C and I have 50,000 pets.

Okay, they’re not really pets. I mean, we can’t take them on walks. But they do produce the sweetest, richest, most interesting honey I’ve ever tasted.

Did you know that all the worker bees are female? That every time you see a bee alight on a flower, or drag past pollen, or buzz on its way back to the hive, you’re looking at a lady bee? The only males are the drones (that’s what she said), and their sole purpose in life is to have sex with the queen. The drones wait around hoping the queen will happen by, and if ā€“ and that’s a BIG IF ā€“ one of them actually manages to score mid-air, he then falls to the ground, dead, and the queen flies off with his penis inside her.

Stephen King, I call upon you to match the horror nature provides on a regular basis.

In another example of life imitating life, the rest of the time the drones just sit around the hive, doing nothing and getting fed by the lady bees. Until finally, the ladies drag one of the drones to the entrance of the hive and give him a huge, collective kick out the door. AND DON’T COME BACK UNTIL YOU HAVE A MARKETABLE SKILL, they holler after him, in their little bee voices. Then they dust off their bee hands? feet? and get back to work.

The queen is born like any other bee. She’s laid as an egg by the reigning queen, in one of the perfect hexagons these beings have the inate math to create. But for a variety of reasons, sometimes a new queen is needed (feudal England had nothing on these insects) and so they make a special cell with a wee featherbed covered in 500 thread count sheets and cable on-demand and feed the baby bee special queen food. Royal Jelly. On royal toast, I like to imagine. Anyhoo, so after awhile and some massages, the queen emerges from her cell and you know what she does? She immediately seeks out any other queen contenders and MURDERS THEM IN THEIR BEDS.

Queen Mary I, watch out!

Her throne safe, the queen then goes about getting laid and making babies and getting searched for.

C and I have never seen our queen. We know she exists. We’ve seen baby bees and queen cells and have harvested honey three times. And yet, the queen is elusive. Her entourage is good. Whoever is watching our queen’s back doesn’t let her queen bits get photographed as she’s getting out of her limo. Your Majesty! the workers scream, Your Panties! Real queens wear UNDERWEAR, Britney.

When C and I have all our bee gear on, we look like astronauts.

Advertisements