My views on Build-A-Bear will already be known to anyone who has been unfortunate to walk past one of their disgusting little outlets with me. I can’t help it; just a quiet stroll around town throws me into an irate, raging fury as soon as I see that bloody yellow sign and the retardedly chirpy members of staff; they’re worse than the ones in the Disney Store, where you have to be a special brand of mentally disabled just to qualify for an interview. The kind of person who would retain their unbroken smile and glassy-eyed look even through serious interrogation by shadey, underworld crime-bosses.

Now I feel like submitting my views to the internet, so I can just hand out post-it notes with a link scribbled on it to every disillusioned Dad dragged in there by a six year old attracted by the bright colours and false promises.

I understand, sort of, that some kids might like the idea of having a bear they ‘built’ themselves. But I don’t. I disgree, on the most basic level, with everything that the shop does, everything they sell, and the premise under which they sell it.

I’m thrown back to childhood whenever I see one, and a small, 8-year-old version of me is horrified by the thought of it all. That is then filtered through my innate ability to detest every single little thing on this earth and it comes out of 23-year-old me as a flurry of abusive tirades aimed at the sickly, corporate-approved ‘fun machine’ which idiot kids and child-like, retarded women, desperate to cling on to their youth with ever-yellowing fingernails seem to go fucking nuts over.

I know it’s all just unfounded spittle aimed at something I don’t like, and I know I’m over-thinking a complete non-subject but I don’t care. Fuck you. I don’t care that my views are crushed under the weight of every single other ‘tragedy’ in the modern world; I’m blinded by red bile burning a hole in my stomach.

First of all, not a single customer there actually ‘builds a bear’. Technically, all they are is the very final workers on a depressing, primary-coloured production line. Every kid who runs from the shop, giddy at having just forced their parent and/or groomer to shell out upwards of £15 on a worthless piece of tat is simply provided the company with the ability to save money on production and QA. Why employ workers to stuff the bears with cheap, irritation-causing fluff when the kid’s hapless parents will pay and extra £5 to see it shoved into their new object of desire? Nothing is built, just stuffed. ‘Stuff-A-Bear’ isn’t quite as friendly on the ears, though.

The actual bears are all there as soon as you walk in, sat hollow and lifeless on a shelf looking discarded like used condoms covered in fur. The only ‘building’ that is done is when the vicodin-addicted shopgirl shoves the deflated mess of material and stitching onto the end of the metal lovepole and jerks it around until it’s full of the white stuff. And you pay money for this. Yes, I’m linking ‘Build-A-Bear’ with the horrid prostitution of semi-unwilling, lifeless husks.

It might as well be called ‘Build-A-Whore’ and come with the option of inserting a Flesh-light where it’s fluffy guts should be.

Then there’s the machine itself, the one that ’stuffs’ them – it couldn’t be more unpleasent if it tried. And I’m under the sneaking suspicion that it DOES try. See, there’s a window on the side of it that shows all the bear’s soon-to-be innards, flowing around like inedible candy floss. Now, you have to remember that this is what goes inside the bears, it’s a mush of internal teddy-organs being pushed around a machine for your amusement. You sick bastard. Then, shining proud and stiff from the end of this machine, is a sharp metal pole which the carcass of the bear is viciously shoved on to and raped until it can’t take any more. They really should just stick a bell-end on it and be done with it.

Another option, which I believe costs about £1, is to put a ‘heart’ inside it. A little piece of plastic machinery that vibrates in methodic bursts, mimicking the heart beat. This means the bear is ‘alive’, which is fucking shocking considering the ordeal it’s just been forced through. This is all well and good for the first few weeks, and the small unwitting child is pleased as punch that their little bundle of furry joy is showing some signs of imitated life. But then that’ll break. The battery will run out or it’ll just cease to function because it’s a poorly-made piece of shit. Can you deal with the inevitable discussion on mortality with your small child?

“WHY IS MY BEAR DEAD, DADDY? WHY DID HE HAVE TO LEAVE ME? I BOUGHT HIM A LITTLE SPIDER-MAN OUTFIT AND EVERYTHING!”

It’s heart breaking. They’re even given a birth certificate. Are you ready to mock-up a death certificate when the bears heart ceases to beat? Are you comfortable burying £15 of your hard-earned cash in the garden whilst your young child weeps softly in the corner, unsure of what’s real anymore?

Fuck Build-A-Bear.

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