Boondoggle and the Bees: The Six-Day War

Bees Suck.

They suck even more when you happen to be one of those unfortunate individuals that when you’re stung by one of the little terrorists you blow up like Martin Short in Pure Luck and then die a slow and agonizing death.

I’m Martin Short. Not in the way that I have no career, am short, and everyone confuses me with Dana Carvey, but in the way that when I’m stung I look like Oprah coming off an all night bender at a free ice-cream sundae buffet.

Of course by some cruel twist of fate, bees like me.

Not to exaggerate, but I’m telling you if it wasn’t a 100,000 bees it was 1,000,000.

So, much like the massively outnumbered Israeli Defense League mobilized against the Arab forces of Egypt, Jordon Syria and other assorted wackos in 1967, I did the same. I channeled the ghost of Yitzhak Rabin (Editor’s Note: We have not a clue about this obscure reference but this confirms the rumor that Boondoggle hangs out with Dennis Miller) and mobilized for war. A terrifying, but necessary war to save myself from total annihilation by the forces of the innumerable bee army.

The first artillery barrage involved sticking a garden hose into the bee hole and pumping approximately 6,250 gallons of municipal water into the hive. No effect after 6-hours, just mud and a ton of angry bees.

It was time to escalate and in the absence of ownership of Agent Orange, I elected to dump 3.2 gallons of gasoline down the hole thinking that the fumes would send them back to hell. Unfortunately, it should be noted that gasoline only makes bees angrier.

The effect was spectacular to the extent that I now had flaming bees flying around which strangely enough were still trying to kill me and even, perhaps, a little more angry than before. I must admit you have not lived until you’ve seen burning bees lighting up the night sky on a calm summer evening.

By all accounts the devil bees should have all died that day from the same fire and brimstone in which they came from.

I was wrong, so wrong.

The next morning they were back, flying around the hole on alert and ready to attack once again. My next somewhat coherent thought was maybe if they couldn’t get back into the little bee passageway they would just leave peacefully much like the Egyptians in Gaza Strip so I covered the hole with three shovel fulls of prime Midwestern dirt and went about my way.

For your information, bees don’t retreat. Never. Now instead of being in their hole the next morning about 65,000 infantry bees were buzzing around the next morning aimed for the attack because they couldn’t get in.

One other note, sister-in-laws are no help in killing bees or warfare in general. Mine stood and watched the battle and offered superfluous comments such as “The bees really look angry now” and “It’s a good thing you didn’t burn the house down”.

One other word of caution; Wet-Dry vacs do not kill bees. Bees kill Wet-Dry vacs.

I imagine at this time you are thinking, “Are you F—ing kidding me? This deathly allergic moron has spent five days trying to kill satan’s nest of bees and has only accomplished killing about 200, almost burned his house down, destroyed a perfectly good vacuum and now has no gasoline left for his lawn mower.” What can this freaking pumpkin-head do next?

Deadly chemicals that’s what. I bought 10 industrial fogger cans; duct taped them to a 10-foot pull, donned protective eyewear and a bandanna around my face and simultaneously, as a result of no small engineering feat, started all 10 foggers.

I almost died from the fumes, but it was a beautiful sight to behold. Toxic chemicals spewing everywhere, the death of all nearby plant life, paralysis in my right arm, bees and birds falling from the sky like rocks, a Superfund designation for my front porch.

Death, destruction, chaos and annihilation of all things bee-kind.

It was over, the bees were over. Ne
ver to return.

Occasionally to this very day, I see a single younger bee’s flight path veer towards the direction of my porch only to see a bunch of older bees stop the mission. I can only imagine what the older wiser bees tell the solitary suicide stinger to stop them in their path.

“Are you F—ing kidding me?”