Fucking bee.
Seriously. I’m not even kidding. Die.
Just die, already.
I have a nasty bee who
invades my patio space every single spring.
I assume it’s a male bee because it’s dumb as the frigging stump it
lives in. It hovers and dive-bombs right
at people’s faces. If it were a female
bee, it would sneak up behind me, bite me in the back, then play all innocent
and run away.
This isn’t any ordinary
bee. It’s Warrior Bee: a giant
bumblebee-like sonofabitch with a hard, chainmail-ish black shell around its
body. It’s the flipping Darth Vader Bee
(which, I suppose, is ironically funny since it is attempting to attack me on
May the Fourth). It is also completely
immune to the most lethal Death Spray, and whacking the shit out of it just
pisses it off.
For the last few years, I
have abandoned my patio for the first three or four weeks of spring while Draco
MalBee zooms and hovers and dive-bombs and strikes fear into anyone who steps
near my door. Today, though, I’ve had
enough.
Today it is 86 degrees
outside, and I’ve just left work where the heat has been blasting almost the
whole day. Yup, lots of fun: Full sun into my room, hot air pouring in the
windows from outside, and heat screaming out of two units in my classroom. Today is like one giant, perpetual, unending,
semi-man-made, menopausal hot flash.
Fucking sucks.
All the way home I calm
myself with the idea of a cold beverage on my patio. It isn’t until I attempt to get into my front
door that I remember Bee Bastard. Well,
I don’t so much “remember” as I am attacked trying to unlock the deadbolt. I start chanting, “Motherofgod, motherofgod,
motherofgod,” as Bee-hemouth gets right into my face, then I yell at him, “Get
away! Get away, you fucker!”
Determined to enjoy an
hour or two on my patio … MY PATIO … I change into shorts and a tank top, mix a
beverage, grab some magazines, then choose my weaponry: Super Hornet Spray and
a big-ass fly swatter. Oh, sure, I
understand intellectually that these items will be useless in my fight against
Insane Bee, but it’s all about that false sense of security.
I am outside less than
thirty seconds when the first attack happens.
I shoot the deadly liquid at him, and he flies over the fence for a
moment where he stares me down, clearly pissed.
A minute or so later, I can see his shadow (it’s huge) as he sits in
space like a miniature helicopter just out of my line of vision. I wave a magazine at him. He retreats for a fraction of a second then
makes his move.
“Fuck you,” I say
nonchalantly, and wave the swatter at him, the mere air movement sending him
backward. “I’m NOT leaving. Live with it.”
We continue this
back-and-forth for ninety minutes, him buzzing around to let me know how
absolutely incensed he is that I dare take my rightful spring throne on the
patio. I refuse to yield. Okay, so I couple of times when he is right
in my face and being super-aggressive, I admit I jump up, run away a few feet,
and start swearing like a sailor with a lit firecracker under his armpit. For the most part, though, the bee and I sort
of coexist for an hour and a half.
 |
| (Notice the re-purposed sippy top) |
In the end, he doesn’t win
nor does he die. I actually put a towel
down and take a brief nap on the back stoop, which sounds brave in theory
except Bumble Butt Bee Boy is right there when I lift my head back up to check
on my surroundings. For the first time
in three or four (perhaps even five) years, I don’t give a flying shit what
that asshole bee is doing casing my property.
I pay for this damn patio. It’s
MINE, and I intend to enjoy it.
Bring it, Darth Vader
Bee. I’ve seen the movies; I know how
this ends. Besides, it’s May the Fourth
Be With You Day – If I don’t save the patio, I might soon be invaded by Wookie
Wasps and Ewok Stink Bugs. Maybe the
next insect will be Jabba the Bee Hutt.
This ends today, and, if
it doesn’t end, we’d damn well better learn how to coexist because the nice
weather is here, and I’m not going anywhere.
