It's not really so fuzzy after all

Over the past week we’ve been inundated with folks weighing in on The Incident at the VMAs. From moms writing letters to their daughters—using Miley as a cautionary tale of a good girl gone bad—to people comparing Robin Thicke (what rhymes with Thicke?) to a predator for not realizing during rehearsals that having a barely-legal girl dry-humping him on stage might be met with some disdain.

But I think we’ve missed the real problem. One no one will stand up and say. One we’ve all dismissed as too difficult to speak about. But I will.

Bears.

Teddy bears gone wild.

And so this goes out to the stuffed bear in my house.

If I ever catch you twerking or jerking or doing any type of erking in my house, there will be hell to pay. I’ll wear your fuzzy little butt out, I tell you. You think I don’t know what you’re capable of? Well, Mr. Fuzzy-pants, I surely do. At night, those noises I hear coming from the upstairs playroom? Mr. H thinks we might have another raccoon in the attic, but I know better. 

I’ve seen Zebra in the morning, looking all worn out from a night of your carryings on. You know he sees too much, and so you’ve threatened him, right? Well, he talks, all right—like a cheap canary, he does.

And Velvet? She might not be talking now, but I found a selfie on her phone of the two of you and you know what will happen when she tweets that. #foolingnobodywiththattoupee

So consider yourself grounded. No more late night partying. No more driving the Barbie car at breakneck speeds. No more innocent poses of you with GI Joe, acting all respectful and patriotic. I’m not buying it. If you think 30 minutes of Time Out is bad, you’ve got another thing coming.

I just might let you spend a day with the dog and I think this photo speaks volumes. Curious George asked only one question and look how he ended up. I love you too much to let it go that far. Honestly, I think it’s time we all moved on.

 Wouldn’t you agree?