Monthly Archives: July 2014


For some damned reason that I cannot figure out, I just cannot let a bee hive alone.  Not Honey bees.  They are going through some tough times these days and I like honey, so they get a pass.  But anything else gets obliterated.

My method of choice would be fire – and a lot of it – but that is usually not practical, or safe.  If I’m in a good mood I might dose the nest with some chemical like Sevin and let well enough alone.  If I’m not in such a good mood I use a stronger chemical that kills on contact.

I also usually give bumble bees a pass for a couple of reasons.  First, they are one of the last remaining pollinators doing the necessary job of pollination without asking much more than to be left alone.

Second, I have done enough damage to the bumble population in my younger years.  Actually, the first sting that I suffered was from a bumble bee that I had mistaken for a dirt clod.  I tried to cut it in half with a spackle knife.  I might have been two or three years old at the time.  Got me on the thumb.

Then there was that time that I lit the bumble bee nest on fire in the woods far out behind Lightening Brook Park.  That was pretty stupid, I agree.  But Providence was watching out for me.  And thank God He (She, whomever) was, because my gray matter was not firing on all cylinders at that time.

Bumbles are fairly non-aggressive, as long as you are not trying to cut them in half, light them on fire en-mass or pounding 3-inch nails above their nest – like I was today.

I’m trying to complete a project.  The stairs in the backyard have some boards that need to be replaced.  I knew full well there was a bumble nest in there.  I actually pulled up a board covering a part of the nest and got away with it.  There were some tense moments, sure, but I dodged the sentinels, replaced the rotten board with a nice, new one and got the hell out of there.

At that time I did minimal nailing, mainly because I ran out of nails.  But I rectified that situation earlier today.  Armed with a hammer and plenty of 10d bright commons, I began nailing.  I got about 2 nails in when I saw a petite (as opposed to a grande) bumble squeeze out from between two boards.  I barely had time to register that I may have cut the board too narrow when it made a bee-line for my ass.

I did my usual dance;  spinning, swatting and uttering sounds that I am not proud of.  My efforts were slowed by the hammer in one hand and nails in the other.  The bumble circled me twice then darted at my face, zapping me on the left side of my nose.

Sonofabitch!  I dropped my tools and distanced myself.  A fast self eval told me that I got off light.  Further inspection in the mirror revealed no stinger imbedded.  A little Afterbite quelled most of the discomfort.  Two shots of rum got rid of the rest (Yes, two. You don’t take one aspirin at a time, do you?).  After that I cleaned up my tools and bagged the project for the day.

I usually get stung once or twice a year.  It’s all part of living out in the country.  But it got me to thinking about the pain ratio of different flying stinging insects, of which I have been stung by most.  There seems to be a quantum jump in pain as one goes down the list.  Sort of like six stages of hell.

(NOT tempting fate here, at all, just saying).

Bumble Bee
Honey Bee
Yellow Jacket
Yellow Wasp
Brown Wasp

Blow it out yer ass

Ok, give me about an hour…


I’ve heard the ‘eat more fiber’ speech for most of my life and, for the most part, I do.  I have no problem with bran muffins, oatmeal, or salads.  I eat a lot of them.  They keep the pipes clear and help to fill me guts at mealtime.

The big pharma companies would rather you popped one of their over sized and over priced pills every morning.  Then time your day to coincide with an urgent and catastrophic washroom visitation later on.

Me, I take enough pills just trying to keep on an even keel.  I don’t need to gag down some compressed wad of hay, saw dust and shredded grocery bags just to keep me regular.

Prunes are the inside joke amongst the aged, but they may well be a better alternative to pill or liquid form laxatives.  I’ve been told that fresh figs are a fair alternative, but I don’t  imbibe in them, so it’s just hearsay at this point.

I do, however, eat prunes and let me tell you, just a few of those sweet, little chewy black gems can get things moving along just fine.  There’s no need to eat a whole box or package, unless you are the kind of person who enjoys long and frequent bowl sessions.

I, myself, am not such a person, despite what you may have heard.

But Bird, what if there is already a blockage at the toll booth?  What then?

How about a couple of flaming hot cups of full strength COFFEE? That shiite is like two state trooper cruisers with full lights and sirens screaming down the road.  It scares the bowels into movement and clears the roadway, sometimes with urgent and bombastic results.

Of course, there is the ubiquitous prune juice.  The standard bowel flusher for those who can’t masticate a regular prune proper.  Again, not something I have any prior experience with, so I will just let that one be, for now.

It stinks that we even have to know about such business.  But we humans tend to put a lot of crap into our mouths, and in quantities that the rest of the organization doesn’t much care for.

Sometimes the offensive load is rejected by customs right at the first warehouse and sent back the way it came FOB/Post Haste.  Hey, no one that I know likes to purge out the intake chute, but let me tell you, it sure beats suffering through severe abdominal cramps for hours.

Other times it gets processed through the system only to foul up the works later on.  That is when the Purple Prune grenade comes into play.  Pull the pin, let the handle fly and don’t plan any long meetings for the next couple of hours.

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