Editor’s Note: We recently sat down with Boo Boo, sidekick to Yogi Bear, to discuss his upbringing and relationship with Yogi Bear. Enjoy!

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a king grizzly.

I started out as an ordinary cub in Jellystone National Forest. I don’t remember my mother very well, but she was an exceptionally beautiful bear. This isn’t just my youthful memories talking either, since it was primarily for her lovely fur that she was shot down by a pack of hunters.

Yes, Jellystone is supposed to be a protected park where bears and their cubs can roam free without worrying about hunters. But like most government offices, it’s poorly funded and ill-managed, so poaching is common. Jellystone bears are prime specimens for hunters, too. Because our park is ostensibly protected from all but tourists, we grow fat and lazy, making us easy pickings for unscrupulous poachers.

So there I was, a tender cub, orphaned before I’d ever learned the ways of the bear. Nature is red in tooth and claw, and has no sympathy for such a mewling creature. I was fair game for anything bigger and meaner that wanted a cub-sized snack, and that’s if I didn’t starve to death first. I wandered through the woods, crying, occasionally stumbling on some mushrooms or carrion that I’d stuff into my mouth. Bears are omnivores and we can eat pretty much anything, but I still managed to eat what I shouldn’t. The mushrooms I ate made me see strange visions. The meat I ate was rotten and made me sick. A porcupine beat me up. In despair, I laid down to die. It was survival of the fittest, and I was not fit. The forest is obscene.

That’s when Yogi found me. Or at least, that’s what he says. I don’t really remember. In the romance of delirium, I thought it was my mother who nursed me back to health. That delectable food could only come from Bear Heaven, after all. In reality, it was the contents of a pic-a-nic basket — fried chicken, ham, deviled eggs, potato salad … I was an addict before I knew what my vice was.

But how can I hate the stuff of my salvation? Is it wrong to take from those who had taken from me? I would have died thanks to human intervention, and their pic-a-nics were my just desserts. At least that’s what Yogi insisted. Though I don’t think he meant “just desserts” in the same way that I do.

I’m getting ahead of myself, though. Once I was conscious, I realized who I had imagined to be my mother was a big oafish bear named Yogi. He had come upon me in the woods and taken pity as nature wouldn’t. He had taken me back to his cave and nursed me back to health with his ill-gotten gains.

As I recovered, I pondered this twist of fate. I knew the forest would never be kind to me. My early traumas had left me small and stunted in my growth. I’d never be a true grizzly because I was short. But Yogi was big and strong. He was a made bear, he could protect me, and I’d be part of a family. In exchange, I could lend him my brains and my cuteness, and together we could raid tourists of their foodstuffs.

Yogi likes to talk about how he’s smarter than the average bear. And he is. But I’m even smarter. He was canny enough to realize it, and I let him brag. Part of my appeal is that I’m cute, quiet, and humble. It opens doors. It works angles Yogi can’t. No one suspects the little guy.

It was my idea that we wear hats and ties. Humans love animals in funny clothes, and nothing attracts more free sandwiches and candy bars than a cute bear in a hat. I don’t like to beg or perform, but it supplements our stealing, and I’m smart enough to know we can’t be punished for what we’re given. Let the tourists take the rap! If Ranger Smith is hunting them, he can’t be tracking us.

I try to be the voice of reason and keep Yogi from going too far — I don’t want to be shot or locked up in a zoo — but I never really try to stop him. Every pic-a-nic basket is sweeter than the last because it’s a direct lift from The Man. Not just in a general Homo sapiens sense — though there is that — but from the mechanism of government itself. The government, by way of the park service, let me and my mother down. If Ranger Smith (and all the other rangers just like him) had done their duty, my mother would be alive today. I wouldn’t be a poor specimen of a bear. I would be the king grizzly I had dreamed of being.

But I am a king grizzly, in my own way. For me to live any other way would be nuts. I think those goody-goody bears who forage for nuts and salmon and worry about putting away enough for hibernation are dead. I mean, they’re suckers. They have no guts. If you want food, you just take it. If anyone complains, we can maul them so bad, they’d never complain again.

So, that’s my story. It’s certainly been no pic-a-nic, and no cartoon, and I know you were expecting both. (What can I say about that? Sometimes a bear sells his story rights to the wrong people. And don’t even get me started on The Bear ….) But, I hope you can learn something from it anyway. Whether you’re in the city or the forest, you’ve got to use what you’re given. No one is going to hand you anything, and the greatest asset you have is your brain. And a friend. And a smart tie. With all three, you can conquer your environment. You can evolve into something greater than you started out as. You can grab your own pic-a-nic basket, whatever it is.

But to do that you’ve got to be smart, be fast, look for your advantage, and never look back. You can’t wallow in the past. I never have. Though I do regret not keeping a greater creative control on my image. Have you seen that final Yogi Bear movie poster? It makes me look like a schnook. I think a lawsuit is too good for them. I think we ought to maul ‘em….

Tags: boo boo, life advice, yogi bear