Oh alright, Clarence. One more quick nursery rhyme before bed and then it’s lights out. Okay?

Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear. Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair. Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn’t fuzzy, was he?

What’s the matter, Clarence? Did I say something wrong?

No, of course he didn’t really lose all his hair! It’s just a silly little rhyme.

Well no, I don’t find anything funny about a bear cub losing his fur. I think it’s just supposed to be silly because of the play on words.

What’s not to get, Clarence? “Wuzzy” sounds like “was he”. That’s it.

What? How am I being racist?

Hadendoa warriors? What are you talking about?

No, no, no. You’re thinking of that poem by Rudyard Kipling. Besides, I think the British officers used it as a term of endearment.

Well, have you even read it? It talks about how brave and valiant the Fuzzy-Wuzzies fought and—

I am so totally not racist, Clarence! And neither was Kipling. It was the turn of the century. Lots of worse politically incorrect terms were floating around then. But that’s not even the point. My rhyme clearly states that Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear, not a Beja fighter during the Mahdist War.

Look— I didn’t write it, okay? I think its from an old novelty song from the 1940s. You seriously have never heard “Fuzzy Wuzzy” before?

I doubt Americans had the time or interest during World War II to write malicious songs about anyone but Axis countries. Need I remind you of the presence of the word “bear”? How could you misconstrue that?

Don’t start quoting Platonov to me, mister. Only you would try and cite pre-Hitler communist literature in a debate about racism.

There you go again, Clarence! Why do all of our talks have to end up in Godwin’s Law territory?

And I suppose you look for post modern symbolism in Winnie the Pooh stories too? You know, if I had a dime for every… wait a minute. Are you stalling to avoid going to bed again?

Clarence, you little scamp! Why didn’t you just say you wanted me to read The Foundation Pit to you?

All right, all right. But just the first chapter. Ahem. “On the day of the thirtieth anniversary of his private life, Voshchev was made redundant from the small machine factory where he obtained the means for his own existence…”

A Bear For The Bear at Uneetee