A brief lie.

I've never mentioned this to you fine folks, but I have the ability to turn sound into a concussive form of light energy. Call it what you will: super power, mutant ability, foible that makes trips to the bathroom a roller coast ride every single fucking time--I've simply accepted it as my cross to bear.

Bear. Now that's an interesting turn of phrase. I was walking through my little town the other day, and I happened across a dumpster behind one of Athens' finer eateries (Arby's), and saw what I thought was my Dad rooting through the contents of that restaurant's detritus.

"Dad!" I said. "Get out of the dumpster!"

He ignored me.

"Dad!" I called again, hoping that I wouldn't be heard over the drive-thru call box. The last thing I wanted was the Arby's Ninjas to come vaulting from who-knows-where, fighting me and my Dad with their daggers and throwing stars, and perhaps carving us up to use as Beef n' Cheddars.

But still, I got no response. My father is well known for his love of rooting around in dumpsters.

I walked over to the big green box, and pulled what I thought was my Dad by his short, stubby tail, wishing all that while that he'd learn once and for all to put on a damn pair of pants when he's going to town. I wanted only to get his attention. Mom has lots and lots of fine foods for him to eat, few of which will give him intestinal parasites. I yanked the short stubby tail, to get him to quit rattling the foundations of our growing family by eating out of restaurant dumpsters.

I guess my skills as a storyteller fail me, because I'm guessing you've figured at this point that it wasn't my Dad digging around in the trashbin behind Arby's, and it wasn't my Dad whose tail I pulled to roust him from his revelry in a half-eaten Big Montana.

Nor was it actor Anthony Anderson, whom I've likewise stopped from scavenging through dumpsters around my town and had to fight on two separate occasions. It is a little known fact that Anthony Anderson holds the first and only Doctorate in Dumpster Diving. (I am awaiting the rubber match in our series, sir. I wait patiently at the landfill).

No, it was bear.

A bear, eating out of the dumpster behind Arby's.

A big, black, bear with sharp teeth, a bad attitude, and breath that smelled like two pieces of shit had fought to the death, and he'd eaten them both.

I've never fought a bear. The opening scenes to the third volume of Stephen King's Dark Tower series have put me ready for that sort of thing, or so I thought. I pulled my six-shooter from my side, and started to aim for his radar dish.

And I realized: this bear has no radar dish twirling on his head..

I wish there were more to tell.

No radar dish? Plan A thrown asunder, I found myself lacking a Plan B.

So, I crapped in my pants. Audibly.

I didn't mention that bit about my ability to turn sound into a concussive light blast just for shits and giggles, though this story involves both.

The sound of my crapping in my pants was loud enough to create a light blast, which managed to blast the bear into hamburger.

It did not make for good sandwiches. This, I am sorry to report.

I have no good way to close this narrative, except to apologize to the family of that bear, whom it turns out was actually Mike Ditka.