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This is a story written by my friend Blake. He's one of my favorite authors, so I thought I'd share his amazing ability with the rest of you.
To begin with, I am a man of refined taste. An eli-taste, if you will. If my tomato soup is not lightly seared by the conflagration of a chef’s chest hair due to over-enthused flambé, I am an unhappy camper. Because this had only happened once to me (On the glorious Fourth of July, where we celebrate our independence by telling Jews there’s gold in the sky, and then hitting them with anti-aircraft fire as they deploy their devil wings in an effort to get it), I resolved to quit my pedestrian life, and seek my fortune in the business of bee-siness-yes, I would be a beekeeper! I’d find bees, and keep the fuck out of them! I’d keep them like a bad case of gonorrhea! I’d keep them like I’ve kept my third nipple a secret from everyone (It’s on my left buttock; does this qualify as a breast?)
The bees, the bees, no longer in trees,
Had gathered in droves, in coves, in borogoves,
Over the deep blue seas!
And thus I did go,
With bluster and blow,
Searching on bended knee (as ships these days are oddly small),
Away went I, away, today,
Over the deep blue seas!!!!
Within 5 seconds, we began to take in water, and it was only then that I realized my error; I was in a boat made for BEEEEEEEEEEEES!!!!!! I had found the very biggest and most frajamous of bee-boats, and had crashed their proud procession like an anti-revisionist Stalinist at a Trotskyite kegger. The bee-captain’s beard fuzzled with rage, his tiny blue captain hat vibrating with insectile rage. He shouted “BZZZZZZZZZZ! BZZ! BZZZZZZ!”
And I said “I don’t understand”, but he was a bee, so he heard “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH DOOOOOOOOOOOOOAN UNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNERSTAAAAAAAAAAN” in the terrible tones of some insane, roaring god. His eight hearts couldn’t take it, and he expired. I carved onto his tombstone (made of a bath soap in the shape of a seashell, which fits, I guess) “BEE CAPTAIN: Who could forget when he was all “BZZZZZZZZZZ! BZZ! BZZZZZZ!” and we were all “Oh my God a Sailor Bee! Almost as amazing as Sailor Moon! God bless his little thorax.” And then he died. Rather a brief career, that.”
Luckily, the water was tepid, and but waist deep. I waded forward, more determined than ever to keep bees after losing the Captain so soon after our meeting. I arrived at last, right in the middle of the seas, and there they did hover, the bees, like levitating trees, out in the drink where their weren’t no fees, and I said (with a sneeze) “Jeeze, bees, I shall soon keep yeeez!”
But the bees had other ideas in the depths of their twitching nerve lumps, and with a great whirring of their transparent wings, they did soar into the form of a vast Jerry Seinfeld, eyes pointing alternately up and down. “BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEZ” they rumbled like God’s uneasy intestine. Great ropes of tarry honey, made of pure hatred and bee-poo, pelted me as I jogged forward. It would take a lot more than some cloud of striped, suicidal insects to stop me. A cloud of Bob Doles, their senile dongs twitching with Viagra induced vigor, THAT I would stop for.
The sound of tem million (which is m more than te million) bee stings unsheathing at once filled the air like snakes dancing on a blackboard as the bee legions floated ominously down in sun-blocking waves, swarming like gays to chiffon.
I chortled profusely. “Your resistance is futile in every particular, good sirs!!!!!” From the depths of my finely-pressed pants did I pull a weapon most foul, a veritable avatar of annihilation, its every line quaking with savage menace, it was like an awful rip in the very fabric of goodness, a twisted black hole of wrongness and pain.
“Behold my…..penis!”
Ten million beezy voices cried out.
Ten million bee bodies plopped softly into the tepid seas.
My dong drooped in horror as I surveyed the damages.
I set out to keep bees, not kill them! I had failed spectacularly.
But my resolve did not droop! I recoiled my reproductive organ within its corduroy cocoon, and began the arduous journey to Austrailia! As I took my first steps, and feet turned to yards, I was surprised to see yards under my feet-it was an underwater city of littlefolk. They stared up at me from their oceanic abode with looks of awe. And one look of constipation. “You are blocking the bathroom, you titan-footed dingus!” he screamed, waving a miniscule newspaper as he shuffled from foot to foot. “Apologies, sir. Happy BM!” I stated, shifting my feet to the middle of what looked like fields of honeysuckle.
One bold little fellow, in the attire of the scientist swam up to my left leg and laid hold of a long hair growing from the back of my knee. I endeavored to shake him, but he was more tenacious than a husband hungry Korean girl. I lifted him from his precarious position, and inquired as to his behavior.
“Bob, you’ve lost your mind. You’re chasing bees in the Middle of an ocean. You killed them by flashing you cosmic horror genitalia. You are living through your past through the lens of delusion. If you don’t get help soon, you’ll wind up trapped like this, forever. You-“
I roared so loud that the sky shook.
“Oh, microman, you talk such rot! As punishment, I shall send you…TO THE SUN!”
And I sent him flying with terrible force, his voice thinning to nothing as he sailed to his fiery death “BOB YOU WILL DIE OF THIRST SOON WAKE UP FIND WAAAAAAAAAAAA-TSSSSSH!!!”, and he was no more. I watched his evaporation on the suns gleaming surface, and felt suddenly the strength of Sol’s pounding heat. Then, a sense of vertigo. For a second…I was on an island. I…it felt…familiar. Like a home. I felt weak, dizzy. Ill.
But then I saw! The man had infected the sun with his poisonous doubts! Its villainous rays were baking my mind into a cake of sweet, fluffy doubt! “Oh poo, you have found me out”, the sun said sullenly, and he shrunk into himself and disappeared.
Austrailia beckoned, and with the sun no longer harassing me, I made good progress. I arrived after 6 weeks of wading, and stood in awe of this strange land, with its sun-fried people in kangaroo-fur coats spewing dank pseudo-Cockney into my sensitive ears. I knew that only by speaking their lingo could I make myself clear.
I ran up to the nearest fellow, a rangy man who looked something like Charlie Sheen if he were smoked pleasantly in hickory to induce a smoky richness of flavor, and unleashed my fluent Austrailianese.
“Soi, guv’nuh, g’day, oi wundah if yah billabong a wombat. Crikey?”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“….Vegemite?”
“You are talking about….Vegemite?”
“’Ats wot oi sayed, shrimp on the barbay, koala.”
“Do you even know what Vegemite is, sir?”
“Oi, this one! “Acussin me a nawt knawen wot Vegemite iz! It’s….the woids slip me, chappy….a blood sucking insect with….ah…a vegetable whose…roots…are….fangs?”
He turned with the air of a woman whose just seen a snail and a daddy longlegs discussing supply-side economics while living off of foreign multinationals in their private affairs.
“But, wait! I shall cease to duplicate your lingo, sir, if only you will direct me to you bees!”
He whirled with the speed of a falling slice of toast.
“Did you say…..BEES!?!?!” His face bent like fired bow into the form of a smile. “My dear fellow, perhaps I misjudged you. We in Australia lack all but scattered colonies of bees. Thus, we are forced to do this-his head sudden popped off his neck, like it was but a loosely connected champagne cork. Frilly butterfly wings the color of mother-of-pearl unfurled from where his neck had been. He leered at me fantastically as his disembodied head fluttered over to a nearby flower. His tongue flew forth, long as three stapled together giraffes and one baboon. The serpentine muscle glistened with drool as it lazily flexed and dipped itself into the depths of the flower, a pulsing rope of flesh twisting in orgiastic fervor…in…..
I vomited. Oh God. It hurts to breathe. What…that…a butterfly…I’m so…hot. A sudden savage voice sudden awakens in the back of my brain.
YOU HAVE SICKNESS IN YOURSELF IT WILL KILL YOU. FIND FOOD SHELTER HELP SURVIVE. BEWARE NONSENSE.
It’s instinct, the raw instinct to survive, in all its reptilian coolness. I begin to remember. I was on the Minnow. 5 days out on strong winds, loaded with food and water. Going to Australia to study bee migrations bees bees they roll like piggies down a slide and NO I WILL NOT I MUST STAY HERE THIS HURTS BUT IT IS REAL. Reality melts back into place. I see a pile of food, supplies, a canteen…shade….I crawl weakly into oh the shade the water sweet a BENEDICTION nothing feels this good oh thank you thank you
“Thank you, Charlie Sheen butterfly. Your succulent vomit has renewed me!”
“You’re welcome, my good man. But my name is Sheldon Noisewater the Sixty-Forty-fifth.”
“Oh. My apologies. Tell me, did you see an island around here a minute ago?”
“Just that bastard sun playing you a trick, sir. I suggest you disregard that thought, sir. All of Australia, indeed, the world, is relying on you. You can’t be waylaid by the parlour tricks of some daft little Helios wannabe!” His tone seemed suddenly desperate, urgent. A nausea swept over me. But his words of mission, for world and for beekind, stirred my heart.
“Oh, yes, still infected by the shade of that crazy microman I heaved into his gaseous depths. Ah well, I shall sally forth!”
His tongue playfully slaps at me as I go, as a pan does to a flapjack.
Into the depths of the Outback, strangely devoid of its signature Steakhouses, I do trundle.
To begin with, I am a man of refined taste. An eli-taste, if you will. If my tomato soup is not lightly seared by the conflagration of a chef’s chest hair due to over-enthused flambé, I am an unhappy camper. Because this had only happened once to me (On the glorious Fourth of July, where we celebrate our independence by telling Jews there’s gold in the sky, and then hitting them with anti-aircraft fire as they deploy their devil wings in an effort to get it), I resolved to quit my pedestrian life, and seek my fortune in the business of bee-siness-yes, I would be a beekeeper! I’d find bees, and keep the fuck out of them! I’d keep them like a bad case of gonorrhea! I’d keep them like I’ve kept my third nipple a secret from everyone (It’s on my left buttock; does this qualify as a breast?)
The bees, the bees, no longer in trees,
Had gathered in droves, in coves, in borogoves,
Over the deep blue seas!
And thus I did go,
With bluster and blow,
Searching on bended knee (as ships these days are oddly small),
Away went I, away, today,
Over the deep blue seas!!!!
Within 5 seconds, we began to take in water, and it was only then that I realized my error; I was in a boat made for BEEEEEEEEEEEES!!!!!! I had found the very biggest and most frajamous of bee-boats, and had crashed their proud procession like an anti-revisionist Stalinist at a Trotskyite kegger. The bee-captain’s beard fuzzled with rage, his tiny blue captain hat vibrating with insectile rage. He shouted “BZZZZZZZZZZ! BZZ! BZZZZZZ!”
And I said “I don’t understand”, but he was a bee, so he heard “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH DOOOOOOOOOOOOOAN UNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNERSTAAAAAAAAAAN” in the terrible tones of some insane, roaring god. His eight hearts couldn’t take it, and he expired. I carved onto his tombstone (made of a bath soap in the shape of a seashell, which fits, I guess) “BEE CAPTAIN: Who could forget when he was all “BZZZZZZZZZZ! BZZ! BZZZZZZ!” and we were all “Oh my God a Sailor Bee! Almost as amazing as Sailor Moon! God bless his little thorax.” And then he died. Rather a brief career, that.”
Luckily, the water was tepid, and but waist deep. I waded forward, more determined than ever to keep bees after losing the Captain so soon after our meeting. I arrived at last, right in the middle of the seas, and there they did hover, the bees, like levitating trees, out in the drink where their weren’t no fees, and I said (with a sneeze) “Jeeze, bees, I shall soon keep yeeez!”
But the bees had other ideas in the depths of their twitching nerve lumps, and with a great whirring of their transparent wings, they did soar into the form of a vast Jerry Seinfeld, eyes pointing alternately up and down. “BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEZ” they rumbled like God’s uneasy intestine. Great ropes of tarry honey, made of pure hatred and bee-poo, pelted me as I jogged forward. It would take a lot more than some cloud of striped, suicidal insects to stop me. A cloud of Bob Doles, their senile dongs twitching with Viagra induced vigor, THAT I would stop for.
The sound of tem million (which is m more than te million) bee stings unsheathing at once filled the air like snakes dancing on a blackboard as the bee legions floated ominously down in sun-blocking waves, swarming like gays to chiffon.
I chortled profusely. “Your resistance is futile in every particular, good sirs!!!!!” From the depths of my finely-pressed pants did I pull a weapon most foul, a veritable avatar of annihilation, its every line quaking with savage menace, it was like an awful rip in the very fabric of goodness, a twisted black hole of wrongness and pain.
“Behold my…..penis!”
Ten million beezy voices cried out.
Ten million bee bodies plopped softly into the tepid seas.
My dong drooped in horror as I surveyed the damages.
I set out to keep bees, not kill them! I had failed spectacularly.
But my resolve did not droop! I recoiled my reproductive organ within its corduroy cocoon, and began the arduous journey to Austrailia! As I took my first steps, and feet turned to yards, I was surprised to see yards under my feet-it was an underwater city of littlefolk. They stared up at me from their oceanic abode with looks of awe. And one look of constipation. “You are blocking the bathroom, you titan-footed dingus!” he screamed, waving a miniscule newspaper as he shuffled from foot to foot. “Apologies, sir. Happy BM!” I stated, shifting my feet to the middle of what looked like fields of honeysuckle.
One bold little fellow, in the attire of the scientist swam up to my left leg and laid hold of a long hair growing from the back of my knee. I endeavored to shake him, but he was more tenacious than a husband hungry Korean girl. I lifted him from his precarious position, and inquired as to his behavior.
“Bob, you’ve lost your mind. You’re chasing bees in the Middle of an ocean. You killed them by flashing you cosmic horror genitalia. You are living through your past through the lens of delusion. If you don’t get help soon, you’ll wind up trapped like this, forever. You-“
I roared so loud that the sky shook.
“Oh, microman, you talk such rot! As punishment, I shall send you…TO THE SUN!”
And I sent him flying with terrible force, his voice thinning to nothing as he sailed to his fiery death “BOB YOU WILL DIE OF THIRST SOON WAKE UP FIND WAAAAAAAAAAAA-TSSSSSH!!!”, and he was no more. I watched his evaporation on the suns gleaming surface, and felt suddenly the strength of Sol’s pounding heat. Then, a sense of vertigo. For a second…I was on an island. I…it felt…familiar. Like a home. I felt weak, dizzy. Ill.
But then I saw! The man had infected the sun with his poisonous doubts! Its villainous rays were baking my mind into a cake of sweet, fluffy doubt! “Oh poo, you have found me out”, the sun said sullenly, and he shrunk into himself and disappeared.
Austrailia beckoned, and with the sun no longer harassing me, I made good progress. I arrived after 6 weeks of wading, and stood in awe of this strange land, with its sun-fried people in kangaroo-fur coats spewing dank pseudo-Cockney into my sensitive ears. I knew that only by speaking their lingo could I make myself clear.
I ran up to the nearest fellow, a rangy man who looked something like Charlie Sheen if he were smoked pleasantly in hickory to induce a smoky richness of flavor, and unleashed my fluent Austrailianese.
“Soi, guv’nuh, g’day, oi wundah if yah billabong a wombat. Crikey?”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“….Vegemite?”
“You are talking about….Vegemite?”
“’Ats wot oi sayed, shrimp on the barbay, koala.”
“Do you even know what Vegemite is, sir?”
“Oi, this one! “Acussin me a nawt knawen wot Vegemite iz! It’s….the woids slip me, chappy….a blood sucking insect with….ah…a vegetable whose…roots…are….fangs?”
He turned with the air of a woman whose just seen a snail and a daddy longlegs discussing supply-side economics while living off of foreign multinationals in their private affairs.
“But, wait! I shall cease to duplicate your lingo, sir, if only you will direct me to you bees!”
He whirled with the speed of a falling slice of toast.
“Did you say…..BEES!?!?!” His face bent like fired bow into the form of a smile. “My dear fellow, perhaps I misjudged you. We in Australia lack all but scattered colonies of bees. Thus, we are forced to do this-his head sudden popped off his neck, like it was but a loosely connected champagne cork. Frilly butterfly wings the color of mother-of-pearl unfurled from where his neck had been. He leered at me fantastically as his disembodied head fluttered over to a nearby flower. His tongue flew forth, long as three stapled together giraffes and one baboon. The serpentine muscle glistened with drool as it lazily flexed and dipped itself into the depths of the flower, a pulsing rope of flesh twisting in orgiastic fervor…in…..
I vomited. Oh God. It hurts to breathe. What…that…a butterfly…I’m so…hot. A sudden savage voice sudden awakens in the back of my brain.
YOU HAVE SICKNESS IN YOURSELF IT WILL KILL YOU. FIND FOOD SHELTER HELP SURVIVE. BEWARE NONSENSE.
It’s instinct, the raw instinct to survive, in all its reptilian coolness. I begin to remember. I was on the Minnow. 5 days out on strong winds, loaded with food and water. Going to Australia to study bee migrations bees bees they roll like piggies down a slide and NO I WILL NOT I MUST STAY HERE THIS HURTS BUT IT IS REAL. Reality melts back into place. I see a pile of food, supplies, a canteen…shade….I crawl weakly into oh the shade the water sweet a BENEDICTION nothing feels this good oh thank you thank you
“Thank you, Charlie Sheen butterfly. Your succulent vomit has renewed me!”
“You’re welcome, my good man. But my name is Sheldon Noisewater the Sixty-Forty-fifth.”
“Oh. My apologies. Tell me, did you see an island around here a minute ago?”
“Just that bastard sun playing you a trick, sir. I suggest you disregard that thought, sir. All of Australia, indeed, the world, is relying on you. You can’t be waylaid by the parlour tricks of some daft little Helios wannabe!” His tone seemed suddenly desperate, urgent. A nausea swept over me. But his words of mission, for world and for beekind, stirred my heart.
“Oh, yes, still infected by the shade of that crazy microman I heaved into his gaseous depths. Ah well, I shall sally forth!”
His tongue playfully slaps at me as I go, as a pan does to a flapjack.
Into the depths of the Outback, strangely devoid of its signature Steakhouses, I do trundle.
