Foxy People

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Bees, indubitably, is bees.

Let me start by clearing something up. Our - you and I, handsome reader - definitions of "bee" are different. I use the word to collectively dub any insect that can fly, sting, and is atmospherically evil - whereas you are brutally technical in your description.

"Actually," you graciously point out, "'bee' probably isn't what you mean. It's wasps and hornets you want to look out fo-"

But you know what? I interrupt you. Because I have already decided.

Bees is bees.

I'm not taking this lightly - they freak me out. All of them. Their presence brings me to my knees and increases the pitch of my voice until it summons heroes and heroines alike, prepared to rescue the distressed little girl from whatever is distressing her.

They are very unpleasant, and I will proclaim it with unwavering confidence until one gets near me.

They will too, I bet.

Now comes the tale of woe.

Many years ago - I don't remember exactly how long ago, but I do know Mambo #5 was my favorite song. So it may have been earlier today.

It was a hot summer day, and I went to visit my friend Taylor. His mom had just cut the grass, so the air smelled of grass that has just been cut. To this day, that smell just does me bad. Can't stand it. Icky.

Taylor had just gotten a new kitten, so I darted for his room as soon as I was allowed on the premises. Our moms sat in the living room, discussing nonkitten things. Hunter, Taylor's brother - who was too young to know that parents just don't understand - sat with them, eating chocolate muffins.

When I kicked open Taylor's door, I found him playing with the fluffiest kitten ever, as some arbitrary Nickelodeon show blared in the background. Being met with this scene, I was filled with an emotion I couldn't verbally express as a small boy, so I just screamed real loud.

The room quickly became too tiny to contain all of the cute that was going down in there. We evacuated - cute in tow.

When we reached the great outdoors, we laid the kitten down in a little impression in the grass. The kitten immediately began to wiggle like crazy. We thought it was just the best thing to ever happen.

Not to make anyone frown, but we later found out it was squirming because it was being stung repeatedly. It lived though, and is now probably a fatcat.

After a few minutes of slight confusion - but mostly adoration - at this, Taylor told me to check the mail, probably because he was supposed to.

I did.

Looking down at that mail was the last thing I did before I turned into a spineless vespaphobic dweeb.

As I was perusing his federally protected stash, I heard a scream. I looked up to see Taylor - who had his shirt off - running towards the house wearing what seemed to be a pitch black shirt. A buzzing one.

About this point, I felt an unpleasantness all over my hands area. When my eyes reached my extremities, they got sad. Covering my hands were dozens of little yellow jackets, percussing their fannies on my skin.

This is when my trademark "snapping" was born. If you've ever witnessed me and a bee in the same vicinity, you've got your visual.

I bolted for the door, screaming. And while I ran, I snapped my fingers and flailed my arms about. When I reached the open front door, I saw quite a ruckus.

Sitting on the couch directly in front of the door was a petrified Hunter; face caked in chocolate, mouth agape, eyes transfixed on what was enfolding in front of him - but would soon note with horror that he'd dropped his little muffin.

Yellow jackets swarmed every inch of the house. Jackets saw spots where there were no jackets, and thusly advanced to put jackets there.

There were caboodles, basically.

Taylor was cowering in his mother's arms and bawling, while my mom was up on her toes, doing her best to kill the villainous bugs.

I found a comfy spot where there were not yet jackets, and collapsed, swatting and crying.

Once they all died and we calmed down enough not to alert the authorities, a pediatrician was called.

He informed us that if you hold a raw onion against the stings, the layers soak up the venom and fall off, one by one. Everyone in the room was pretty impressed by this, but I wasn't. Because onions suck, and they have to be on this earth for some reason. That reason might as well be to instill fear and doubt in the tiny minds of otherwise fully able rabble-rousers.

I ended up with forty something stings.

I will say, though, that the number increases every time I tell the story, but I'm pretty sure it was at least one sting.

And that's it. True story.

It scarred me so bad and so unreasonably, that I often imply that I'm deathly allergic to bees, as that's the only way I could ever be so afraid of those precious honey-bringers.

Post Script, yo.

Hey guys, what you just read was written and edited over several months, starting pretty much when I promised it would be finished... in May. That being said, I can no longer promise a steady flow of blogposts.


I love you guys, and your undying support is incredible, and a lot of the reason I'm even still coming back here.

This whole thing started because "I just felt like it", so it's apt to return. Be patient, friendo.

You guys are my claim to fame. I've always wanted that, so thank you.

The poll is up for the next post, due in 2013! I am probably joking.

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