Gary Chocolate-Bear, by a strange confluence of non-events, namely non-events of the never-eating-bread kind, had never eaten bread. At some point between when he first never ate bread, and when he, at the time of this story, which isn't so much a story as it is not a story, had never eaten bread, Gary developed an irrational fear that America's favorite sandwich bookends would, upon ingestion, turn him rabid. And when Mrs. Chocolate-Bear confronted her husband over breakfast about his peculiar belief by reciting Eleanor Roosevelt's maxim that a person should do one thing that they fear to do every day of their lives, Gary simply responded that he was "sure she didn't mean 'eat bread', though."

Coincidentally, Gar (I call him Gar) was right. Eleanor Roosevelt, as Mrs. Choclolate-Bear was well aware, being an amateur Rooseveltologist, indeed meant everything but 'eat bread'. Furthermore, she (Mrs. Chocolate-Bear, not Mrs. Roosevelt) knew that Eleanor Roosevelt meant everything but 'eat bread' because she herself (Mrs. Roosevelt, not Mrs. Chocolate-Bear) inexplicably contracted Rabies after eating what was evidently Rabies-inducing bread at her husband's inaugural banquet. Mrs. Chocolate-Bear (not Mrs. Roosevelt), wisely, in my opinion, mentioned none of this to her husband, neither at that particular breakfast, nor at his inaugural banquent. Did I say banquent? I meant banquet.

Point is, Gary Chocolate-Bear never ate bread. Unless you consider a scone, bread.

Then, never mind.

The End.