You never can tell with bees.
We all remember Winnie the Pooh, a bear of very little brain, trying to outsmart bees in a half-baked quest to steal their honey by floating up to a tree branch with a balloon.
“Wouldn’t they notice you underneath the balloon?” Christopher Robin asked. “They might or they might not,” Pooh answered. “You never can tell with bees.”
Oh, they will. Those mean, nasty, hurtful little demons. You bet they’ll notice you and come after you with every trace of their vengeful wickedness.
If you can’t tell, I hate bees.
Last summer we called in a bee man after neighbors complained that there were yellow jackets coming from our yard. The bee man came and, of course, there was nothing flying around. He asked me to describe them—do they look like yellow jackets, hornets, wasps, bumble bees, what? What do I know, they look like bees! I don’t know one from another, I just hate ’em. They sting. The sting hurts, even kills. I can’t enjoy time on our back deck because it’s them or me, and they won’t leave.
Anyway, one or two flew by and I pointed them out to the bee man, who said, “Those are honey bees, I can’t kill honey bees.” Then the neighbor walked over. I reported, it’s honey bees. She said, “Oh, well, you can’t kill honey bees!”
Well why in the world not? Yeah, yeah, balance of nature, blah, blah. Stupid nature.
I can probably live without honey. I can live without flowers if it means I can complete a crossword puzzle on a summer afternoon without being harassed by evil apiarian attackers. And that infuriating buzz. Heck, as much as I love Jerry Seinfeld, I didn’t even see Bee Movie.
Sorry to drone on so, but get this. I’ve just discovered that a colony of pollinating pests has built a hive in the rocker on our front porch. And they were none too happy when I went out to sweep and unknowingly moved their cushy condo.
Well, I plan to cut them off at their little bees’ knees if it’s the last thing I do.
Anyone have a hazmat suit?
Word Nymph 