Archive for February, 2013


Posted: February 13, 2013 in MiB Hates Us All

People who like to think that they are deep and philosophical have recently been telling me that “life is passing me by”, that I “live only once” and that I should basically get off my big black ass and carpe the diem out of today. These are the same people that plaster the already mucky walls of the internet with cries of YOLO and generally just waste everybody’s limited time on Earth by telling them that they’re wasting their limited time on Earth. These are the same people that keep telling me to slow down and smell the roses. What nobody ever tells you is to look out for the fucking bees.

For those of you are expecting a dissection of the above-mentioned idiom in the metaphorical sense, might I suggest that you close this tab and focus your attention on the Facebook and tentacle porn tabs you inevitably currently have open, because this post is about bees. Not BEE. Not the municipality in northern Italy. Not the Japanese three-wheeled car. I’m talking about the furry black-and-yellow winged nemeses of Winnie-the-Pooh. Yes, bees. Fucking bees, to be precise.

So there I was, relaxing in my garden, doing as I do, hating as I hate, gazing out at God’s vivid palette of pink roses and yellow daffodils and blue violets (?), their petals glistening and glimmering with the teardrops of fresh rain, when a flash of black-and-yellow worthy of Wiz Khalifa caught my eye. Now, I have been stung in the eye by a bee before, which is not even my best bee story. What I’m about to tell you is my best bee story.

It was some time ago, back in the day, as it were. I was twelve or thirteen and frolicking gaily one hot summer’s day with my two cousins at their swimming pool (this was way back when one could use the word “gaily” and not expect to be swarmed by angry Catholic people). Let’s call my cousins Mo and Jameel, for the sake of anonymity.

Anyway, we were jumping and playing and swimming and doing as young men on the cusp of manhood are wont to do when we came across a dead bee. Now, to the present me and you, a dead bee is a fucking dead bee – it’s about as exciting and useful as the BEE framework. But to twelve year olds, a dead bee provides a world of opportunity; a honeypot of intrigue, if you will.

Being the eldest and thus having the most testosterone and dickishness coursing through my veins, I dared Jameel, the lesser-brained of my two cousins, to touch the dead bee with his foot. Jameel refused, as he rightly should. Sensing an opportunity, I upped the ante – I offered Jameel R20 to touch the bee with his foot. That’s when the Indian rims in Jameel’s brain began to whir. His eyes flashed green. “Make it R20.50,” he said, “and you’ve got yourself a deal.” Like I said, lesser-brained.

So we spat in our hands and shook them,  and Jameel stretched his right foot forward, ever so slowly, ever so tentatively and we stared on, breathlessly,  as his pinky toe crept closer and closer, inch by wary inch, towards the dead bee.

I’m not proud of what I did next, but I did it, and I’ve since come to terms with my guilt because it was so damn hilarious.

It happened in slow motion – Jameel’s pinky toe grazed the bee, and his eyes widened in joyful shock. His hand clenched into a fist of glory and he bellowed a gladiatorial roar of victory. He was on top of the world and R20.50 richer.

That’s when I pushed him and he full-on pinky-toe fucked the hell out of the bee.

Now, Jameel was not a hardened badass like yours truly who can take a bee sting to the ocular socket with nary a whimper. He was a twelve year old boy, and that shit fucking hurt. On the pain scale of “Heartbreak” to “Stepping on Lego”, that sting clocked in at “Pretty Fucking Sore”. He began to wail and howl and shriek at the top of his lungs like a small deaf child being raped by a rottweiler.

I looked at Mo and he looked at me – our eyes met and a silent understanding of the situation passed between us. There were no adults at home, but every Indian child knows that if some kid ends up crying because he got hurt, the other kids present are going to end up crying from a beating because that fucker got hurt, too.

I took Mo to one side.

Mo:        What the fudge are we gonna do?

MiB:       Firstly, stop saying fudge. I think we can both agree that this situation deserves a “fuck”. As in Jameel’s pinky-toe is superfucked and so will we be soon, too.

Mo:        We? Oh no, you’re the one that pushed him. You take the blame. Don’t you dare try Judas me now.

MiB:       Can you shut the fuck up while I think?

As it is now, so it was back then – as the resident brainiac, Mo looked to me to come up with a plan. And then it struck me.

MiB:       Hold on, I may have an idea.

Mo:        Yeah?

MiB:       I remember reading in an encyclopaedia that bees and wasps have acid and alkaline stings. Which means that it is possible to neutralize the sting and thus stop the pain.

Mo:        Great – let’s do it!

MiB:       There’s only one problem. I can’t remember which is which. I don’t know if the bee’s sting is acidic or alkaline…

Mo:        Very fucking useful. So what are we going to do now?

MiB:       I’m thinking.

[Silence filled with thinking punctuated only by Jameel’s crescendo-ing howls]

[At this point, I don’t have a fucking clue which sting is acidic and which is alkaline. But something needs to be done, if only to shut Jameel up. I make a decision.]

MiB:       It’s alkaline. Which means you have to neutralize it with an acid.

Mo:        Are you sure?

MiB:       No, I’m not fucking sure. But unless you’re stashing some sodium bicarbonate up your fucking ass, we don’t have any bases on us. So it’s an alkaline sting for now.

Mo:        Ok, ok – but do we have any acids on us?

MiB:       As a matter of fact, we do.

Now, dear reader, you must remember at this point that we were two young, flustered, half-naked Indian boys trying very hard to stop their cousin’s howls, which were matched only in magnitude by the swelling of Jameel’s toe. So if what we did seems stupid in retrospect, at the time, any plan was fucking Zero Dark Thirty to us.

I looked Mo dead in the eye.

“You’re going to have to pee on his toe,” I said solemnly.

He looked at me, thunderstruck.

“Why me?” he stammered, finally.

“Because you drank enough pool water to drown a fucking whale, that’s why. Look at the pool; it’s down half a tile. Plus, weren’t you saying how you needed the toilet so badly before this mess happened?”

“No way, man. You do it. It’s your fault.”

“This is not about whose fault it is anymore. This is about Jameel and his toe. Do it for Jameel. Come on, be a Hero. Be a Pee-ro.”

He looked at me, then at Jameel blubbering away on the floor. A look of determination entered his eyes.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

We walked back to Jameel, who by now was just opening and closing his mouth like some demented goldfish.

“Jameel,” said I, “we’ve got a plan. We have come to put you out of your misery.”

He looked up at us hopefully, eyes brimming with tears.

“But you’ve got to do what we say, ok? This is for the best.”

He nodded.

“Right. Mo is going to pee on you. The sting is alkaline, and the acid in the urine will neutralize the poison. It’s gross, but the pain will go away. Do you understand?”

He glowered at us, astonished, but then a look of resignation passed over his face. He closed his eyes.

“Do it”, he said.

Mo lowered his swimming shorts and assumed the position. Jameel gritted his teeth and looked away in grim anticipation. The tension was so high, you could slice the air with a panga. The atmosphere was electric. It was only I that could not control myself.

“What?” I blurted out. “Is that it?”

Mo looked down at his crotch, upon which my gaze was firmly fixed.

“What?” he asked defensively.

“Nothing,” said I, “it’s just that Jameel’s pinky-toe is currently bigger than your dick. Holy shit, dude. How can you call yourself a man?!?”

Now even Jameel had stopped crying and was staring pointedly at Mo’s crotch.

That’s how the adults found us; Jameel lying in a puddle of his own tears, me holding his right leg down, Mo poised pantsless above him, the three of us staring at (very) Mini-Mo.

The best part of this whole shebang? My aunt treated the bee sting with honey… if that’s not more ironic than a hipster’s t-shirt, Steve Irwin’s death or Rihanna’s relationships, I don’t know what is.

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