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Written by Ed McMahon's successor, Danny DeDoritoVito (Schz).


Do you remember bees? I sure do. Back in the day I’d play summer catch and football with father and various land crabs, searching, searching in vain for some delicious honey to take home to my wife and two sons, and our dog, Snickerdoodle Esquire the 3rd. One day I saw a bee leering at me from the corner of my eye, and it turned out it was wearing a tiny tophat and invited me to the bee forest brouhaha, a night of festive honeydrinking and comb-related parlour tricks.

“Follow me!” The bee went off into the woods, and I had no choice but to follow. I, being a seasoned beekeeper as part of my most desired professions, found it necessary to investigate, but also that honey drink sounded delicious, murderously delicious, as though the bees were going to murder me. I was concerned, as bees are known to sting, not invite people to parties.

I put on a festive party hat and a tuxedo and wandered into the woods. When I arrived, there was a lone bee hive in a clearing, and a sign that said “put head here!” with a hole at the end of the beehive. Confetti lay everywhere, and I was excited to learn that the party was just beginning. All I had to do was stick my face in that delicious honey-covered bee hive. 

Wait a minute… bees don’t talk. Who was talking? I checked around for any counterfeit bee items, and, seeing none, I assumed this was something bees only did to truly special people who take the time to listen to them. The forest is crying, why won’t anyone listen? “Have some honey!” I heard mumbling from behind a log, it sounded like a man’s voice. A bee man, half man, half bee, a desire for honey and  fine wood and paper products. Indeed, I brought my face closer to the hive.  I heard party music playing faintly, there was a party going on in that hive! I RSVP’d by speaking to some flowers earlier, so I had to attend.

I put my head in the hive and heard a strange buzzing noise. There were bees in this hive! I screamed. It was dark, but I was wearing light up neon glow glasses so I could see everything. The bees… the bees leered! Row after row of angry heads and dead, pulsing eyes, leering, their yellow and black bodies circling, swarming. “PROTECT THE QUEEN!” that guy behind the log mumbled. 

Indeed, the bees began swarming, and due to small space and intense viscosity of the honey, I was forced to continue watching the bees as they approached my face. “I’m here for the part-ack!” I choked, coughed, fell over. The bees began swarming, and stinging my face, stabbing, and puncturing my tender man flesh with their needle- precision stingers. I tried slamming the honey comb into a tree stump- this was no party. These bees were trying to kill me, and if I learned anything from eating honey nut cheerios… it’s that bees eat cheerios.

I produced some cheerios that I always keep in my pocket and scattered them on the floor, hoping to distract them. I kept scattering, and scattering the cheerios, hoping in vain that they would be distracted, but I have a bee allergy and my head began to swell to the size of a ripe cantaloupe as the bees continued shoving their stingers in my teeth, nose and earlobes.

Finally, a single bee stinger actually penetrated my iris. I could feel and see the stinger cutting into my eye like a hot knife through jello. 

I fell over, and that’s how they found me. I tried telling them I was alive but they assumed my convulsions were just the results of constant stinging, as I had been stung thousands of times and my body now contained more bee venom than human blood. I was buried alive in a coffin with the hive still attached to my head, and the coroners drew a smile on with a sharpie, and removed all of my clothing and painted me yellow. “Bzz bzz! Welcome to the party!” It was the coroner, mocking me. Was the coroner a bee? It had man hands. A bee with man hands, the most terrifying image the mind can conjure. Maybe it wasn’t a bee at all. Maybe it was just a man, but it could’ve been a bee. I think about a lot now, buried here, six feet underground. As for me? Only the dead can know peace from this hell, and I sometimes hear the faint buzzing outside, and the coroner mumbling about how honey nut cheerios are part of a balanced breakfast. But this breakfast wasn’t balanced. This breakfast wasn’t balanced at all.

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