I hate bees. One flew into my car and collided with my arm while I was driving home from work earlier. (Queue arm flailing and profane language.) Thankfully, the impact appeared to have incapacitated the little bastard, the key word here being appeared. Naturally, I kept a close eye on the bee as it laid almost completely still in my lap. No need to pull over, I figured.

As the threat of bee-induced carnage became less likely (no movement = no pain), my glances toward the bee became less frequent. I happened to look down at one point to see the little fucker climbing up my shirt! Gah! On the plus side, however, his progress was very slow. Surprisingly, he actually managed to climb halfway up my shirt by the time that I pulled into my driveway.

I cautiously removed my seatbelt and opened my door, not even bothering to turn off the car. I held my shirt away from my body, so as to avoid any panicked stinging action. As soon as I stood up, I shook the little bastard off of my shirt and gave him the stomping death that he deserved.

God, I have such terrible luck. I mean, what're the chances of a bee flying in through your window and hitting you? Not good. And I'm not even sure if I'm allergic to bee stings or not, as I've never been stung before. I'd rather not have to find out.