedness, a sort of rottenness in the will. She was sinking in. And then she was filled with a fury of contempt and anger—inexplicable, incomprehensible, indescribable. In a burst of destructiveness quite apart from her consciousness, Goldilocks broke all the Bears' furniture, threw their porridge on the floor, overturned their vats of honey—spreading the sensual, syrupy dark liquid all over her young, firm body—and, exhausted, collapsed in the closest bed, that of Little Wee Bear. 

Very soon after this, the three Bears returned from their wild and lusty romp through the deep, dark forest. Upon entering first and seeing the mess, Big Bear's blood went weak in his veins, his mind became dim and unconscious, and he collapsed amidst the broken furniture, honey vats and porridge bowls. Middle-Sized Bear entered next, and, taking in the scene, was overcome by a violent striking of blood in the heart, and plunged suddenly, dazedly and breathlessly to the floor. Little Wee Bear, a sixteen-year-old energetic stud, was not, as stated before, an ordinary bear. He prided himself mentally and spiritually on his contemptuous indifference, his intrinsic abandonment of any admirable Bear qualities. To be frank, he was an alienated rebel, caring, in his insolence, solely for his own physical satisfaction. Because of his indifference to his parents' situation, then, he ignored their obvious misfortune, focusing instead on the unfamiliar breathing coming from his room. Who should he discover but the wild and lusty Goldilocks fast asleep in his bed! 

Original illustration by Kevin Finney as appeared within the printed article.

Blind to her, thinking only of himself, he slipped his arm softly around her waist and drew her to him. Her heart fainted, feeling herself taken. But then, his hairy black arm was so strong she quailed under its powerful close grasp. She died a little death, as girls will when approached by a bear, especially a Bear, and was drawn against him. He seemed to balance her perfectly in opposition to himself, in their dual motion. So, suddenly, he was liberated and perfect, strong, heroic. At first repulsed, Goldilocks was no prude, and now sighed with a thrill of strange, fatal elation. Little Wee Bear was so strong, so sustaining, that he could not be opposed. She drifted along in a wonderful interfusion of physical motion and emotional bliss. Though the room was light, the two were in perfect, isolated darkness, outside the world. 

Smilingly they delighted in each other's presence, pure presence, not to be thought of, even known. And she was drawn to him strangely, as in a spell. Kneeling before him, she put her arms around his loins and placed her face against his thighs. Riches! Riches! She was overwhelmed with a sense of a heaven full of riches. Unconsciously, with her sensitive fingertips, she traced the back of his thighs, down the flanks. It was the strange reality of his being. This was release at last. She had had lovers, she had known passion. But this was more than love or passion. It was all for her. She traced with her hands the line of his loins and thighs, and a living fire ran through her—from him—darkly. It was a dark flood of electric passion she released from him and drew into herself. It was perfect for the Bear-girl mass. It was the most intolerable accession into being, the marvelous fullness of immediate gratification, overwhelming, outflooding from the source of the darkest, deepest, strangest life-source of the body—at the base and back of the loins. 

Little Wee Bear was shrewder than most bears. He knew a good thing when he found one. Therefore, he swept Goldilocks up in his strong, heaving arms, and, without looking back at the cottage, quickly made his way to the dark profundity of the forest.

The End.

Note: Images were generated with DALL-E 3 in the style of the original illustration, unless otherwise stated.

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What's a Classic Article anyway?

This article originally appeared in the December 1984 printed edition of Laugh Factory Magazine.

Laugh Factory Magazine cover from December 1984, featuring Rodney Dangerfield