“Three little maids from school are we, Pert as a school-girl well can be!” Mrs. Dogbutt sang as she sauntered down Gazelle Stampede Avenue, pitching her voice like a southern belle. Wrapped up in her silk gown with only one shoulder, high on her heels, and a floppy hat shielding her from the vicious sun, the tiny cat skipped about, scoffing at the poor animals living on the street.
She raised her golden chalice into the air, the light reflecting off of it, blinding many of the crying wino rhinos who had nothing better to do than stare at her.
“Aaaaaaaah!” they screamed, writhing on the roadside as the light blinded them.
She chuckled to herself, “Mew-mew-mew-mew-mew,” and took a sip from the solid gold, a foamy green liquid pouring into her tiny mouth, the bubbles tickling her tongue as she washed down her gullet.
“A green tea latte if you would, Mz Wageslave,” she said while loudly tapping the latest iPhone model at the front of the Starbucks line.
“Please, Mz. Wageslave is my father, you can call me Starbucks Drone 842,” the robot barista created by the hand of Howard Schultz responded, attempting to emote cheer.
“Oh, by the way, it must be made in this chalice of gold,” Mrs. Dogbutt explained as if she didn’t hear him, slamming the chalice on the counter so hard that it knocked some of the gift card display over.
“Okay,” Starbucks Drone 842 wished they could raise an eyebrow at this notion and cursed their creator for such lousy designs. With nary an eyebrow to raise, the only choice was to go through with the order. “Starbucks Drone 842 has done the math and it has come to 4.55. Great year. The Sack of Rome.”
“Um, check your mathematiques, that’s ten cents off for saving the environment with my Golden Chalice.”
“Um……” 842 hummed, debating whether they or not they should risk short circuiting trying to point out the fallacy.
“I love scorning the poor and wretched,” Mrs. Dogbutt sang with a contemptuous slur. “I love spitting on the unfortunate. I love running my condo that is exclusively only for rich cats like myself, cats so rich that I can pour gallons of money into my pot of gold by the million billion kajillion trillion willion—oof!”
Mrs. Dogbutt cried “Oof!” in that moment not because she had suddenly come to terms with her unquenchable thirst for green, although that would have been a happier circumstance. She cried “Oof!” because she tripped upon a large brown blob. As fell upon her precious chinny-chin-chin, the chalice slipped from her paws and rolled away.
“My chaliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice!!” Mrs. Dogbutt squealed, dogs howling in response to a cry that would make Pavoratti start to worry about their career. She tried to crawl over to the chalice as it escaped her, but her paws only managed to swat it further away as the blob dragged her in. Looking over her dainty shoulders, she looked into the bloodshot eyes of a bear in a torn up argyle sweater.
“Hello! I’m Mr. Bear!” the smelly old bear decreed. He then recited a tick from his old life. “I’m so happy that I have decided to retire as—-youcherz!”
He had screamed “Youcherz!” for Mrs. Dogbutt had kicked him square in the nose, not because he had accidentally laid upon a nail or something like that. That would generally illicit a “Help I laid down upon a nail, could someone please provide me with transportation to the hospital?”
“Haha, very funny—as King of the Forest and become a bear—oof—that lives n—noooot—god cut it out—in a f-f-for—ugh—forest but in a humble—ow home! A home among all the other—ow—fun loving humans of this—world—oh.”
Mr. Bear dictated “Oh.” at the end of his recital not because of any sort of pain on the outside, but because of the pain within, for he was no bear of such happy self-actualization, but a sad bear who once lead a cheery largely guiltless life.
Mr. Bear tackled Mrs. Dogbutt to the ground as she broke free from his grasp, handling her like his favorite teddy bear. “You’re so cute, Mrs. Dogbutt,” he grinned. Mrs. Dogbutt rolled her eyes.
How could a bear in such a stylish sweater be so distasteful?
Just then, a dopey looking cow tripped on the chalice, the bottom of her hoof rolling onto it.
“Wooooooooaaaaaaaaaaw!” the dopey cow yelped as she found herself doing a sort of unicycle routine on the chalice, which gave her PTSD because her attempt to be a cow clown twenty years resulted in the death of her best friend, her ding-dongs. (That’s right, her udders. We did say she was a dopey bovine beast.)
“Tell me I’m a good bear!” Mr. Bear cried out, his paws sinking deep into Mrs. Dogbutt.
In the Old Order of Mr. Bear, this would pose no problem. He trimmed his claws every day!
But in the New Order…Mr. Bear would draw blood in these circumstances. And so he did.
Blood shot out of Mrs. Dogbutt, soiling her frilly dress.
“Oh, fiddlesticks!” Mrs. Dogbutt growled, maintaining the civilization ingrained into her. She looked over to see the dopey cow still going “Wooooooooaaaaaaaaaaw!” on her chalice. It displeased her to see her chalice treated in such a way by such a dumb fuck of a cow.
“Screw you, Mr. Bear!” Mrs. Dogbutt roared, releasing the mountain lion within, and booped Mr. Bear on the nose. Mr. Bear laughed, it was as if a feather had passed by his nostrils! What a lark! Thus his body released some tension during his hearty chuckle that should have really been shared with all involved, but Mrs. Dogbutt was too busy thinking about the homeless shelters that should be burned down, and the dopey cow was preoccupied with keeping her balance.
“Heh heh,” Mrs. Dogbutt said with a wild look in her eyes, her clothes and fur tattered and tussled. She licked her lips, tasting the blood that dripped from her. She pounced to scoop up her chalice—
—but instead, sprang headfirst into the butt of a gazelle. Had the Gazelle not been in the middle of a panic attack, perhaps he would have noticed Mrs. Dogbutt ramming into his firm but sexy rear end (for this is a formidable Gazelle on gazelle dating apps and he wanted to make sure I put that out into the ether when I penned this story involving his person.)
And thus continues this comedy of errors.
“STAMPEDE!” the Gazelle cried out in a shrill voice.
“Stampede?” the dopey cow, arching her eyebrow as if to say, “What a preposterous claim! Why would there be a stampede on Gazelle Stampede Avenue? Why I’ve never even heard such a thing!”
Unfortunately the Gazelle was not very good at picking up social cues. (This is not something the Gazelle wanted sent into the ether, but upon my interview with him it was obvious that this was the primary reason his dating life was no good, and I hope by imparting this knowledge on you, the reader, that it will motivate the Gazelle to work harder on learning the social mannerisms of others.)
“What?” blurted the Gazelle.
Scratching her chin the same way Aristotle likely did when he penned Metaphysics, the Cow offered a hoof to the Gazelle. “What would there possibly be a stampede of here? Here on Gazelle Stampede Boulevard?”
A lightbulb flashed in the Gazelle’s eyes. Of course that’s what she meant! (It is also my duty to report the progress that the Gazelle makes with social mannerisms in this tale of woe.)
Mrs. Dogbutt tried slipping between the Gazelle’s legs but just in that moment, he snapped his legs together, catching the precocious feline by the neck.
The Gazelle crossed her arms and tapped her foot impatiently. What a dopey statement that could have only been thought of by a dopey cow. “You realize that all of our streets are named after the unfortunate liabilities that come from animals like ourselves. Like Bird Poop Boulevard, Lion Eats Your Butt Off Street, etc.”
“Wait—really?” the dopey cow asked.
“Is this not a problem for you?“ the Gazelle asked, mystified by this carefree cow that was much sought after by manner of the critters in Animal City.
“I don’t think you should use the word animals.”
Everyone paused and dramatically turned to gaze upon Mr. Bear, who stood on his hind legs with his brow furrowed. “It implies that we are all monsters within—and I for one am the friendly former King of the Forest who has become a bear that lives not in a forest but—“
“SHUT UP!” Mrs. Dogbutt, the Gazelle, and the dopey cow hollered.
“Ok,” Mr. Bear frowned, staring down at his belly that was full of the blood of innocent lives he was struggling to not digest. For when you shit out the remains of the thing you murdered, their soul is truly banished from this world. He continued his rant under his breath, “—in a humble home among all the other fun loving humans of this world.” He opened one eye a crack. They didn’t notice. Phew.
“Anyways, wooooooooooaaaaaaaahooooooow!” the dopey cow stuttered, resuming the struggle to balance on the chalice.
“Hey, um, you ok?” the Gazelle asked, raising his arms for a good old fashioned trust fall.
“Erm—“ Mrs. Dogbutt tried to throw in.
“Just trying to balance on this chalice!” the dopey cow frowned.
“Yes—about—um—“ Mrs. Dogbutt tugged on the Gazelle’s tail. He swatted her face away from his side.
“That sucks, man. Want me to catch you? Wow, we should incinerate that chalice afterwards. It’s a hazard to the streets!” the Gazelle was so shocked someone would so carelessly leave such trippable debris around.
“Actually, that’s my—“ Mrs. Dogbutt said in a small voice, face palming when she was yet again interrupted.
“Why do you care so much about street hazards?”
“Oh, y’know, I’m a street hazard guy.”
“No kidding! How much does that pay?”
“Hm—not well, but it’s good benefits you know, so—“
“Wait, stampede?!” the dopey cow blurted out, tugging at her wrecked udders.
“Yeah, every day at—“ the Gazelle started but was soon after shushed by the cow.
“One sec,” the cow grunted, angling her wrecked udder towards her mouth while hopping on one foot. “Got it!”
The cow squired some milk into her mouth, sloshed it around for a bit, repeated, “Wait—a stampede!?” and spit the milk everywhere.
“Oh yeah, every day at 2PM,” the Gazelle shrugged, too taken in by the feat the cow had managed under such troubling circumstances to emote anything denoting concern.
“And I didn’t notice this? I’ve lived here for 56 years and I’m only 19.”
“Hey, could I have my chalice back?” Mrs. Dogbutt tried fiddling with the chalice but the Gazelle dragged her away by the tail.
“Wait—ha! You need to explain that. 56 years? Get out!” the Gazelle laughed. Mr. Bear stepped up to hear too because it was definitely the most interesting thing going on in that moment and Mr. Bear liked to be included.
“Yeah, my mom had a time stop spell cast on her womb by a wizard so I was in there for a long time,” the dopey cow said with a certain aloofness that only came from the biggest attention lovers out there.
“Could I have my chalice—“
“OH MY GOD STAMPEDE!” the Gazelle screamed. “Save yourself, cat!”
And just like that, the Gazelle kicked Mrs. Dogbutt, sending her into a trashcan just as the stampede came.
The trashcan fell with a thud and Mrs. Dogbutt rolled out, covered in forgotten bags of dog food and looked up to see that the stampede was already over and that her chalice had been stomped into millions of pieces.
Oh, and the Gazelle, the Dopey Cow, and Mr. Bear had been trampled pretty thoroughly and died.
But Mrs. Dogbutt only had enough room in her rotten soul for the broken chalice. She crawled up to the biggest hunk of chalice she could find and curled around it, crying and mewing until she realized what the obvious solution was.
Several protein bars were knocked to the floor so Mrs. Dogbutt could slam her new chalice on the bar before Starbucks Drone 842, whom she still thought was named Mz. Wageslave.
“I would like a Green Tea Latte if you would,” Mrs. Dogbutt explained in a sharp tone. “And remember, ten cents off for my Golden Chalice.”
“Yes, ma’am, Starbucks Drone 842 will perform this task for you,” 842 nodded.
“Ha, you idiots are so stupide to take ten cents off for each drink like this. You actually bought me my chalice with the money I saved!”
842 couldn’t take it anymore. They tried leaning forward to put their arms on her shoulders, for it would make the communication process simpler, but realized that they were designed in such a way that there bionic arms that stuck out at ninety degree angles couldn’t move from their spots, making such a maneuver of understanding impossible.
Instead, they went for the direct approach.
“You do realize you don’t need to buy a Green Tea Latte every day?”
Mrs. Dogbutt looked up from the Salvador Dali inspired portrait of herself she was lugging around. Folding her paw underneath her chin, she fluttered her eyelashes. “Oh whatever you do you mean?”
“Starbucks Drone 842 is not—Starbucks is not buying you the Chalice with the ten cents—“ 842 explained. “You are in fact adding additional funds to your bank account this way.”
“Um—“ Mrs. Dogbutt grumbled stupidly.
Oh only if 842 could roll their eyes. Hm, maybe if they lit up their eyes in such a way that the light spiraled like a radar upon activating the eyes, but alas. A long shot.
“What Starbucks Drone 842 is saying is that you don’t need to get a Green Tea Latte every day. It’s a frivolous expense,” the Robot finished.
“Oh, really?” Mrs. Dogbutt lifted her big expensive hat to scratch her noggin.
Mrs. Dogbutt looked at 842 for a long time.
“Oh my life.”
Liked Mr. Bear? Here’s some other stories that feature him!
A prequel: Mr. Bear or How to Ignore Your Problems and Become the Beast You Always Feared You Were
A Midquel to the aforementioned prequel, if you would: Mrs. Dogbutt or How to Make Wild Assumptions About Green Tea Lattes That Put You in a Bad Spot in Life
A Secret Origins Story: Argyle Sweater Weather or How to Unlock Your True Sense of Being But Not Really
A story loaded with multiple cameos from everyone’s favorite guy: Katrinick