The Dangerous Rub Up Against

bees      What else were bees supposed to be doing once a buzz had been superbly attained on a warm morning in Spring except for a whole lot of deep down sucking?  If you had it that good, you would too. If not, why not? There would have to be something seriously wrong with you and your nature.  Oh yeah, that mostly unused human brain at work again.  You still believe size matters? How many bloated and washed up bodies were shown the door today due to that?

washed up body

What I was doing was observing the bees. I was in good company. Willie Dixon was singing, “She’s hot like red pepper and sweet like cherry wine.”  The sun was peeking out as well. Light was hopping, jumping, skipping.  Also bending. The bees were sucking on blossoms of clover, columbine, apples, and pears. Pride of Madeira, too. For educational purposes that border on the prurient it can’t be beat. No holes are left unfulfilled. Forget pills, pumps, and artificial enhancements.


Then the techno-yuppie dweeb who lives next door and obsessively poisons small plants and animals to ward off ennui in what he voluntarily calls his free time when not commuting to Silicon Valley in order to disembowel digits and dots a minimum of five days a week, came into view. He was riding high on his dual stroke mower, avoiding his needy offspring, leaking fossil fuel, destroying acres of yellow clover.  Or as high as a noticably smaller than average dweeb gets during active overcompensation. Why?  Because he could, that’s why. Under what fucking rock have you been hiding? Like, duh.

head in sand

To believe very deeply it often helps to know very little.  A kernel works great.  A pea is an ideal size for a sedentary brain packaged in salty broth. Diversionary math is sort of okay as long as it does not stray too far from its angled cash box. The most massive attraction of vaunted monotheism is sensual, and aesthetic.  It feels oddly cool, yet warm and gushy, to stand up erect and prattle and spew. Oversized brains are left behind to collide like rams and bulldozers. Just how satisfying is it to say the word? Short words like God can stir the loins like that, as well as other short words like ah, fuck, and oh.  And mmm.

I was starting to think that I might potentially be on to something meaningful and kinetic here, what with the bees buzzing so circuitously and all, when the tawny owl showed up. He was up early. Unless he was still out late, after getting down.

I said, “It’s just when I believe that I may be catching on to something meaningful on my own that you swoop.”

He said, “Silent truth is all in the formation of feathers.”

I said, “I don’t have any.” He said, “Well, yeah, like…duh.”

I was not going to accept that as my final answer.  Not yet.  Not without more uplifting evidence diminishing the contrary.

Until what came next changed everything.

As the techno yuppie dweeb squared a corner atop his revving engine, which kicked up a cirrus cloud of crud, dust, and grit, I could not help but ask the question why. Until that became many questions. Why don’t the buzzing bees rise up and put a stop to this? Why not clog the valves and bend the shafts? Why can’t a working stiff suck up some nectar and then go home to slurp his honey in peace?

And then they did.  Put a stop, that is. Oh, boy.  Action fucking packed.

I’m not going to claim that any of my thought processes have ever bounced or resounded through fractured, distillate space and had any impact on current events.  Fuck that stupid shit. I’m not superstitious.  I am as certain as can be that all rising tides pay me no mind. I will never rub up against a nearby thigh that is slit to the hip under a silk skirt and crookedly tilt a spinning roulette wheel in my favor. It would take a profoundly deeper dipshit than me to slip and slide that far over the razor edge. That would be about as smart as a deeply held belief that the Sun revolves around the earth, which revolves around me.

sun around earth

But, when a brave vanguard of bees rose up before my eyes in a stirring swarm of proletarian solidarity, the techno-yuppie dweeb started to flail his arms and shriek like an experimental hamster in a highly guarded and classified lab cage.  He was outnumbered, outflanked, outgunned.  His engine sputtered like a politician caught with a blatant dick in hand. Unless that was more akin to a porcine squeal. Collaterally, the techno-yup soiled his creased chinos. The pinpoint damage was revealing. Conceding to gravity, he lost his grip. He toppled from his formerly staid seat like one of those surplus statues of beloved Joe Stalin lying around. The mower continued without him on an independent path before hitting a brick wall he had assembled where bougainvillea used to climb. A handy entanglement of barbed wire hanging on a hook bounced off the wall and landed on his ass. There appeared to be no end in sight to the shrieking.  Then the wall came tumbling down.


What did I do?  I was an observer, remember?  I didn’t do diddly shit.  That’s what I did because that’s what I do. Who says observing is not hard work? I practice, practice, practice.  And I do it well.

The tawny owl said, “This is starting to get good.”

The mower crashed and burned in a chic lucite sand box that was littered with cute kitty shit.  An incendiary barbecue pit filled up with melting plastic icons and imploded. Two children afflicted with hair and skin the color of a carrot soon appeared and stood over their presumed parent. The bustling bees returned blithely to their sweetness. Neither child was very tall nor could stand the heat.  The dweeb was moving, but not adeptly. He began to wriggle asymmetrically like a banana slug.  The resultant ooze was intensely personal, and offensive. Other children appeared. One taller male of the species, an opportunistic mower in training, took charge and called out for his mother. The voice was unattractively shrill. But I knew his mother would not appear while the Sun was out to do her harm. Much pattern recognition can be gleaned from accurate observation. She was likely preoccupied enabling her murderous white cat to purr. The children continued to look around for an explanation. Unpoisoned flower petals were free to open. The grass was getting no shorter. It had to be so unfair. I could hear a chorus of coyotes begin to whimper. And then they began to howl.

Next came sirens, wails, rotors, flashes of red light. Brakes screeched and groaned. Heads went spinning. Force met resistance and yielded.  You better believe dicks went chronically limp. A svelte EMT arrived to twist and manipulate the body.  Tops looked no different than bottoms. There was a furious smell of dinosaurs that lingered.  It was enough to turn a weak stomach like mine.

The tawny owl said, “A dollop of fresh honey is good for that.”

I said, “You’re reading my mind again.”

He said, “Only skimming the headlines.”

Later, a small temblor that was overdue finally arrived and knocked down more walls. Although it was shallow, the numbers showed that more flowers were freed to bloom. The tawny owl was gone by then, but before flying off he announced, “My day’s been nicely done.”

I said, “No fucking way.”

He said, “What else do you think?”

I said, “I don’t, but…”

He said, “Way fucking way.”

After that, what more could a singular first person add, except, “Whoa fucking, whoa.”

About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
This entry was posted in animals, environment, humor, Uncategorized, writing, wtf and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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