So I can’t really say I’m the crazy bug freak that Amanda is. I mean, I don’t like spiders much. But we generally have an understanding of if you don’t crawl on me, then I won’t scream like a girl and flail until something dies. And honestly, I’ve never had too many moments in my life where bugs were the cause of strife and terror. There was one time in Michigan where a slowly descending spider almost caused me to roll my car across seven lanes of traffic. But that was thankfully negated by what I only imagine to be the hand of God, as he must have heard me screaming, “OH PLEASE GOD NO” at the top of my lungs over and over.
I guess the most famously remembered bug incident of my life was when I was a teenager living with my Dad. It was of course my responsibility to mow the yard, as this was probably the closest thing to child abuse Dad to could do to me without going to jail for it. I had done this many a time at this point, but for some reason this time I took a close turn by Dad’s garden, where I noticed a small hole in the ground. I didn’t much think of it as a bad omen, or even something I maybe shouldn’t disturb as it was just another obstacle in my way of getting the yard mowed like the rake and kiddie pool right before it. So without much hesitation, I ran right over that bastard. At first, nothing happened. Then I noticed a bee.
Then another bee.
And then another.
And then about four dozen more.
So yes. Imagine my surprise when I suddenly had 100 or so bees trying to murder me. I guess to them, this was a fight for survival. After all, I had just sucked every one of them out of their home into giant spinning blades of doom. Of course they wanted nothing more than to kill me. Myself on the other hand, just wanted to get back inside and play Super Nintendo. Instead I found myself running around the outside of the house screaming bloody murder with a few dozen bees attached to me.
Dad quickly appeared at the front door where he had the idea that physical violence toward the bees would make them give up. He then proceeded to beat and slap the living hell out of me until the bees had run off. I also saw fit to strip myself in the process, hoping the bees wouldn’t be smart enough to realize that they were fighting my clothes instead of me. Turns out they were smart enough indeed.
In the end I was laying on the ground half naked, beaten, and stung dozens of times. It took me quite a while before I had the courage to mow the yard again. Dad didn’t even argue too much with me, either. So there you go, kids. Now you know how to get out of mowing the yard.
Don’t say I never did anything for you.
Jeremy is a quiet, steadily mortified man hailing from Indianapolis.
Contact him this way: firstname.lastname@example.org (hint: it’s email)