Home » What the Shit? Cancer Bear?!

What the Shit? Cancer Bear?!

We’re no strangers to solicitors.  They are routine visitors in our neighborhood.  Sometimes, we open the door.  Sometimes we do not.

Although we’ve been opening the door a lot more frequently. . .ever since Mac has discovered a knock at the door often equates to a package delivery.  And maaannnn does that kid love him a package delivery.

One evening last week we were in the middle of dinner when there was a knock at the door.  Mac bolted from his seat and sprinted towards the door, Chris hot on his heels.

Chris opens the door and Mac wiggles his backwards-underwear-wearing self between Chris and the door jamb for a greater vantage point.

I continue to wrestle at the sink with whatever remains in the non-stick pan from the dinner I-so-lovingly-prepared-which-no-one-will-eat.

A few moments pass, and I hear Chris ask, “How much?”

I hear a kid reply, “Two dollars?”

Related:  for as much joking as I do about how ahem frugal Chris is, he seems to have a genuine soft spot for kids hustling stupid fund-raising crap.  Apparently his boyhood Boy Scout fund-raising efforts have left him emotionally scarred, because he is almost always willing to buy something or donate something to support a kid’s cause.

Oh, they’re probably selling those crappy chocolate candy bars. . .They aren’t very good but it could be worse. . .it could be those crappy $25 tubs of cookie dough. . .$2 ain’t nothin.’ Of course, I’m kinda’ irked about the timing.  I mean neither of these kids has eaten much dinner and now they’re going to immediately demand some shitty chocolate.  

I turn my attention to Teddy who is sitting in his booster seat smashing and smearing beets and strawberries all over the table.  I poke him playfully in the belly and remind him beets are NOT poison.  He laughs and takes a long pull off his drink.

“Cookie?” He inquires smiling devilishly.

“Not until you make some good food choices, Mister,” I laugh back at him.

Awwww.  He’s so cute.  He’s going to love this crappy candy bar headed our way in. . .

Mac slams the front door closed.  I hear Chris turn the lock.

“What were they selling?” I query, as I turn towards the front door.

Chris is holding something red and fuzzy in his hand.  It is most definitely NOT a chocolate bar.

“What is that thing?” I ask slightly alarmed.  “What?!”

Chris examines it, confused look on his face, then stretches his arm straight out in front of him so I can have a look.

“It’s a Cancer Bear.”


“A Cancer Bear.”

Mac is jumping up and down like a rabid Jack Russell arms stretched over his head screaming, “I want the Cancer Bear!  Cancer Bear!  Can I see the Cancer Bear?!”

From his beet-smeared perch, Teddy soon joins the chorus, “CANCER BEAR!!!!  May I have Cancer Bear?!!!!!”

“Hold up a minute here.”  I half-shout.  “What is this thing?  People don’t sell Cancer Bears.  That would be twisted.  At least they aren’t called Cancer Bears right?!  And they surely don’t sell them door to door.”

“CANCER BEAR!”  The boys echo in unison every time I say it.

“Look at that thing!”  I exclaim.  “That’s a freaking Valentine’s Day reject.  Were these kids with an adult?  Dear gawd.  Is that a Hershey’s Kiss?”

Indeed it was.  Cancer Bear was a red-stuffed bear, who was initially holding a foil-fabric Hershey’s Kiss between his two paws.  At this point in his existence however, he was barely clinging to the Kiss with one paw.


I stared at the thing in disbelief.  What the shit?  

At that very moment, surely sensing our confused weakness, Mac made his move and snatched Cancer Bear from Chris’ grasp.

“CANCER BEAR!”  He laughs joyfully.

Joy be damned, Cancer Bear could very well be riddled with bed bugs or other disgusting parasites and germs.  My fist shot forward and grabbed Cancer Bear from Mac’s happy little hands.  I honestly think it might have been the fastest I’ve ever grabbed anything. . . even the last Miller Lite in a cooler at a party in my College years. . .Seriously.

“Give me this!  Cancer Bear needs a bath ASAP!” I proclaim as I whisk him towards the basement and shove him into the sanitary cycle of the washing machine.

I return upstairs to interrogate Chris:  These purveyors of Cancer Bears. . .were they also selling knock-off handbags and watches or what?  How old were these kids?

He offered no satisfactory answers.  He just looked confused. . .This could explain how we got the Baltimore Sun for approximately 800 years plus half a million dollars. . .

I’m still trying to wrap my mind around it:  The man who won’t even purchase a T-shirt if it has a loose string, purchased a $2 Valentine’s Day reject somehow rebranded as Cancer Bear.


Meanwhile, I’m cautiously optimistic.  Hopefully, the kids were working to raise funds for cancer research and were going about selling some of their personal items?  Very cool, selfless and resourceful concept.  I’d still like a parent explaining the process. . .Buying a Slightly Used Valentine Reject Possibly Bed Bug Infested Cancer Bear was way more than my OCD could handle.