I will often leave the “man” door open while I fetch and
carry things to and from the garage, and even though it is a “man” door I
suppose an illiterate bee might just find his way through it. I think all bees
are illiterate, but if so then why do we have spelling bees? The rest of the
garage is as far from being hermetically sealed as a building could be and
still be standing. If I wanted to commit suicide by running the car in the
garage, I would need to spend a day or two making sure that it was air tight. I
can’t think of anything more depressing than trying to commit suicide from
carbon monoxide poisoning and just be sitting in the driver’s seat until the
car ran out of gas. You would be going through all of the pockets looking for
something to read, finally settling on the car manual. It would be a double
piss off; because you would finally learn how to set the clock and that your
side mirrors had defrosters.
That actually happened to me about two years ago, not the
suicide part, but the mirror defroster thing. I would notice a little light
every now and then, but of course it would be at night and too dark to figure
out what it was about. During the day I would forget all about the little light
until the next time it would show up. I can’t remember why I was reading the
manual, probably waiting for Louise while she was shopping, but there it was,
the little light and the button that would turn it on. I have been waiting to
use it for the last two winters, but since I park in the garage and rarely
leave it outside for more than an hour, I haven’t had any luck.
That doesn’t matter, I am talking about bees. Whenever I do
hear bees in the garage, I try to trap them in a jar and then toss their asses
out the door. It usually takes me about ten minutes to find an appropriate jar
and then I spend another ten minutes seeing if I can get the jar around the bee
without him stinging me. You would think that if I were smart, I would keep a
special “bee” jar somewhere in the garage. Half the time I get frustrated and
end up squishing the poor thing. When that happens, I don’t catch-n-release; I
toss him in the garbage can and say a few words over the can to help him on his
way to bee heaven. Stuff like “All the flowers liked him.” or “A honey of a guy.
Today’s bee was a completely different story. This bee
wasn’t buzzing at the window trying to get out, he was staggering along the
workbench and eventually he fell over the edge. I don’t think he was hurt,
because he kept staggering shortly after he fell. I think he was either drunk
or stoned! I bet if I had looked closely I would have found a bunch of empties
on the workbench and a few piles of puke here and there. I suppose it is
possible that the bee was snorting pollen. I wonder if this particular bee
found someone’s pot plants and spent the afternoon “pollinating” them. You
know, I should have offered him some honey because I bet he had the munchies.
I had to pick him up and get his hammered self out of the
garage. Picking up a bee is tough enough, but picking up a wasted bee is next
to impossible. They keep staggering around and if you aren’t careful you just
might find a bee’s stinger in your thumb. The first time that I was ever stung,
was after I had squashed a bee to death on the grass and picked him up to see
what was left. His stinger was left!
I used a couple of pieces of wood to grab this guy, and I
was none too gentle. I don’t want a bunch of drunked up or stoned bees hanging
around my place threatening the grandkids. I tossed him and the sticks into the
alley and I hope he sobers up.
I don’t mind a guy getting a buzz on as it were, but this
was a little early in the day to be shit faced on Honey Mead.
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