The True Story of Goldilocks

         I’m sure you all know the story of Goldilocks and the three bears:  the evil bears come home from their walk and chase off poor, innocent li’l Goldilocks, who just wanted a meal and a cozy place to sleep, right?  Well, the name’s Boris Bear, but you can call me Papa Bear.  I’m here to tell the truth about “cute little girls” and “big, bad bears.”  I’m sick of hearing these same old lies about us!
         First of all, I’m not some savage who lives in the woods and feasts on human flesh.  I’m on a strict diet of porridge, vegetables, and the occasional fish or two.  Second, I’m a lumberjack, and I work my butt off every day so that my wife and kid always have a roof over their head and there’s always food on the table.
         I bought us a humble cottage in the woods about two years ago from an elderly raccoon couple.  The only reason that they were selling it was because they were having trouble getting up and down the stairs.  The house had been maintained well and the atmosphere was peaceful.  The air was full with the pleasant taste of pine trees.  The house was built directly along the river, so it was a premiere fishing spot as well.  So like a bounce-house at a child’s birthday party, I jumped all over it at the first opportunity I got.
         Although the home was wonderful, the raccoons left out the details of one major problem: burglary and vandalism happened to be very popular ‘round these parts.  Every local I chatted with upon moving here informed me that they all had issues with burglars breaking into their homes, stealing their food and breaking their chairs.  Many claimed they had seen the culprit on more than one occasion and they all claimed that it was just one person committing all these acts.  I was surprised by all of this, but that surprise sure didn’t last long.
         We had our little encounter with the thief around six months ago.  It was a brisk spring afternoon, and the ol’ lady and I decided to take Junior out for a stroll.  Our neighbors had advised us to lock our windows and doors before leaving, but the stench of porridge we had for lunch was thick inside the house, and we wanted to air it out a bit.  As we began to head down the sinuous path, thoughts of What’s the worst that could happen? filled my mind.
         The farther down the path we got, the farther these thoughts fled from me.  Paranoia quickly started setting in, and I quickly began imagining terrible things, like I wonder what he’s stealing right now?!  I soon crumbled under the weight of my imagination, and I urged the missus that we should head back home immediately.  We strayed from the trail a bit so we had a bit of a difficult struggle back through the dense net of trees and shrubs.
         As we proceeded up the walkway to our home, the very first thing I noticed was the front door, standing wide open.  I knew for a fact that I closed that door when we left!  I guess I was paranoid for all the right reasons.  It looked as though the burglar had struck again.
         “Hello?” I boomed as I entered the house.
         No response.  I looked quickly left, right, and left once again.  I was terrified at what I saw.  To my right was what remained of the kitchen.  Bowls and utensils lay scattered all over the place, and there was a strange, orange, liquid-like substance in a bowl on the counter.  It looked like a scientific experiment gone horribly wrong.
         The next victim of the assault was the living room.  All of our chairs looked as though they had been brutally decapitated.  It seemed like we were dealing with the “Iceman” of chairs and kitchens here.
         “That does it!!” I shouted as I headed up the stairs.  I grabbed my grandpappy’s prized ax off the wall and stomped my way to the second story like a rabid bull.  I kicked the door of my bedroom, breaking the hinges and sending it sailing across the room.  I was nearly blind with rage when I saw my bed.  It had been broken in half.  I’m still at a loss for how that happened; my father built that bed of only the sturdiest materials!  It was the hardest, sturdiest bed I’ve ever slept on!!
         I stormed down the hall to see what other damage had been done.  The door to Junior’s room was closed and locked up tight as a prison cell, so I readied my grandpappy’s ax, took a great swing, and lopped the door in two.  The bottom half of the door fell into the room and the top half flipped and flailed out the bedroom window.
         And there she was.  Sleeping ever so soundly was the minute vandal, who stood only about three and a half feet tall with golden hair that was easily twice as long as she was.  She had the most content look on her face as she snored loudly with porridge smeared all over her face.
         “Wake up!”  I shouted as I raised my ax once again.
         “Wh—what…?”  She stammered. She was perplexed as to what was going on.  When she saw the sharp blade raised above her, she squealed and hopped out of the bed.  My ax came crashing down on Junior’s bed, splitting it perfectly in two.  She hopped out the window and scampered down the road, tripping over her hair into the forest as quickly as her short legs could carry her.

         I breathed a few hard breaths of anger and soon my fury turned to sorrow as I started sobbing.  She broke my father’s bed, my wife’s kitchen, my son’s chair and most of all, my spirit.  I tossed the ax into the center of my son’s bedroom and sat down in sadness, staring at it blankly.
         Six months later, Goldilocks (as she’s come to be known in this community) is still at large.  As far as we know, she’s done raping and pillaging our town, but she could be back someday.  I know that if I ever see her again, I’ll bring her to the witch that lives down the lane in that house made of candy!!
         That’s my story, kids.  Hopefully you look at Goldilocks and myself in a different light now.  This just goes to show that a book should never be judged by its cover!