Again with the Bees

I decided that it's time, once again, to write about bees. The problem is, I've pretty much said everything there is to say about bees, which basically amounts to three words, "bees...um...stupid."

So instead of coming up with anything new, I'm going to share something that I wrote for my Advanced Writing class earlier this year.

(You may not completely hate me if you read it aloud.)


I punched him in the gut. His name was Mr. Futt.

“Why did you do that thing you did?” he said. “When you could have brought me buckets of beer instead.”

“I don’t know,” I replied. And I poked him in the eye.

“Wherefore you poked me in mine eye, where cataracts and custard lie, where lies revealed, escape and flee? Now go and kiss a bumblebee.”

“Not I,” said I, then spied a hive—a hat for Futt, who cried and cried. The bees stung swift then stole my keys. You never can tell with bumblebees.


I really think someone should be paying me to write crap like that.