What is wrong with you? Why are you swatting at that it? Are you a cat? Are you telling me that every time a bee comes within thirty feet, you have to throw a fit? Stop it.
Worst case scenario: It stings you and you have an allergic reaction. Not an adrenaline shot to the heart allergic reaction, not Macaulay Culkin in My Girl allergic reaction. No, think more gluten-makes-me-gassy sort of reaction. You’ll whimper and curse and then you’ll live and drink a Diet Dr. Pepper or something. Your arm won’t rot off, you won’t turn into a bee yourself, your sting won’t erupt into a million nano-bees. You’re over it. That’s it. The fact that you can survive all but the worst bee attacks should be enough. But for you it’s not, is it? The mere possibility of a sting is too risky. You have to take the offensive. All Bees Must Die! You rove from bush to bush swatting. You set up little bee traps and smirk as they slowly die. Like some sort of Summertime Stalin, you purge all threats from your backyard until sitting on your keys is the only risk around.
Even their presence makes you uncomfortable. The buzzing, the hovering inches above your soda. It’s too much. You can’t focus when they’re around, can’t let loose and really enjoy the environment. If there was a separate but equal Bee’s Only Flower or if you had a squad of sparrow sized fighter jets to chase them out of your Air Force One air space. But guess what? You’re outside. In nature you have to interact with stuff. You don’t get space. And, even if you did, Bee Space trumps Spazz Space every time. They do things. They serve a purpose. We rely on them. And, despite what you think, the world needs bees way more than it needs you and your Bitcoin speculations.
But mostly you’re terrified. It’s the first time in natural history where the animal is not more afraid of you than you are of it. Too bad there’s an asterisk in the record books since it’s only because you’re a delusional self-obsessed wuss. If you think a bee is coming to sting you, you probably convince yourself that every gay guy is attracted to you or that terrorists want you dead or a major corporation really cares if you like them on Facebook. They don’t. I hate to sound like your dad, but you aren’t that special. The universe is not aimed at you. This is not your own personal Bud Light commercial. No one is plotting for or against to get you. You’re alone. Can bees hurt you? Yes. Do they want to hurt you? Not if you’d sit down and stop trying to kill them. Now leave them alone. They got all sort of bee business to do outside of avoiding your panicking ass.
Editor's Note: Due to a freak power outage, this obituary of Barbara Bush was written without the benefit of research. In order to pay our respects to this great woman in a timely fashion, we have decided to post this piece as-is. We hope you forgive any errors on our part.
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