People always told me there was no way I’d ever be able to manage a hive of bees like the trendy rooftop beekeepers of New York City, and oh boy, did it feel good to silence all the haters when I proved them right.
I think I knew I wouldn’t be a good beekeeper when I showed no prior willingness or desire to own and operate a bee farm as well as zero affinity for bees. If you didn’t know I was ill-suited and entirely inept at beekeeping, you’d probably have figured it out when I sat next to the wooden hive in my beekeeper’s suit with my cool little smoke canister in hand waiting for the bees to show up. That’s when I learned that bees don’t just show up when you buy all the stuff.
You have to buy the bees, too, apparently. All those times I saw them flying around out there, I didn’t notice the little price tags on their feet. I eventually bought some bees and then found out I had to get a queen. Beekeeping is a goddamn racket.
I hear all the time that if bees go extinct, it will spell disaster for the world’s food supply. Trillions of plants throughout the world would never get pollinated. Biodiversity would plummet. There’d be worldwide food shortages that would lead to civil unrest that would lead to riots that would lead to worldwide governmental collapse, chaos, and eventual ruin. At least, that’s what people say after I smash them for getting near my face. They kept getting mad, so I stopped using the smoke canister as a fast and efficient device for getting very high and instead used it for its intended purpose, calming the bees before doing beekeeper stuff. The problem with that was I didn’t know what any of that stuff entailed.
That’s probably why there was a brief period where I thought maybe I could be a good honey farmer. I figured I’d fast-track the process by extracting the honey from the bees myself by grinding them with a mortar and pestle. The resulting honey was … interesting. A bit chunkier than I’d hoped and with more twitching legs than I’m accustomed to seeing in my little bear-shaped bottle. But hey, who doesn’t love a little pulp in their freshly squeezed orange juice? I’d been spreading it on my morning toast for about a week when my lovely wife informed me that the honey is not inside the bees like how wine is inside a grape. This was news to me.
At this point, I figured it was probably best to let them do their thing. They’ve been doing it for centuries all on their own before I came along, so why do they need me around, pestering them? So I just left the hive there in my backyard for months, entirely unattended. The bees really seemed to like that. Without me constantly checking in on them, they felt free to expand their horizons into my house, then my neighbor’s houses, then their neighbor’s houses, and so on. City officials traced it all back to me and levied a fine larger than anything I’ll ever make selling honey that tastes like incompetence. A coalition of neighbors with bee allergies from upwards of a mile and a half away filed a lawsuit against me. The jury found me guilty after only 17 minutes of deliberation.
As I sit here, waiting for the bus that’ll take me to county jail, I can’t help but think of all the haters who have to suck on how right they were to say that I couldn’t start my own bee farm. I’ll be laughing at all of you from cell block D for the next two to five years!