It figures that when it's trendy to get the swine flu that I'd get hit with some mundane and boring infection like a sore throat. Sore throats are the nerds of the disease world. They're the wimps that get beat up on the germ playground.
"What can you do, poindexter?" says Hay Fever, pounding one fist into the other. "Make someone puke out their guts? Rupture their spleen?"
"Well," says Sore Throat, "I can make throats hurt just enough to be annoying, but most of the time people forget I'm there unless they swallow."
*awkward pause*
"Get him!"
Now, if you want to talk about a disease that would never get beat up, mainly because everyone would be too afraid to go near it, there's swine flu. And no, I will not be referring to it by its PC name, mainly because that's what Obama would want me to do, but also because this is a downright dirty, filthy, rolling-in-the-mud and eating rotten apple cores swine flu.
Many people don't know this, but swine flu is actually an ancient disease dating back to Biblical times. When Jesus commanded that the demons leave the body of the possessed man and enter the herd of swine, causing the pigs to hurl themselves off of a cliff, this was the first documented case when swine flew.
In that case, all of the swine died, meaning that the swine flu back then killed 100% of its victims, which is just slightly better than the greatest modern killer of all - greater even than an atomic bomb. And that ruthless killer is none other than a Wanda Sykes induced suicide, caused by indecent exposure to her person, voice, likeness, attempted humor, scent, or even an indirect gaze into a mirror in which her reflection is displayed. And how much exposure is indecent you ask? Scientific studies show that just .0001 seconds of indirect or direct exposure can leave the most humor-deaf person foaming at the mouth with the inexorable urge to JUST MAKE IT STOP!
Note: While I do check my facts, there is always room for error from the scientists themselves. For instance, the same scientists who proved the above statistics are also in staunch agreement with the rest of the swine in the scientific community that global warming is a major threat and requires swift and massive action and regulation and taxing by the federal government.
"What'll we do about this global warming, Bill?"
"Well, let's spin the wheel of legislative decision-making and find out!"
*spins*
"Let's see, raise taxes, take bribe, listen to lobbyist, raise taxes, listen to union, raise taxes, raise taxesssss, come onnnn!!! oh! What?!? Listen to taxpayer? How'd that get on there? Is this some kind of joke?"
"Oh, must have been that intern we just fired. Just raise taxes, if it's still around in six months we'll have a caucus in Tahiti to decide whose taxes to raise next."
However, I do wholeheartedly agree that Wanda Sykes is definitely a threat to the well-being of the human race and humor in general, and most definitely should be regulated and taxed and thrown into Guantanamo.
Speaking of pigs, the swine flu is also known by another less common name - the Jerry Springer flu.
"Today's show: Hillbillies, and the pigs who love them. With me today is Cletus. Now, Cletus, you're not here just to tell your wife AnnieBethAnnabelle that you have contracted the swine flu, are you? So, please, tell us how you, shall we say, hogtied yourself to the disease."
"Well Jerry, Lurleen, our prize pig, was a-struttin' her stuff out back in da mud one day, and, well, I-"
"What? What did you do, you self-righteous two-toother?" yells AnnieBethAnnabelle. "Yer thinkin' yer all better than me just cuz I only got ol' chomper?"
*crowd oooohs*
"Well Annie," says Jerry, "let's settle this once and for all. Lurleen? Come on out!"
*camera whips to a pig emerging from behind a glittering curtain. It is wearing pink high hooves, and striking a surprisingly alluring pose for a pig*
*chaos ensues*
So in short, I'll get swine flu when pigs fly.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Wallet Rash
So I bought my first box of diapers today. Allow me to set the scene.
It was a warm Wednesday. Actually, it was pretty dang hot. So much for the amazing alliteration. The sun beat down on the asphalt as I approached the finest diaper retailing establishment in all of Orange County - Wal-Mart. As I walked, I unrolled the parchment given to me by my wife containing the list of our shopping necessities, stumbling as the other end hit my feet and rolled along ahead of me. I bent down and scooped it up in my arms, as portions of it cascaded over my arms like waterfalls. I peered over the top of the papery mound, found a shopping cart, and threw it in.
I looked at the first item on the list - milk, and went to the food aisles. Two aisles and just as many minutes later, I had already found 75% of what was on the list, and I wondered to myself how much time I've wasted in my life walking through endless aisles in other supermarkets, when Wal-Mart has everything I could possibly need condensed down to a handful of conveniently placed aisles. Where else can you find hot dogs, cheese, cheerios, butter, yogurt, turkey, and milk all within five feet of each other? Nowhere! I'd have to traverse half a mile through twenty different aisles to find all of those items in a normal supermarket. But I also get lost easily, so you might have an easier time of it.
Fortunately, I knew exactly where the baby section was at Wal-Mart, so after surreptitiously ditching the list ("clean-up in aisles six, seven, and eight!"), I sped over to the far end of the store. I say sped, because people in Wal-Mart drive their carts like chickens with their heads cut off. So I Mosey my way through the store as if the other shoppers are the Red Sea, parting dawdling geriatrics ("I spilled my pills!") and hesitant Asian onlookers ("That not very rice!") all the same, while moving faster than either the former or the latter drive their automobiles. I am a non-discriminatory cart driver. I will mow down anyone in my way, regardless of race, gender, weight, handicap, lack of acceptable velocity, personal scent, or inability to be aware of one's surroundings.
I arrived at the baby section, fanning my face as the clouds of burning tile dispersed. I found the shelves of diapers, and peered at the price tags. Now, I've heard what people say about how expensive diapers are, what with the diamond studded eyes of Grover and the gold lined feathers of Big Bird. But I had never physically stood in a diaper aisle and basked in its depressing reality. I nearly had a Fred Sanford heart attack! $19 for 84 diapers? I'm comin', Elizabeth!
I wondered to myself how much that costs per diaper, so I did the mental math, and came up with the answer on the spot: it's freaking expensive! Then I came home and did the actual math on a calculator: nearly 23 cents a diaper! You've heard of the expression being eaten out of house and home? Well, our daughter (aka the Diaper Defiler) could quite possibly cause us to be the first people able to claim the honor of being peed and pooped out of house and home.
Of course, knowing her, 23 cents a diaper is a small price to pay for...security.
It was a warm Wednesday. Actually, it was pretty dang hot. So much for the amazing alliteration. The sun beat down on the asphalt as I approached the finest diaper retailing establishment in all of Orange County - Wal-Mart. As I walked, I unrolled the parchment given to me by my wife containing the list of our shopping necessities, stumbling as the other end hit my feet and rolled along ahead of me. I bent down and scooped it up in my arms, as portions of it cascaded over my arms like waterfalls. I peered over the top of the papery mound, found a shopping cart, and threw it in.
I looked at the first item on the list - milk, and went to the food aisles. Two aisles and just as many minutes later, I had already found 75% of what was on the list, and I wondered to myself how much time I've wasted in my life walking through endless aisles in other supermarkets, when Wal-Mart has everything I could possibly need condensed down to a handful of conveniently placed aisles. Where else can you find hot dogs, cheese, cheerios, butter, yogurt, turkey, and milk all within five feet of each other? Nowhere! I'd have to traverse half a mile through twenty different aisles to find all of those items in a normal supermarket. But I also get lost easily, so you might have an easier time of it.
Fortunately, I knew exactly where the baby section was at Wal-Mart, so after surreptitiously ditching the list ("clean-up in aisles six, seven, and eight!"), I sped over to the far end of the store. I say sped, because people in Wal-Mart drive their carts like chickens with their heads cut off. So I Mosey my way through the store as if the other shoppers are the Red Sea, parting dawdling geriatrics ("I spilled my pills!") and hesitant Asian onlookers ("That not very rice!") all the same, while moving faster than either the former or the latter drive their automobiles. I am a non-discriminatory cart driver. I will mow down anyone in my way, regardless of race, gender, weight, handicap, lack of acceptable velocity, personal scent, or inability to be aware of one's surroundings.
I arrived at the baby section, fanning my face as the clouds of burning tile dispersed. I found the shelves of diapers, and peered at the price tags. Now, I've heard what people say about how expensive diapers are, what with the diamond studded eyes of Grover and the gold lined feathers of Big Bird. But I had never physically stood in a diaper aisle and basked in its depressing reality. I nearly had a Fred Sanford heart attack! $19 for 84 diapers? I'm comin', Elizabeth!
I wondered to myself how much that costs per diaper, so I did the mental math, and came up with the answer on the spot: it's freaking expensive! Then I came home and did the actual math on a calculator: nearly 23 cents a diaper! You've heard of the expression being eaten out of house and home? Well, our daughter (aka the Diaper Defiler) could quite possibly cause us to be the first people able to claim the honor of being peed and pooped out of house and home.
Of course, knowing her, 23 cents a diaper is a small price to pay for...security.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
This Daddy Business is Getting Interesting
So I thought that yesterday's blog post would be a fun look at an isolated and unique event that happened twice and would by no means ever be repeated again, especially not later in the day yesterday or today.
How naive of me. Emily proceeded to test the limits of her internal plumbing even further, uncorking two more diaper-filling toots yesterday. And then today, she just kept going! This isn't supposed to happen, is it?!?! For the first few days, diaper changes were not something I approached in fear of what I would uncover. A pee-kissed diaper is a joy to change. A poop-smothered diaper is another story.
So when Emily was lying on my chest this morning, and I felt the jacuzzi jets being turned on and heard the F-18 jet engines rumbling, I knew what awaited me at the ceremonial changing table. I would perform the ritualistic rites of removing the only barrier between me and a delayed backfiring.
Emily has been tipping her hand so to speak lately. She will occasionally put both of her hands together and rub them as if plotting some sinister plan. She started doing that shortly before the first of her monster poops yesterday, and she did it earlier this morning too, so as you might imagine, my mental guard was up. Too bad that doesn't actually protect me from anything...
So I set her on the changing table, still fully clothed. I looked her in the eye, and tried to read her. And what did she do? She gave me the old squinty eye, and then rubbed her hands together.
"Oh crap," I think, literally.
I began to weigh my options. I could let her lie there for a couple minutes and see how long she could hold in her bluff, or just charge in and get it over with as soon as possible. I chose to stare at her for a couple of minutes - something Erica and I have turned into a legitimate hobby. Eventually, my wife gently coaxed me into changing her diaper ("hurry up and do it or I'll rub your nose in it"). I was fortunate in hindsight, because Emily didn't have any ammo with which to reload, so I was able to change her safely without being treated to any additional impressions of Kermit the Frog with bad indigestion, or a duck trying to gargle salt water.
As I finish writing this, one week ago at this time, Erica was just going into serious labor. I can't believe time has passed this quickly. It's funny how I'm doing practically nothing by my usual standards - just sitting around the house, eating, sleeping, etc... - and normally this would make me feel unproductive and antsy, like I'm wasting my time. But now I just watch my baby girl sleep, or kiss her cheek, or hold her and let her head rest on my shoulder, and I feel like I've made the most of my time that I possibly could. There isn't anything more important or productive or beneficial that I could be doing.
It's amazing how things change.
Being stared at...
Snoozin' with Emily
The turtles just make it that much cuter
How naive of me. Emily proceeded to test the limits of her internal plumbing even further, uncorking two more diaper-filling toots yesterday. And then today, she just kept going! This isn't supposed to happen, is it?!?! For the first few days, diaper changes were not something I approached in fear of what I would uncover. A pee-kissed diaper is a joy to change. A poop-smothered diaper is another story.
So when Emily was lying on my chest this morning, and I felt the jacuzzi jets being turned on and heard the F-18 jet engines rumbling, I knew what awaited me at the ceremonial changing table. I would perform the ritualistic rites of removing the only barrier between me and a delayed backfiring.
Emily has been tipping her hand so to speak lately. She will occasionally put both of her hands together and rub them as if plotting some sinister plan. She started doing that shortly before the first of her monster poops yesterday, and she did it earlier this morning too, so as you might imagine, my mental guard was up. Too bad that doesn't actually protect me from anything...
So I set her on the changing table, still fully clothed. I looked her in the eye, and tried to read her. And what did she do? She gave me the old squinty eye, and then rubbed her hands together.
"Oh crap," I think, literally.
I began to weigh my options. I could let her lie there for a couple minutes and see how long she could hold in her bluff, or just charge in and get it over with as soon as possible. I chose to stare at her for a couple of minutes - something Erica and I have turned into a legitimate hobby. Eventually, my wife gently coaxed me into changing her diaper ("hurry up and do it or I'll rub your nose in it"). I was fortunate in hindsight, because Emily didn't have any ammo with which to reload, so I was able to change her safely without being treated to any additional impressions of Kermit the Frog with bad indigestion, or a duck trying to gargle salt water.
As I finish writing this, one week ago at this time, Erica was just going into serious labor. I can't believe time has passed this quickly. It's funny how I'm doing practically nothing by my usual standards - just sitting around the house, eating, sleeping, etc... - and normally this would make me feel unproductive and antsy, like I'm wasting my time. But now I just watch my baby girl sleep, or kiss her cheek, or hold her and let her head rest on my shoulder, and I feel like I've made the most of my time that I possibly could. There isn't anything more important or productive or beneficial that I could be doing.
It's amazing how things change.
Being stared at...
Snoozin' with Emily
The turtles just make it that much cuterFriday, September 11, 2009
Little Emily Ruth Is Here!
Five days old, and already she's bested her dad in cuteness, sociability, and sheer farting prowess, with many more categories to follow, I'm sure.
Her birth was amazing. All three of us couldn't have prayed for a better one. Erica went into serious labor (contractions 1 minute apart) at 10:20 pm Saturday night. Her water broke at 12:30 am Sunday morning. Intense labor followed - I'll leave it up to the imagination save for the fact that it's very hard for a husband to see his wife go through that kind of pain. Fortunately Cybil our doula was instrumental in helping us both through the labor.
She labored at home until 6:10 am, when we went to get in the car. Erica practically ran down the stairs, she couldn't wait to get to the tub. We arrived at the birth center; she was 10 cm and ready to push, so she hopped in the tub and started pushing at 6:35 am. Two hours later, I helped catch our little girl's body as she left mommy's womb and placed her in her mommy's waiting arms. Everyone was healthy, happy, and alert for our first moment as a family together.
Later, I cut the cord - after being reassured that this wouldn't hurt her at all. They gave me this tiny area to cut, right between two clamps. I felt a little like a mayor at the grand opening of a supermarket.
Emily weighed 7 pounds, 10 ounces, measured 20.5 inches, and looked like a doll. Yes, she was cute too, but a few times she was lying down and I came in from another room and saw her, and it took me a moment to realize I was looking at my daughter and not a plastic doll. Man, are they tiny!
Fast forward five days, and here we are now. We've been adjusting to her schedule of sleeping, eating, crying, and being utterly fascinated with the world. And yes, she just started to make some big girl poops today. The first one took us by surprise at the diaper change. Until this point, her poops had been very proper - runny yet well contained within her diaper, and appearing as a mild yellowish-brown color. In fact, most of the time we couldn't tell the difference between her pee and her poops save for the location inside the diaper.
However, we smelled something malodorous this morning, and mentally prepared ourselves to receive our daughter's first generous gift for us upon opening her diaper. It looked like ground beef that had been finely whipped into a paste form, something you might get if Cheez-Whiz was in the can-dispensed beefery business. Several baby wipes later, we laid a new diaper down for her, and started to put it on her, only to have her show us first hand that all facets of her plumbing did indeed work.
Another wipe and dry diaper later, and she was all fixed up. A few hours later, all three of us were in the living room. Emily was lying on Erica's lap on one couch, and I was on the other couch. Suddenly, we heard the 2 o' clock train toot its horn, announcing its arrival in town. It took me a second to realize, however, that the nearest train tracks were miles away. I looked at what could have been the only possible source for that caliber of noise. Of course, she denied it and blamed it on the baby, but I still had my doubts, not knowing whether a five day old body could be capable of such violent flatulence.
We took her into the changing room, and sure enough, the bomb had been dropped. I tell you, Japan had it easy. The effect was reminiscent of placing a can of brown paint into a cannon, placing the cannon inches away from a wall, and firing. Of course, with that example, you lose the clarity of texture and consistency, but hopefully you get the picture.
Yeah, she's an amazing baby. I'm sure many parents wonder if their kids will follow in their footsteps. Five days old, and mine already has. And I couldn't be prouder.
Watching closely, taking her notes...
Who, me?
Go ahead, make a crack, I'll clobber ya'
Here's the happy family
Her birth was amazing. All three of us couldn't have prayed for a better one. Erica went into serious labor (contractions 1 minute apart) at 10:20 pm Saturday night. Her water broke at 12:30 am Sunday morning. Intense labor followed - I'll leave it up to the imagination save for the fact that it's very hard for a husband to see his wife go through that kind of pain. Fortunately Cybil our doula was instrumental in helping us both through the labor.
She labored at home until 6:10 am, when we went to get in the car. Erica practically ran down the stairs, she couldn't wait to get to the tub. We arrived at the birth center; she was 10 cm and ready to push, so she hopped in the tub and started pushing at 6:35 am. Two hours later, I helped catch our little girl's body as she left mommy's womb and placed her in her mommy's waiting arms. Everyone was healthy, happy, and alert for our first moment as a family together.
Later, I cut the cord - after being reassured that this wouldn't hurt her at all. They gave me this tiny area to cut, right between two clamps. I felt a little like a mayor at the grand opening of a supermarket.
Emily weighed 7 pounds, 10 ounces, measured 20.5 inches, and looked like a doll. Yes, she was cute too, but a few times she was lying down and I came in from another room and saw her, and it took me a moment to realize I was looking at my daughter and not a plastic doll. Man, are they tiny!
Fast forward five days, and here we are now. We've been adjusting to her schedule of sleeping, eating, crying, and being utterly fascinated with the world. And yes, she just started to make some big girl poops today. The first one took us by surprise at the diaper change. Until this point, her poops had been very proper - runny yet well contained within her diaper, and appearing as a mild yellowish-brown color. In fact, most of the time we couldn't tell the difference between her pee and her poops save for the location inside the diaper.
However, we smelled something malodorous this morning, and mentally prepared ourselves to receive our daughter's first generous gift for us upon opening her diaper. It looked like ground beef that had been finely whipped into a paste form, something you might get if Cheez-Whiz was in the can-dispensed beefery business. Several baby wipes later, we laid a new diaper down for her, and started to put it on her, only to have her show us first hand that all facets of her plumbing did indeed work.
Another wipe and dry diaper later, and she was all fixed up. A few hours later, all three of us were in the living room. Emily was lying on Erica's lap on one couch, and I was on the other couch. Suddenly, we heard the 2 o' clock train toot its horn, announcing its arrival in town. It took me a second to realize, however, that the nearest train tracks were miles away. I looked at what could have been the only possible source for that caliber of noise. Of course, she denied it and blamed it on the baby, but I still had my doubts, not knowing whether a five day old body could be capable of such violent flatulence.
We took her into the changing room, and sure enough, the bomb had been dropped. I tell you, Japan had it easy. The effect was reminiscent of placing a can of brown paint into a cannon, placing the cannon inches away from a wall, and firing. Of course, with that example, you lose the clarity of texture and consistency, but hopefully you get the picture.
Yeah, she's an amazing baby. I'm sure many parents wonder if their kids will follow in their footsteps. Five days old, and mine already has. And I couldn't be prouder.
Watching closely, taking her notes...
Who, me?
Go ahead, make a crack, I'll clobber ya'
Here's the happy familyFriday, August 14, 2009
Clearing the Tumbleweeds
I want to start writing on a less regular basis, seeing as how my regular habit has been to not write at all. So I want to break that bad habit, especially with our little one coming in two weeks. I'm going to revitalize this blog; maybe give it a bloglift, a blogicure, some blogoplasty - an all-around major invasive blogery. I'll probably change the template and maybe add a few features to help modernize things a bit since the inception of Random Humor over 5 years ago. Hopefully you'll like the changes, and if I'm lucky I won't mess anything up too horribly, but something definitely needs to be done - besides blogging, of course.
Speaking of blogging...
I went to Wells Fargo to evict a couple of mischievous checks and some noisy cash that happened to be renting some space in my wallet. I just wanted to do a straight deposit, so I went to the drive-thru ATM. I rolled down my window, looking for the envelope box, but didn't see it. I pulled up to the ATM, and tried to open what looked to be a likely envelope-holding drawer, but to no avail. It didn't even open - it was one of those trick drawers that serves no purpose save for the ATM designers to snicker and point when someone tries in vain to open it.
So here I was with checks and cash to deposit, and there be not an envelope in sight. Wonderful. Then my eye fell upon a sign on the face of the ATM, stating that this was an envelope-free ATM. My first thought was, "Oh great, how am I supposed to make a deposit without an envelope?" Then a less retarded part of my brain woke up from its coma and shouted, "Hey stupid! That means there's some newfangled technology in that there ATM that makes envelopes obsolete. You probably just stick your checks into the machine and it takes care of the rest."
The obstinate part of me quickly retorted, "Bugger that, give me my old-fashioned envelope-operated ATM. I don't trust this lack of enveloping one bit."
And that was that. I drove through the drive-thru, made my way around to the front, parked my car, and walked up to the ATMs in the bank's front wall. As I approached an open one, I realized I forgot to bring a pen to write down my deposit amount ($2.53) on the envelope. I was about to stop my progress and go back to my car to get a pen when what do I see but more envelope-free ATMs! Seeing that there was no escape from my familiar ways, this time I gave one of them a closer look to see how it worked.
Apparently, all you have to do is stick your checks and/or cash into the ATM's mouth and it scans the checks and identifies the value of the bills in seconds. It even shows you the scanned electronic version of each check. And that's all it took to convert me. I went from stubborn curmudgeon to drooling technophile with one check.
It's a liberating feeling, really. Knowing that I no longer have to bring a pen with me to make a deposit at an ATM. Knowing that I don't even have to count up my bills and checks - I can just rely on a machine to do all the math for me, and I don't even need to think! Now if only I had a machine I could use to think of a good ending for this blog.
Oh well.
Speaking of blogging...
I went to Wells Fargo to evict a couple of mischievous checks and some noisy cash that happened to be renting some space in my wallet. I just wanted to do a straight deposit, so I went to the drive-thru ATM. I rolled down my window, looking for the envelope box, but didn't see it. I pulled up to the ATM, and tried to open what looked to be a likely envelope-holding drawer, but to no avail. It didn't even open - it was one of those trick drawers that serves no purpose save for the ATM designers to snicker and point when someone tries in vain to open it.
So here I was with checks and cash to deposit, and there be not an envelope in sight. Wonderful. Then my eye fell upon a sign on the face of the ATM, stating that this was an envelope-free ATM. My first thought was, "Oh great, how am I supposed to make a deposit without an envelope?" Then a less retarded part of my brain woke up from its coma and shouted, "Hey stupid! That means there's some newfangled technology in that there ATM that makes envelopes obsolete. You probably just stick your checks into the machine and it takes care of the rest."
The obstinate part of me quickly retorted, "Bugger that, give me my old-fashioned envelope-operated ATM. I don't trust this lack of enveloping one bit."
And that was that. I drove through the drive-thru, made my way around to the front, parked my car, and walked up to the ATMs in the bank's front wall. As I approached an open one, I realized I forgot to bring a pen to write down my deposit amount ($2.53) on the envelope. I was about to stop my progress and go back to my car to get a pen when what do I see but more envelope-free ATMs! Seeing that there was no escape from my familiar ways, this time I gave one of them a closer look to see how it worked.
Apparently, all you have to do is stick your checks and/or cash into the ATM's mouth and it scans the checks and identifies the value of the bills in seconds. It even shows you the scanned electronic version of each check. And that's all it took to convert me. I went from stubborn curmudgeon to drooling technophile with one check.
It's a liberating feeling, really. Knowing that I no longer have to bring a pen with me to make a deposit at an ATM. Knowing that I don't even have to count up my bills and checks - I can just rely on a machine to do all the math for me, and I don't even need to think! Now if only I had a machine I could use to think of a good ending for this blog.
Oh well.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Beestraught
I posted this on Facebook, figuring more people would read it there than here, but for those of you who haven't been sucked into the social hurricane, here's a little blurb I wrote after an experience I had a week ago...
On my lunch today I went out to my car, opened the door, tossed my keys and wallet and jacket inside, and was about to go in and sit down to read when a bee casually flies in the open door and lands on the back of my car seat.
It was actually kind of hilarious how it happened – I was taking my sweet time getting in the car, and the bee just makes a beeline (excuse the pun) past me and into the car…as if it had a right to be there.
“Excuse me, pardon me, seat inspector here. Hmm, this seat seems nice, I’ll take it.”
And as it flies in (bees in?), I’m just watching it, thinking “did that bee really just fly into my car?” followed by “Oh great, now what? Give the bee a harsh warning, and then count to three?” followed by “I should have done something instead of standing idly by…like hit it…no, like swat at it…no, like stand like an idiot and watch it manhandle (beehandle?) its way into my car while I stand back in a manly and unstung fashion, which could loosely be described as hopping up and down from foot to foot and yelling “ooooh! OOOH!! THERE’S A BEEEEE IN MY CARRR! A bee a bee a bee a bee bee bee bee bee”
Meanwhile the seat inspector starts to crawl around to the back of the seat…and in my normal coherently brave thinking, I think “Should I hit it? Hmm, but then it might get pissed and sting me. Better give it what it wants.”
And so it proceeds around the back of the seat, and disappears. So I do what any man in this situation would do – cautiously stick my head inside to see if the passenger door handle is covered in bees, unlock it, open it, and run away screaming like a little girl.
I’m not sure if the bee is still in my car or if it flew out of its own accord (if the dang bee has a car already, why is it bothering me?). It’s supposed to rain tonight, so I think I might take the chance and drive home with all my windows rolled down just in case it's still in there. Better soaked than trapped in a bee-infested car I always say.
On my lunch today I went out to my car, opened the door, tossed my keys and wallet and jacket inside, and was about to go in and sit down to read when a bee casually flies in the open door and lands on the back of my car seat.
It was actually kind of hilarious how it happened – I was taking my sweet time getting in the car, and the bee just makes a beeline (excuse the pun) past me and into the car…as if it had a right to be there.
“Excuse me, pardon me, seat inspector here. Hmm, this seat seems nice, I’ll take it.”
And as it flies in (bees in?), I’m just watching it, thinking “did that bee really just fly into my car?” followed by “Oh great, now what? Give the bee a harsh warning, and then count to three?” followed by “I should have done something instead of standing idly by…like hit it…no, like swat at it…no, like stand like an idiot and watch it manhandle (beehandle?) its way into my car while I stand back in a manly and unstung fashion, which could loosely be described as hopping up and down from foot to foot and yelling “ooooh! OOOH!! THERE’S A BEEEEE IN MY CARRR! A bee a bee a bee a bee bee bee bee bee”
Meanwhile the seat inspector starts to crawl around to the back of the seat…and in my normal coherently brave thinking, I think “Should I hit it? Hmm, but then it might get pissed and sting me. Better give it what it wants.”
And so it proceeds around the back of the seat, and disappears. So I do what any man in this situation would do – cautiously stick my head inside to see if the passenger door handle is covered in bees, unlock it, open it, and run away screaming like a little girl.
I’m not sure if the bee is still in my car or if it flew out of its own accord (if the dang bee has a car already, why is it bothering me?). It’s supposed to rain tonight, so I think I might take the chance and drive home with all my windows rolled down just in case it's still in there. Better soaked than trapped in a bee-infested car I always say.
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