It is an incredibly gorgeous day here in Washington, D.C. Perfect blue skies, a few fluffy white clouds, and a ridiculously pretty chorus of songbirds at every window. All the trees have got their spring leaves on; the sun’s coming down through them and making them glow the most perfect, synthetic greens, pinks, purples and whites that have no place being outside of a Crayola box. On days like today, there is simply nothing better than to take my book and a glass of orange juice into the backyard and to lose myself in a book for hours. However, there is a problem…
…the bees are back, what with it being spring and all, and they’re as dumb as ever. All I want to do is sit outside but when all day it’s like there are crazy people running around my house, tapping on all the windows and really aggressively mumbling all the “z” words they can think of. Which, for crazy people, is probably a lot. Everytime I look up, there’s an inch long, yellow-striped, thick-legged little bundle of nightmares bonking themselves headfirst into my windows and glass table like there is a prize at stake. I know that they are bees and that they – most likely – don’t have the critical thinking skills or sensitive rationale that I do but even still, don’t you think that even the dumbest bee would get bored with whacking its disgusting little face into the glass over and over and over again in exactly the same spot?! If I were a bee this wouldn’t even be a question. A dozen whacks and if nothing miraculously changes then I am flying myself right back to the hive and I would just hope no other bee witnessed my whole embarrassing ordeal.
Maybe the bigger problem is that I just don’t like bees. I understand, they’re good for us, and they produce our food, and they’re a vital part of our environment, blah blah blah; but it doesn’t mean I have to like them. I am pretty sure that they don’t like me either. That whole thing everybody always tells me about “don’t bother them and they won’t bother you” is the purest lie I could ever be told. Bees chase me, people. I don’t kill them or attack them or tease them or assault them or even so much as hurl an insult at them. But if I walk past a bee, that stripy idiot gets the big idea from his evil little brain to go directly for me every damn time. The reactions are always the same as well. I shriek and run – women and children be damned – yelling “BEE BEE BEE BEE BEE” like it’s the first time I’ve ever seen one and I’ve just got to tell the world of my discovery. It wouldn’t be so bad if they were just the cute little jellybeans with wings that little kids’ coloring books make them out to be. But they are not. It’s their sound, their random flight patterns, and the fact that they are hellbent on destruction that bothers me the most…oh, that and their awful pipe-cleaner legs. Who has legs like that?!
So, whatever bees – rub your striped torso’s and nasty legs on my flowers or fence or soy beans or whatever it is you do in your spare time…just keep the hell away from me. Oh, and by the way, to all of the bees in my backyard right now: come get your idiot cousin – he’s leaving pollen and bee faceprints all over my windows.