Before work this morning, I made the bed and then walked into the kitchen to pack a lunch. Typical start to my day. When I returned to the bedroom, I noticed a huge – seriously HUGE – bumblebee on the bed. Just sitting there on top of the comforter, staring directly at me. I blinked, then blinked again. Is this happening? Am I awake? Did I accidentally brush my teeth with liquid LSD? Again?
It was truly the biggest bee I have ever seen. I stood frozen in disbelief for probably 20 seconds, convincing my brain that this is no big deal, let’s not panic, take a deep breath, just be a man and handle this situation it’s so simple come on you can do this. Steeling myself, I grabbed a pillow, lifted it ever…so…slowly…and…took a swat at the mammoth bee.
I made contact, but since I was using a goddamn pillow, I didn’t kill it. The thing took flight and headed RIGHT TOWARD ME OH NO THIS IS BAD TAKE COVER TAKE COVER, so I ducked out of the way and started flailing in the general direction of my would-be killer as if I were attacking a piñata.
(I should mention that I was wearing dress pants and no shirt, and the curtains were open, so I have made the day/month/year of anyone who saw me from outside).
I hit the bee again, but it still didn’t go down, just started flying woozily as if drunk. It soared right into a wall, which helped lighten the mood, but only for an instant because it immediately got its bearings and again began veering in my direction. At this point I became mobile, chasing it around the bed and smacking it a couple more times. It was pandemonium; I knocked another pillow off the bed with an errant swipe, I banged my knee on our hamper, I knocked the bedroom door open with a follow-through.
Finally, after about eight swings, the bee went down for good, landing in the far corner of the room. While on the ground, however, its wings were fluttering and the resilient bastard appeared ready to take flight again. I couldn’t let that happen. I dropped the pillow, looked frantically around the room and saw my wife’s running shoes in another corner. I grabbed one, bolted over to the bee and started hitting it with a crazed ferocity, over and over, like Michael Bolton going off on the printer in Office Space. I may have shrieked like a teenage girl while doing so. I don’t want to talk about it.
After hitting the bee approximately 150 times with the sole of a shoe, I eased up, sat back and caught my breath. I had won. Great battle, B. You are a fucking man. That is how you take care of business. You are not to be trifled with. Let this be a lesson to any other insects who choose to fuck with you.
After basking in a well-earned victory over a mostly defenseless creature 500 times smaller than me, I wadded up some toilet paper and picked up the deceased. This was not as painless as you’d expect; I could feel the great beast crunching between my fingers. I winced in extreme discomfort. Battling through like the wily gamer I am, I made my way to the toilet, dropped the bee and flushed.
This story is not over. Of course not. The bee didn’t go down after the first flush, or the second, so at this point I had to grab a fist-sized wad of paper towels and fish the goddamn creature out of the toilet. He was a worthy adversary, even in death.
I then placed the enemy and his coffin of soaked towels into the bathroom trash can, where it remains. Standing above the garbage – shirtless, sweaty and hands soaked with toilet water – I thought to myself, you know, things could be better. Things could definitely be a whole lot fucking better than right fucking now.
After a few moments of silent whining, I was able to gain a semblance of composure. I remade the bed, got dressed and headed to work. It took about three hours for my heart rate to return to its regular pace.
If there is any moral I can pass on, it’s to be grateful for each and every incident-free morning. One day you’re sleepwalking through your day-to-day routine, the next you find yourself engaged in a vicious life-or-death (OK, life-or-sting) battle royale with a dastardly opponent put on this earth to destroy you (or, possibly sting you).
It’s a tough world out there, and the end is nigh. Be sure to appreciate the times of peace. I know I will.
The World of B. 
That’s the first time I’ve laughed when reminded of how much of a puss you are. Good story, sissy-man.
GREAT story, good laugh at the office. My follow up question is how many hands did you shake when you got to work? You know, with toilet water hands? And if it was more than two, were you required to disclose such facts per work-place rules and requirements?
I am so impressed that you make the bed.
Also, this was a FANTASTIC story, and the part about having an incident-free morning before work made me recall this scene:
I’m dressed for a meeting. Pinstripe pants, heels, fitted jacket, make-up. Minutes before I am set to leave, I hear the cat making gack noises. I grab the paper towels and head upstairs, only to see one of the dogs helping himself to some regurgitated Cat Chow. After shooing the dog away, I am dabbing at the mess with wet paper towels, only to hear the cat howling from the basement. I gracelessly decend two flights of stairs to see that the 18-year old cat didn’t quite make it to the litter box. F-U-N. But she is dead now, so I feel sort of guilty even complaining about it. Guess I just wanted you to know I feel your pain. You performed mightily with that bee.