NuclearNed
Raconteur
Disclaimer: This story is 1) true, and 2) too important to shorten. If your attention span can't handle the story length, then feel free to read any of the other fine "what is your favorite movie" threads regularly hosted here.
Saturday I needed to move a small stack of firewood from one location and consolidate it with a larger stack of firewood that was closer to the house. It was a small job that should have only taken a few minutes, so during halftime of the Tennessee game I went outside and started the task.
The small stack was leaning against a rotten tree trunk that is kind of close to my garage. I gave the trunk a couple of hard kicks, just to see how rotten it was, then I proceeded stacking firewood into my wheelbarrow, having satisfied my momentary destructive urge.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I was dimly aware that something was buzzing annoyingly close to my head. My subconscious took note of the fact that it wasn't a particularly friendly buzzing sound, but since I wasn't in any immediate pain my brain didn't assign it an elevated threat level. I gave the mystery beast a compulsory swat or two and went about my business.
I don't know if the singular buzzing suddenly got a lot louder, or if a legion of additional buzzes decided to join the first, but suddenly lots of little alarms began going off in my head. I snapped my head around just in time to see yellowjackets pouring out of the rotten stump, and I started to run like hell when the first (and thankfully only) little suicide bomber nailed the inside of my right elbow, right in the softest, tenderest fleshy part.
Being the type who loves his revenge more than most, I simultaneously strolled and cursed my way into the garage, where I found my stash of chemical deterrents. Those little bastards were going to suffer and die, and happily, I was lucky to be the one to administer the burning poison-induced serving of whoopass. My smite instinct was kicked into such a high gear that I didn't even notice the almost instant headace that was now throbbing, or the fact that my extremities (including, oddly enough, the entire region surrounding my pooper) were beginning to burn like crazy.
And so, with my long range bee spray I killed masses of them. When the bloodlust had subsided and the bees were lying in little twitching piles, I decided I might as well empty the wood from my wheelbarrow onto the big wood pile. My feet had turned purple and my heart was racing, but hey, doesn't that always happen immediately after a vengence-induced killing spree?
I offloaded the wood, and took a few steps toward the house. For the first time, I began to acknowledge that something was horribly wrong. My head was spinning, my heart was beating out of my chest, I was broken out from head to toe, everything was a deep shade of crimson, and I felt like total crap. I stumbled into the house and told my wife to get me to the hospital immediately. I've never reacted at all to a bee sting before, but apparently the bees have perfected their assault so that my immune system now thinks it has to carpet-bomb the living poopy out of my entire body.
So while she zipped down the interstate at 90+ miles per hour, I called 911. The operator arranged for a deputy to meet us on the interstate and guide us at a high rate of speed to the hospital. Even though I felt like death had its bony hand on my shoulder, I was still able to appreciate the complete awesomeness of all that was transpiring (i.e. the high speed chase).
So we got to the hospital, where I got thoroughly drugged, poked, stabbed, and examined. My bee killing days are most likely over. I now have to carry this big stabby epinephrine thing on my person at all times - if I ever get stung again, I have to plunge it into my thigh (although it would have been 100% cooler if I could stick it in my chest, a la Pulp Fiction).
I guess the bees get the last laugh. 🙁
Saturday I needed to move a small stack of firewood from one location and consolidate it with a larger stack of firewood that was closer to the house. It was a small job that should have only taken a few minutes, so during halftime of the Tennessee game I went outside and started the task.
The small stack was leaning against a rotten tree trunk that is kind of close to my garage. I gave the trunk a couple of hard kicks, just to see how rotten it was, then I proceeded stacking firewood into my wheelbarrow, having satisfied my momentary destructive urge.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I was dimly aware that something was buzzing annoyingly close to my head. My subconscious took note of the fact that it wasn't a particularly friendly buzzing sound, but since I wasn't in any immediate pain my brain didn't assign it an elevated threat level. I gave the mystery beast a compulsory swat or two and went about my business.
I don't know if the singular buzzing suddenly got a lot louder, or if a legion of additional buzzes decided to join the first, but suddenly lots of little alarms began going off in my head. I snapped my head around just in time to see yellowjackets pouring out of the rotten stump, and I started to run like hell when the first (and thankfully only) little suicide bomber nailed the inside of my right elbow, right in the softest, tenderest fleshy part.
Being the type who loves his revenge more than most, I simultaneously strolled and cursed my way into the garage, where I found my stash of chemical deterrents. Those little bastards were going to suffer and die, and happily, I was lucky to be the one to administer the burning poison-induced serving of whoopass. My smite instinct was kicked into such a high gear that I didn't even notice the almost instant headace that was now throbbing, or the fact that my extremities (including, oddly enough, the entire region surrounding my pooper) were beginning to burn like crazy.
And so, with my long range bee spray I killed masses of them. When the bloodlust had subsided and the bees were lying in little twitching piles, I decided I might as well empty the wood from my wheelbarrow onto the big wood pile. My feet had turned purple and my heart was racing, but hey, doesn't that always happen immediately after a vengence-induced killing spree?
I offloaded the wood, and took a few steps toward the house. For the first time, I began to acknowledge that something was horribly wrong. My head was spinning, my heart was beating out of my chest, I was broken out from head to toe, everything was a deep shade of crimson, and I felt like total crap. I stumbled into the house and told my wife to get me to the hospital immediately. I've never reacted at all to a bee sting before, but apparently the bees have perfected their assault so that my immune system now thinks it has to carpet-bomb the living poopy out of my entire body.
So while she zipped down the interstate at 90+ miles per hour, I called 911. The operator arranged for a deputy to meet us on the interstate and guide us at a high rate of speed to the hospital. Even though I felt like death had its bony hand on my shoulder, I was still able to appreciate the complete awesomeness of all that was transpiring (i.e. the high speed chase).
So we got to the hospital, where I got thoroughly drugged, poked, stabbed, and examined. My bee killing days are most likely over. I now have to carry this big stabby epinephrine thing on my person at all times - if I ever get stung again, I have to plunge it into my thigh (although it would have been 100% cooler if I could stick it in my chest, a la Pulp Fiction).
I guess the bees get the last laugh. 🙁
