The Last Word On Nothing

The worst thing about having emotional support bees (ESBs), really, is getting them on the plane.

Last Thursday was no exception. It was a rough day all around—trying to pack clothes around the hive without getting everything sticky, then arguing with the cab driver about putting bees in his trunk, and then the TSA dude confiscating not just my nail clippers (which I’d planned to use during the flight, since I have a middle seat and nothing else to do) but also my nunchucks.

But I’m sorry, Mr. Hairy Necked Security Guy treating me like a criminal, I have a doctor’s note that says this hive of 30,000 stinging insects is totally legit and necessary to my wellbeing, and I intend to get every one of them from O’Hare to LA whether the flight is oversold or not.

Yes, he’s a legit doctor. I found him on a site called medikaldox and he is extremely supportive of my bee needs, especially just after I’ve entered my credit card number.

Your questions are irritating me. YOU try putting a service vest on each bee to prove she completed her training. Trust me: Honey bees are utterly committed to their work, whether they’re tonguing flowers, carting away little bee corpses, telling stories with butt wags, sucking up to the queen, or, in this case, just being there for me—offering companionship and (super-painful) life lessons in ways only bees can.

Yes, I have issues. Yes, I’ve tried therapy dogs, parrots, even llamas. The goldfish was a bad idea—I still feel sad about that unfortunate cuddling incident—but there are other ways to go, if you can duck the haters.

For now, nothing brings me relief like this riot of insects. The buzzing, the silly dancing, even the honeycomb—which, if I can pry it away from them without incident, is certainly healthier than downing a tub of Rocky Road during my ugly cries on Sunday nights. Bees offer the full package. You’d be surprised at how much positive energy I get from the sound of 120,000 wings vibrating around my head.

Mostly what my ESBs do is force me to sit very, very still and self reflect. That inevitably causes a panic attack, during which I tend to flail around, so they sting the shit out of me as a reminder to work on my relaxation techniques. Their little feet tickle me as they crawl around on my bare skin, which tempts me to swat–a bad idea and a lesson in self control and patience. And when I need a good cry (e.g., those aforementioned Sundays), well-coordinated angry stings, especially on my eyelids or between my toes, do the trick.

It’s like having 30,000 gal pals swirling around you all the time, whispering in your ear, keeping you in line, and zinging you nastily when you’re acting a fool. And the nice thing is, if one “friend” feels careworn from all the empathizing, or drops dead after a sting, as bees are wont to do, there’s always another to toss her body out and take her place. You’re never alone!

Yes, the queen can be a bit aloof. To be honest, she’s kind of a bitch. A mean girl, if you will. Very demanding and all wrapped up in herself. But I look up to her and strive to be like her–fat and drunk on sweet, sweet jelly (delivered straight to her mouth!), totally deserving of full-time care. I’m worth it, she seems to say, an excellent mantra for someone like me. She also reminds me that it’s totally okay to have one-night stands on hot summer nights and then expect your bastard kids to take care of you for the rest of your life.

Meanwhile, people just keep on judging. Like on Thursday, when I finally breached Security and boarded the plane, the nasty looks as I lurched down the aisle were epic, even though the swarm was relatively contained. Then, I tried to get the hive, which I’d stuffed in a backpack for protection, up into the overhead bin, per TSA rules. A little help here? I know you aren’t asleep because a second ago you were yelling and cussing and waving your arms around as if this weren’t a public space. People are so rude.

Fortunately, the flight itself wasn’t too bad, except for that one thing–which I have to say really wasn’t my fault. I can’t help it if “Little Sammy” in 27B was deathly allergic to bee venom. Who brings a kid like that onto a plane–in his pajamas, no less–where there might be a fully loaded beehive? Isn’t that child abuse? Parents are so irresponsible these days.

Regardless, I realize it would be unreasonable to expect to have all 30,000 bees available to me for the duration of the flight. So I kept a small swarm of 500 or so around my seat—like the dust motes around Pigpen’s head–per my doctor’s instructions (sent by medikaldox for a small extra fee). Because turbulence really freaks me out.

But there was more trouble as we prepared to deplane. Doesn’t everyone know by now to be careful when opening the overhead bins? In this case, contents may be mad as hell. Yanking the door and rummaging around up there for your stupid coat, in such a hurry to be the first one off: You, Sir, are an idiot and all those stings are on you. I can’t help how your swollen face will look in your wedding pictures. (Congrats on the nuptials, but you’re also an armrest hog.)

And maybe it’s none of my business, but you should work on channeling that anger into something positive. It’s not healthy to get so worked up, and not nice to take it out on strangers. I have a suggestion that might help–yes, I was going to say ESBs–but you seem hostile right now so never mind.

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Photo by Rowan Heuvel on Unsplash

Can’t get enough Snark? Why not graze on the terrifying tales of Snark Weeks past:

Snark Week 2018, featuring the hidden burrowing owl mafia, fluffy cyptokitties, the entire insect class, putrid petrifying petrels, and worst of all, the American gray squirrel.

Snark Week 2017, featuring abusive blackbirds, an immense, near-spherical raccoon, and the vile creature that will gnaw on your soul – and then poop on it.

Snark Week 2016, featuring testicle-eating assassins, chihuahua terrorists, raptors who dole out violent haircuts, and the animals so vile they come out of the womb with horns.

Snark Week 2015, featuring flesh-ripping alien fleas, bovine murderers, and the unfairly beloved animal whose terrifying extra neck vertebrae allows them to turn their terrifying neckheads 270 degrees.

Snark Week 2014, featuring squirrels hell bent on world domination, more feral roosters, and a furry virus that has spread across the United States to total devastation.

Snark Week 2013 – the very first! – featuring the ant that kills cows, the bird responsible for five deaths and $425 million in damages, and an animal so vicious he is known only as Little Red Bastard.