I've been stung by bees maybe twice in my life. Once on my shoulder at the pool (I wasn't wearing a shirt); another time on my arm at a park. It is always unpleasant, starting with a sudden sharp and throbbing pain before the, "Ouch," sensation fades away (thankfully) quickly, replaced with a warm soreness and slight swelling on my skin where I was stung. Well, I was stung today, and it remains something I highly dislike. Oh, and it was right on my index finger, to add insult to (literal) injury.
To set the scene of how this went down, I had just gotten a pizza at IMO's to share with Samii. The plan was for me to drop it off so she'd have some today and some to save. They were kind enough to give me a smaller box that I put some slices for myself in too. So, I'm juggling a big box and a small box in my hands as go outside and get my card door open. I get the boxes set down and start sliding onto my seat when I feel what I think is a piece of farbric from my pants rubbing my upper leg, or maybe a fly? I go to brush it away and then suddenly my hand feels as if it is on fire. I look down to see a bright yellow bee falling onto my floorboard and then glance at my hand where a big ol' stinger is lodged in the base of my index finger. After shouting some swear words, I grab a wipe (I'm always carrying wipes in case the children or myself need the, "Potty," because I don't want some cheap toilet paper wherever the urge to toilet strikes) and carefully extract the stinger.
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| I know the World literally needs bees to survive, but the one that stung me can burn in Hell! This bee's okay though. |
The drama seems done. I wait a minute for the pain to go down, and start driving. I assume the bee is dead, only to then hear a buzz and witness it moving around on the passenger floor mat. I do the safe thing and make sure no one is behind me, slam on the brakes, and proceed to batter the fly to death with my small pizza box. It was like that scene in, "Misery," where James Caan's character is wailing on Annie Wilkes (Kathy Bates) with a big vintage telephone. I just kept whacking the thing until it was nothing but viscera.
After what felt like an eon of bashing the pizza box on the floor, I was breathing heavy and sweaty from the sheer amount of energy I'd expended smashing this bee to bits in a mix of fear and an admitted desire for some revenge. I dropped the big bee-gut-free pizza off to my wife, who was happy I was okay, besides my hand hurting. It is now evening, and the spot is just a bit sore if I touch it or stretch my finger too much. Getting stung by a bee is not the worst pain ever, but it sucks. If I can go the rest of my life without ever getting stung by a bee again, that works for me




























