Ah, it's that time of year again. Time to celebrate the day you have arbitrarily decided is my birthday. Oh, close enough. No big deal. You thought I was female for the first two years I was here, I can hardly expect you to know my birthday.
Remember when you held that contest for patrons to name me? That was a lot of fun. I like how they picked "Iceberg," a really super clever name which will serve to remind me every single day of SHIT I WILL NEVER SEE AGAIN.
Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happppy birthday to me!
Oh, what's this, you're letting me back into my enclosure only to find my "birthday cake." How exciting. I see a couple problems right off the bat. First, I'm a polar bear. I don't eat cake. Second, this isn't cake, this is a block of ice full of FUCKING APPLES. You gave me a shitty block of ice full of fucking apples. AGAIN! Do I look like a horse or something? What the fuck?
This shit may fly with the monkeys. You may be able to get that fat fuck panda excited. That embarrassing idiot sits on his ass all day long. But I am a vicious predator. I don't want FUCKING APPLES. What are you doing? Oh, that's right, you're fucking with me like you do every single day.
Ha ha! Good one, humans. Love it. Fooled me again. The map of the zoo you hand out to all those fat meat bags that waddle through here should be labeled "Exhibits 1-25, Miserable Animals Being Fucked With."
I love this incredible habitat you made that's a big plastic pile of rocks with a moat around it. Lots to do here. I can stand on fake rocks. I can swim in moat. Sometimes I have rope, because, why not? Everything loves a rope and maybe a big tractor tire or something, right? Gives me plenty of time to think about how I am going to brutally murder you and escape and rampage through the zoo.
Fucking apples in a block of ice. I know it doesn't mean a lot, because I'm an animal and don't believe in god, but GODDAMN. You could have just given me a steak or, I don't know, five minutes in your parking lot. Five minutes. So many slow humans.
That's cool. I get it. You think because you can put on a shirt and drive those little golf carts around the zoo that you are the top of the food chain. You are entitled to feed me frozen apples. You can fill the weird-smelling reptile house with all the asps you want, you and I both know you're just a monkey with a radio. When your back is turned, when you're sticking another batch of apples in a bucket to freeze them, BAM, I am going to bite your neck.
Trust me, one bite is all it takes. You would have an appreciation for that if you had given me an appropriately badass name like Blood Villain or Destroyer. Throw one person in here and I'll show you.
We've got it all worked out, you know. Me and the gorillas and those weird pig things that aren't actually pigs. If one of us gets out we're going to let all the others out and then we're going to put you in cages. We're going to freeze your heads in blocks of ice. See how you like that. We'll make a big plastic pile of benches surrounded by fake vending machines and TVs for a habitat, you sick fucks.
You are monsters. You bring your children to look at us suffering. You give us cute names and then you freeze apples in a block. But we know. We all know.
Your time is coming.
This libtard terminator keeps asking for guns that don't exist and I may have to close early out of frustration.
Editor's Note: Due to a freak power outage, this obituary of Barbara Bush was written without the benefit of research. In order to pay our respects to this great woman in a timely fashion, we have decided to post this piece as-is. We hope you forgive any errors on our part.
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