I’m over it. I’m done. I can’t stay silent any longer. Enough with this “save the bees” propaganda. They are absolutely humanity’s greatest and gravest enemy. We’re all so wrapped up in concerns about the government, human rights, food, water, whether or not Grandma’s Italian Wedding Soup will be in the Pit today, the Blake Lively v. Justin Baldoni lawsuit, but these are all manufactured distractions enforced by Big Bee to make you worry less about the threat that all Hymenoptera pose.
I have been personally affected by these speedy little flying saucer bitches from a young age. When I was just seven years old, I was forced against my will to go into the woods to look for bugs as a day camp activity and I stepped on one of their nests (and okay, I’m sorry, but I didn’t see it, and they didn’t say anything to me before I stepped on them, so it’s really their fault) and they took out their anger on me. They came after me with a vengeance and stung me on the back of the thigh, which turned tomato red and swelled up like a butte in the Grand Canyon. And you know what the worst part of it is? Not a single one of them apologized afterward. They just went back to their frivolous bee activities. What are they doing that’s so important, anyway?
Honey is narsty. Just needed to get that off my chest. Put that runny snot in my tea when I’m sick and I’ll give you a purple nurple. The environmental mofos will tell you that they’re “pollinators” or something, and you know what? I don’t care. No man has ever given me flowers in my life, so I don’t care if flowers stick around when the planet goes to hell in a handbasket. Namsayin’?
God. Let’s do a mini meditation to get you in a safe headspace before we delve into my next elementary school Hymenopteran trauma: You’re in a beautiful meadow, with long, green grass that tickles your ankles, and perhaps you’re a little concerned about deer ticks and Lyme disease but you don’t have to worry about bees anymore! Because the readers of this article have banded together with Talia B. Zucker (yes, unfortunately, that is regrettably my middle initial. Blame my parents) to exterminate the Bee-elzebubs of nature! Woah, where were we? Got possessed by the “Spirit of the Hive (1973)” there.
Oh, my other horrific experience! So … let’s put you in my shoes … one summer day, you’re wearing your pink, velcro Twinkle Toes™, and your family just bought a load of groceries and your mom leaves the back window of the Honda Pilot open — remember: This would be a neutral offense if we lived in a Hymenopteran-free world — and a wasp weasels his way in and makes himself comfortable. He cracks open a tiny edition of The Wall Street Journal and a Muscle Milk and proceeds to fondle your pricey groceries with his weird stupid arms and if this were 2025 (it’s approximately 2012, but if it were 2025), he would be listening to Joe Rogan in his first-gen AirPods – sorry I got caught up in the memory. I digress.
So we got into the car and started driving and the wasp started flying around and it was an obese wasp and it was highly distressing and I was never really the same. Like, there was my life before the wasp showed up in the Honda Pilot, and then there was after. That’s generally how I divide up my life, and no child deserves devastating trauma from a flying fuzz ball. In speaking to others, I have discovered that many people have had similar experiences with these fuckers. They build Millennial gray nests on our houses without permission from landlords, interrupt nature’s silent beauty with loud, incessant buzzing, and worst of all, they sting when you give them constructive criticism. That’s manipulation on a species-wide level. I implore you all, exterminate the bees! If every single one is shot by a bee-bee gun tomorrow, it will not have been soon enough. So no, don’t save the bees.
