The Bear found out about this Bullshit Blog this past weekend. And guess what mother fuckers, I’m still alive.

That goddamn Lewis Black almost got me killed. He reads a couple VW rants which refer to “the bear” and just has to interject “that’s his wife.” Stick to the script, shit head. If he had kept his fucking mouth shut, I could have blamed auto-correct.

Snitches get stitches — Lewis.

So her friends ask her about this “bear” thing and people start posting shit on Facebook about it.

I get home Friday night, and first thing she says: “What’s up with the bear?”

So I hem and haw and then send her the link to the blog. After a while she figures how to make it through the fucked-up Wix layout on this bullshit blog. By the way Wix sucks, use any other fucking blog site but Wix.

She begins to read. I’m simultaneously trembling with justified fear and trying to suppress a shit-eating grin because she might think I’m hilarious..

Is she going to laugh? Is she going to cry? Is she going to the kitchen for the biggest knife in the drawer? Fuck, it sucks to sit there and watch somebody read your shit in front of you.

None of that happened. I told you she is unpredictable — like a…. ummmm. What kind of an animal is unpredictable? That’s right like a fucking BEAR.

She sort of grins a few times and moves on.

“Savage Bitches and their Balloons? What is this bullshit?” she asks. She laughs at one of the jokes about balloon size.

Then she starts the corrections.

“We really don’t start eating at 11. It’s usually later than that.”

“We didn’t have 50 people…”

“It’s a bullshit blog,” I say. “It’s not based on fact.”

She reads 1 or 2 more. “That’s enough for today,” she says.

Shit, I spend months writing my little secret blog with like 40 stories. I carefully post only messages to certain friends so she won’t find out.

I finally do the big “reveal”, and she spends less than 5 minutes on just the ones about her.

That’s just what all you mother fuckers do – I see the analytics. I can guess your goddamn IP addresses. If you are not named, you move on. But I expect that shit from you. I expected just a little more from 30 years together as soul mates. Not to mention I have given her every dollar I have made since 1986.

“It’s cute.” she says.

Fuck. None of this shit is supposed to be “cute” — like I’m a goddamn 3rd grader writing about his new fucking puppy.

CUTE — is it too late for her to go into the kitchen and just kill me now?