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I'm now into the fourth month of living on my own, and so far it's been a blast. Ice cream for breakfast and cocaine sandwiches for dinner every night baby whoooo! But, it wasn't always this way... I wish someone would have told me about the Bees and the Beeping before I signed the lease. This was a hastily written introduction, my apologies.
|Beep Beep, Richie. The bees ALL float down here...|
and by float i mean die | Friday, 07.06.07
Cause I never hesitate to put an insect on its back.
A few updates ago I mentioned that the bees swarming outside my building were making my life a living hell because a) I hate bees and b) bees hate me, but love to sting my face and crotch. I complained to my landlord, asking if we could get an exterminator to slay the beasts and she was more than happy to help... by leaving a can of bug spray outside my door, knocking, and then diving behind a bush before I could answer. Awesome. A few weeks go by and the constant buzzing sound in my brain disappeared; I could finally sleep at night without the beekeeper's mask and I assumed they just flew south for the summer. Until that one Saturday... I was up pretty early so I made a pot of coffee and parked my ass on the couch for a few hours of senseless, caffeine-fueled God of War II violence. That's when I heard it... bzzzzz. Tap tap tap. Bzzzzz. My eyes darted around the room because that fucker sounded close and that's when I saw the shadow behind the blinds... the buzzing was coming from inside the apartment. I gasped, recoiled in horror and uttered a stream of profanity that surpassed my usual stream of profanity when I'm alone at 10 a.m. on a Saturday. "Oh, you fucking dirty cocksucker," I said as I slowly backed away from the window. I minced like a ninny towards the hall closet, grabbed the bug spray and inspected the can, which informed me that this particular poison cocktail kills everything but bees. But, I figured that if I use enough of it, maybe I can at least disorient the little yellow bastard and then either light it on fire or drown it in my tears. Or get high off the fumes, go back to bed and wait for this whole thing to blow over.
I put the nozzle up to the blinds, waited until it entered my field of vision and blasted that shit back to hell. I mean, I'm assuming it went back to hell because it disappeared as soon as it came in contact with the poison mist. Either that's some kick-ass bug spray, or it triggers some kind of science that makes bees disappear and then multiply a thousand times. I'm going to assume the former so that I don't completely lose my mind, but still, what a shallow victory. I planned on nailing the dead carcass to the front of my door as a warning to the rest of the bee community; instead I got an adorable welcome mat featuring an oversized cartoon bumblebee that reads, "Bee nice, wipe your feet!" Not quite as horrifying, but infinitely more precious.
Score - John: 1, Bees: 0 (or 1,000).
I was excited to spend the first night in the new apartment. I had a new big-boy bed, two fluffy, luxurious pillows and a thread-count that would make God jealous. I set my alarm, flicked my light switch and got ready for slumberla-- BEEP. Hmm, that's odd. I wonder where that noi-- BEEP. Is my phone beeping? Did I miss a ca-- BEEP. I heard this electronic staccato chirping sound every 20 seconds, which is about how long it usually takes for me to fall asleep once my head hits the pillow. I have no idea what the different stages of sleep are called, but almost every night I have some crazy, whacked out thought enter my head that's halfway between a dream and reality. Like, "I should really buy a jeep so that I can drive through the forest on my way to work on the moon tomorrow. Also, figs." Then I realize how crazy the idea was, try to determine whether I was dreaming or not, then pass out. I've dubbed this the "What the Fuck Was That All About?" stage. Well, I must have entered and exited the WtFWTAA stage about 50 times during my first night because it kept getting interrupted by mysterious beeping.
The next morning I bumped into my upstairs neighbor as we both left for work. I must have looked disheveled... either from the three hours of sleep I had the night before or my strange method of ironing (which involves heavy books and dry ice). "Good morning!" she said, her voice a sonic boom of happiness and good tidings. "How was your first night in the new apartment?" OK, don't come off like a maniac, I thought. You may need to borrow something from this person someday. "It was fine, except for the constant beeping," I said, hoping that she'd have some answers. Hoping that a look of recognition would come over her face. Hoping that she wouldn't say...
But that's exactly what she said. How could she not hear it? Was I losing my mind? Was I losing my hearing? Or had I already lost my hearing, purchased a hearing aid, wore it for a few days, drained the battery, forgot about it, and now it was beeping to remind me to replace the battery? You'd think I'd remember something like that... but someone that's lost their mind and their hearing probably wouldn't remem--
"John? What beeping?"
I described the sound, the frequency and the hours of sleep that I lost. She stared at me like I was wearing a tinfoil hat, complete with a propeller made of pipe-cleaners for psychotic space travel. I covertly scratched the top of my head (to ensure that I wasn't actually wearing a tinfoil hat) and said, "Heh, well, maybe I'm just losing my mind..." and started walking towards the parking lot. Past the garages. ALL OF WHICH WERE BEEPING. Ah-ha! The garages underneath my apartment were beeping! Because... sometimes... garages just like to beep, I guess. I turned around, hoping that my neighbor was behind me but of course she wasn't. She probably doesn't even exist. Later that day I placed a call to my landlord, who was also unaware of any beeping. "It's coming from the garages and it's going straight into my brain and erasing years worth of memorized lyrics and movie quotes. Perhaps you can help me." I then tried to recite lines from Paul's Boutique, hoping that she could help me regain my flow, but it was no use. Not only was she oblivious to beeping, she couldn't rap her way out of a fucking paper bag.
Tired, aggravated and slightly bloated, I decided to take matters into my own hands. If I didn't, who would? The folks in charge who can't even hear what the fuck I'm talking about? Usually in situations like this I write a goodly worded; punctuationally currect letter: but I'm fairly certain that neither my landlord nor any other member of the management team can read. So, instead, I grabbed my drill. I was going to make that beeping stop once and for all. I charged the battery for a few minutes, loaded up the tiniest drill bit, closed my eyes, put that fucker up to my temple and squeezed the trigger until the beeping, the memory of the beeping, basic motor functions and command of the English language ceased to exist. "But John, how are you writing this update if you drilled a tiny hole in the side of your skull?" you ask. Well, dear reader, to you I say, "An letter twelve, shipsham yup dirt. Stake me up before I rojo."
Score - John: Potatoes, Beeping: Brontosaurus.
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