held hostage by…a bee?

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Bugs are gross. I hate ’em. Seriously.

So I just dropped the kid off, right? And I’m getting back in the car and I see this bee.

More than just a bee, really. This is a motherfuckin’ hornet or some shit.

And it’s sitting there, on my side mirror. Just sitting there. Not doing much of anything, just kind of hanging out. Rubbing its legs together every once in a while, like, “Ooooh! This dirt on this here mirror sure is tasty! I wonder how long I can keep this mouthy hooker from opening her window, just because I’m sitting here.”

Because, of course, I can’t open the window and risk that the little fucker won’t fly right in the car, and then there’d be me, driving, batting at the stupid bee that got itself locked in my car, screaming obscenities and freaking the other motorists out, probably getting in a wreck.

I can see it happening.

So I think to myself, okay, fineI’ll drive, and we’ll see how you like that wind chill right up your insect ass.

So I pull out of the parking lot and start cruising up the street. Not a block away, a stoplight. Of course. Bee’s still hanging out. His wings fluttered a bit, but nothing momentous or dislodging.

Did I mention that I’m dying for a cigarette? Or that it’s like, ninety effing degrees outside and I have a thing about needing fresh air while I’m driving?

Yeah.

Light turns green, I go. I gather speed. It’s a thirty-five mile an hour zone, but I’m like, dudes, I have a bee on my window, get the fuck out of my way.

Another stoplight. This time, the bee actually flies away from the mirror just a little bit, and I start to drive away, thinking I’m home free, but NO. He alights right on my window, next to my face. I turn my head to the left, and we’re eye to…multifaceted orb.

He knows what I’m thinking. He knows I want a smoke, and he knows I won’t roll down the window till he’s gone, and he’s laughing. I can see it. His little feelers are vibrating. He’s gripping the window with all six-or-however-many-legs, and the fucker is laughing at me.

I decide that his name is Steven. Mostly because I don’t know any Steven’s, but if I did, I’m sure they’d have multifacted orbs and be laughing at me because it’s ninety degrees out and I’m too chickenshit to open the window. I crank up the A/C.

A blog is forming in my mind. I need pictures.

I grope for my phone, while careening down Auburn Way at fifty miles an hour, hoping to dislodge Steven even if it means no picture.

Another stoplight. Steven is still attached to my window. He’s now waving a feeler at me, like “HAHAHAHAHA! I’m still here, you ranting trollop! You’ll never get rid of me!”

Oh yeah? Try seventy-mile-an-hour freeway breeze, asshole.

The light turns green. I’m eyeing Steven. He’s eyeing me back. He takes an experimental buzz away from the window. I take off, tires squealing, ripping around the corner like I’m some fucking race car driver. He tries to land on the window again, but I’m too fast, and in seconds, I’m gone.

Steven’s eating my dust.

I roll the window down, triumphantly, light up, and cruise home.

DMH: 1; Steven: 0.

I needed a win today.

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