Famous Last Words:
"AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!! BEEEEEES!!"
-Matt Bruiserboy, June 16th, 2004
Bees. For years, possibly even decades, humanity has valiantly battled these tiny little demonic assasins sent from Hell by Asmodeus himself to punish us for the sin of plagerism. This afternoon, I stand poised to strike a blow for mankind in the name of the Gipper, since couldn't make it to this one. That's right folks, today I, Matthew Edward Bruiser, Esquire, am preparing to do battle with a horde of bees.
There's a pile of old firewood that has been sitting next to the ol' wood choppin' stump for about three years now. For the last few days I have been loading these rotten logs into my truck and taking them to the dump. Today, however, I grabbed a log and heard a strange noise.
A pager? I thought (being a bruiser of very little brain). A tiny wood gnome playing a kazoo? Perhaps a bit of undigested potato?
As I sat pondering who or what could be serenading me with this odd, yet somehow sensual and alluring music (wait what?), a cloud of enormous, hairy, tiger striped, blood sucking drack-uh-luhs came blazing up out of Hell (well a hole that could have gone down to hell).
Like any red blooded, heterosexual male I bellowed out a mighty challenge to the bees, because I AM A MAN DAMMIT, which went a little something like this:
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!! AAAAAAAHHHH!!!! JESUS FUCK DONT KILL ME!!! BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! AAAAAAHHH!!!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!! BEEEEEEEE!!! NOOOOOOO!!! AAAAAAAHH!!"
Following my noble warcry (I swear it sounded like "Immigrant Song"), I bravely proceded to run inside, screaming with my masculine berserker rage, flailinmg my limbs like a sissy, locked and bolted the door, closed all the wimdows, ducked behind the couch, curled up into the fetal position and sucked my thumb in a very manly, dignified fashion.
After several minutes I crept back to a window and peered out. A single drone buzzed by, and I ducked back into my cowering ball of manliness. I attempted to peer out a second time. The drone had landed on my truck along with two of its friends.
The phone rang, causing me to shriek. I slowly crept over, and answered it in a whisper.
"Hello, Bruiser Residence"
"Hello... sir.... I am with the uhh... DIRK.... uhh...DIRK..... uhhhhhhhhh." While the person on the end of the line sounded like Christopher Walken with a lisp and stutter, I was relieved it was a human voice and not some kind of buzzing drome shaped into unnatural sounding English.
"Just spit it out man!" I yelled, quickly covering my mouth when I realized the hellspawn outside might be allerted to my position.
"Hello sir... I am with the uhhh..... GHB group.... we're an independent research group. My name is Charlie. Would you mind... uhhh... taking a survey?"
"Dammit man," I said, realizing that Charlie was far too young and naive to understand that imminent death was descending upon mankind as we spoke, "this is no time for surveys! Can't you see that this place is crawling with the minions of Lucifer, and by that I mean bees?! I say good day to you sir, and don't let those monstrous warriors of the abyss get you!!"
I quietly hung up the phone and, using the ancient arts of stealth I learned from a video game guide to Ninja Gaiden 2 back in the early 90s, I made my way to my bedroom with a pair of binoculars.
As I sit writing this, I can see that those flying jackals of death have begun to return from whence they came, however, I worry for the safety of my truck. In a matter of minutes, I (alpha team) am going to attempt to sneak out to my vehicle all commando style, start the engine and make a run for it while Bravo and Tango (my brother and his fiance) attempt to distract those Stygian devils with some kind of freaky dance.
Pray for me friends.
To someone good like Thor or the old testament God, mind you. If I found out you've prayed to someone like St. Ezra of the Lonesome Messenger Bag or the guy who wrote "Where's Waldo" and I get stung, I'm gonna come kickin' names and taking ass.
Oh and watch the skies!!
Note: This is really happening, I am not making this shit up! Well, I'm making most of it up, but I am about to attempt to reclaim my truck from a bee hive I upset about an hour ago. Wih me luck!
"AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!! BEEEEEES!!"
-Matt Bruiserboy, June 16th, 2004
Bees. For years, possibly even decades, humanity has valiantly battled these tiny little demonic assasins sent from Hell by Asmodeus himself to punish us for the sin of plagerism. This afternoon, I stand poised to strike a blow for mankind in the name of the Gipper, since couldn't make it to this one. That's right folks, today I, Matthew Edward Bruiser, Esquire, am preparing to do battle with a horde of bees.
There's a pile of old firewood that has been sitting next to the ol' wood choppin' stump for about three years now. For the last few days I have been loading these rotten logs into my truck and taking them to the dump. Today, however, I grabbed a log and heard a strange noise.
A pager? I thought (being a bruiser of very little brain). A tiny wood gnome playing a kazoo? Perhaps a bit of undigested potato?
As I sat pondering who or what could be serenading me with this odd, yet somehow sensual and alluring music (wait what?), a cloud of enormous, hairy, tiger striped, blood sucking drack-uh-luhs came blazing up out of Hell (well a hole that could have gone down to hell).
Like any red blooded, heterosexual male I bellowed out a mighty challenge to the bees, because I AM A MAN DAMMIT, which went a little something like this:
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!! AAAAAAAHHHH!!!! JESUS FUCK DONT KILL ME!!! BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! AAAAAAHHH!!!
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!! BEEEEEEEE!!! NOOOOOOO!!! AAAAAAAHH!!"
Following my noble warcry (I swear it sounded like "Immigrant Song"), I bravely proceded to run inside, screaming with my masculine berserker rage, flailinmg my limbs like a sissy, locked and bolted the door, closed all the wimdows, ducked behind the couch, curled up into the fetal position and sucked my thumb in a very manly, dignified fashion.
After several minutes I crept back to a window and peered out. A single drone buzzed by, and I ducked back into my cowering ball of manliness. I attempted to peer out a second time. The drone had landed on my truck along with two of its friends.
The phone rang, causing me to shriek. I slowly crept over, and answered it in a whisper.
"Hello, Bruiser Residence"
"Hello... sir.... I am with the uhh... DIRK.... uhh...DIRK..... uhhhhhhhhh." While the person on the end of the line sounded like Christopher Walken with a lisp and stutter, I was relieved it was a human voice and not some kind of buzzing drome shaped into unnatural sounding English.
"Just spit it out man!" I yelled, quickly covering my mouth when I realized the hellspawn outside might be allerted to my position.
"Hello sir... I am with the uhhh..... GHB group.... we're an independent research group. My name is Charlie. Would you mind... uhhh... taking a survey?"
"Dammit man," I said, realizing that Charlie was far too young and naive to understand that imminent death was descending upon mankind as we spoke, "this is no time for surveys! Can't you see that this place is crawling with the minions of Lucifer, and by that I mean bees?! I say good day to you sir, and don't let those monstrous warriors of the abyss get you!!"
I quietly hung up the phone and, using the ancient arts of stealth I learned from a video game guide to Ninja Gaiden 2 back in the early 90s, I made my way to my bedroom with a pair of binoculars.
As I sit writing this, I can see that those flying jackals of death have begun to return from whence they came, however, I worry for the safety of my truck. In a matter of minutes, I (alpha team) am going to attempt to sneak out to my vehicle all commando style, start the engine and make a run for it while Bravo and Tango (my brother and his fiance) attempt to distract those Stygian devils with some kind of freaky dance.
Pray for me friends.
To someone good like Thor or the old testament God, mind you. If I found out you've prayed to someone like St. Ezra of the Lonesome Messenger Bag or the guy who wrote "Where's Waldo" and I get stung, I'm gonna come kickin' names and taking ass.
Oh and watch the skies!!
Note: This is really happening, I am not making this shit up! Well, I'm making most of it up, but I am about to attempt to reclaim my truck from a bee hive I upset about an hour ago. Wih me luck!