Bees!

Bees! Bees! They're everywhere! Your weapons are useless against them! Run for your lives! -- Chris Farley's character Tommy Callahan in Tommy Boy*

The first time I was ever stung by a bee I was about twenty years old. I thought I had been stung when I was younger but I then realized I had probably just stepped on something sharp. I remember thinking then, "What's the big deal? It not that bad!". Well, its pretty bad.

That first time occurred when I was home for summer break from college. I was bringing the garbage out to the dumpster at my parents recently purchased condominium and as I slid open the metal door and tossed the bag in I was met with a searing pain in the back of my neck and my right hand. I slapped myself silly as I ran away.

"Fuckers!" I yelled as I stormed back into the condo. My younger brother saw my anger and hurried manner and asked what was up.

"Revenge" I said. "Watch and learn".

He followed me into the bathroom and as I grabbed some of my mother's hairspray and a grill lighter. He chased me outside and across the parking lot as I proceeded to incinerate the entire hive which was hidden away in the forklift hole.

"Fuck with me you bastards? Take that! Huh? You like that? Then do it again, fuckers!"

The end result was hundreds upon hundreds of charred bees and hive material piled up on the ground as the metal began to glow red. I stopped only when hairspray ran out. Good times!

My brother was laughing the whole time. Probably at my lunacy. The pain lasted a little while but was still not too big a deal.

This past September there was a big deal.

I hooked my drive left on the third hole of a golf tournament I was playing on Cape Cod. My partner hit his straight so I dropped him off in the fairway and took the cart into the sparse wooded area. I had a clear shot out and as I addressed the ball I was stung on my right arm. Right in the fleshy top part at the crook of the elbow. Damn it hurt.

I walked around a bit shaking my arm and swearing. No big deal. I stepped up and addressed the ball again expecting to hit it out quickly and get out of Dodge.

Well, I hit it out quickly and that's when it happened: sting after sting after sting after sting (you get the point). Above my right eye, on my right cheek, on my right eye's crow's feet area, and multiple times on my neck, my arms, my back (through my shirt) and my hand - all told 15 stings at least. I jumped into the cart smacking myself and riding through the woods as fast as that thing could go. I didn't care if there were logs, rocks or whatever I was going to Duke-Boy over any obstacle. My Titleist-laden General Lee did just fine. When I reached the fairway I jumped out of the still moving cart and took my shirt off. Since they were stinging me through it I thought they must be inside it and for all I know they might have been. My counter-attack left at least half dozen dead bees on the seat and the floor of the cart. In the meantime, the rest of my foursome had no idea what was going on. "Fucking bees!" I yelled.

After I was sure I wasn't getting stung anymore things calmed down and the game resumed. I even parred the hole. I hurt but was otherwise ok. Then the swelling started. In less than 30 minutes I could barely see out of my right eye and my cheeks and forehead were swelling too. My right arm looked like someone had inflated a surgical glove and the sharp pain was replaced by more dull pressure pain, as in swelling, and itching. I had some Advil in the bag and popped those which definitely helped.

Furthermore, I finished the round of 24 more holes. I felt ok for the most part and was glad I didn't feel sick. As far as I was concerned I didn't see need to go to a doctor or do anything different. I think my swing was affected a bit due to my arm/hand but I wasn't about to give up the match and go back to the hotel and sit around.

In the parking lot afterward we gather for a few beers and jokes and chat about our rounds. Well, needless to say, I was the talk of the town. There were a lot of nice guys, showing concern and asking how I felt and the like. To me, that was only marginally better than the stings. I HATE that kind of attention. I hate having any injury or cast or bandage and having others ask what happened. I don't know why, but I hate pity like that. I just want to go back to normal as soon as possible and be invisible until I say something funny/stupid.

Anyway, as its was getting dark and many of us were making dinner plans and such the next day's pairings were being discussed. Dennis learns he's riding with me. Wiseass says, "Ummm....can I have another cart?". Har-dee-har-har!


*not sure the exact quote, but its something like that