Bees are basically bastards,
deceiving us all with their
comically unaerodynamic physiques
and their almost fluffy,
teddy bear-like coats.
‘Don’t worry about bees,’
says your dad.
‘They only get one sting,
and if they use it – they die!’
Which is a bit like saying to a desperate man,
who’s playing a game of Russian roulette,
‘Don’t worry about the gun;
it can only kill you once.’
But these Russian roulette bees
do sometimes go off,
proving them to be absolutely
the most bloody-minded of all of God’s creations.
Do you think that if a lion
lost its jaws, which were attached to its intestines,
and resulted in instant death
whenever it attacked a gazelle…?
You see where I’m coming from.
go the psychopath bees
with their hilariously fat thoraxes
and dad dance routines.
When I was eight-years old,
I saw my sister’s friend
do a little bee dance of her own,
attacking her long, girly hair with her own hands,
and cavorting around the garden
in a seemingly random pattern
and screaming like a girl
who had a bee entangled in her hair.
It was the funniest thing I had ever seen,
eight-year old boys, like bees,
being one of nature’s psychopaths.
If a bee should sting you,
it will die and go to bee heaven,
where it will be met by God.
‘Welcome to bee heaven,’ he will say.
‘You’ve led a largely virtuous existence,
with only one lapse into ill-humour –
which is a shame –
but we shall let you off,
seeing as it was only the once
and because I’m all about the forgiveness.’
‘But congratulations! You’ve made it to bee heaven!
An eternity of milk and honey!’
‘Hang on,’ says the bee,
because bees acquire the power of speech in the afterlife.
‘Honey? Who’s making all the honey?’
‘Ha! So, er, yes…’ says God.
‘Well, this is B-heaven,
as in B-movie, B-list celebrity,
and B-grade at GCSE.
In other words: not very good.’
‘Still,' says, God.’ After all, I am God,
and the father of all my creations.’