Well anyway Goldilocks has just been discovered snoozing away in Baby Bear’s bed. What the fuck are you doing in my bed, he asks in a very unfairytale-like manner. Goldilocks is nonplussed. This is not the manner in which she is accustomed to being spoken to. Having always been very blonde and very cute, she has come to expect spontaneous affection and loving adoration from strangers. This little ursa minor has ruffled her feather so to speak. Despite all this, her middle-class upbrining tells her to follow the path of least resistance. Who are you, she asks, instinctively adopting a wide-eyed, innocent demeanor.
A quick inventory reveals:
- an empty porridge bowl (Baby Bear’s)
- five or six crumpled pieces of tinfoil from a package of Hershey’s chocolate kisses (Mama Bear’s)
- a pipe (Papa Bear’s) resting upon the (still warm) T.V. set and containing the unsmoked residue of a controlled substance
Papa Bear, always the sleepy slow-witted, and benign patriarch, has failed to grasp the full import of the siuation. To him, the intruder has violated the sanctity of his abode, nothing more, and this rather simple-minded appraisal of the events has numbed his sensibilities to the crucial problems, i.e. the potential impact of Goldilock’s considerable charms upon Baby Bear’s budding sexuality, Mother Bear’s consternation at the thought of a possible disastrous intra-species pairing, and the question of justice with regards to the porridge supply.
She is to be forgiven for her tactics. They are, after all, tactics of survival. Everyone understands survival.
She appeals to the bears on the basis of her need, her weakness, her humanness. That is her strategy. It has never failed her. A recent close call:
“Honest, babe, I was there so long and I was just so lonely and missing you so bad and there he was, y’know, and he was so nice and most of all he reminded me of you, babe, he reminded me of you a whole lot and so, well, what else could I do?”
It works. Individuals die, species survive and, along with them, tactics for survival. Goldilocks knows this. The only thing troubling her now is that she is out of her element, out of that cozy, comfortable context she knows so well. This is a different world, a world of fur and claws and grunts and very bad breath. Can she depend upon survival instinct in this world? Can they (the bears) be manipulated? (They look so gullible in their ill-fitting clothes, trying to stand on two legs and clumsily attempting to grasp knives and forks in their paws. They’re so cute, after all.)
“Forgive me if I seem ill-mannered,” she says, a drop of porridge still clinging incriminatingly to her lower lip, “but I chanced upon your little cottage and I was scared and lost and ever so hungry, and well, what else could I do?