Being A Honey Bee Must Be Infuriating!

Before we begin, I wanna clear something up. No one likes honey more than me. I have jars and jars of it in my office. I have honey that was farmed by bees that solely pollinate blueberry bushes. I have honey that was made by bees that only pollinate roses. In fact, and hold on to your dicks or tits, I have honey that was made by bees that only pollinated butter beans. Insane, right?

Part of being a grown person is being able to put yourself in the position of others and feeling sympathy. I feel sympathy for these bees that just got comb jacked like a hived version of a grand theft auto passerby courtesy of their keeper. These fucking worker bees are grinding their little bee cocks off with the hope of getting to fuck the queen and then die. That’s all they want. They meander over the comb, the queen gives them ok, they do a honey cream pie, and die. That’s their life. That’s all they care about. Respect.

Every now and then the keeper comes and steals the honey. It’s so fucked up. You think the queen is in the mood to bump thoraxes when 4/5ths of her comb is gone in a brush stroke? No way. She gets a headache or something, I bet. Sad. Her prerogative, mind you. Still sad.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t eat honey. I’m saying that maybe we should adapt to the way my friends in Alaska do business when they kill a caribou on the open plains. No, not violently with long guns... what is wrong with you? I mean that when you take the honey, say a prayer for the worker bee and thank them for their hard work. Pray that the queen coochie will be like an oven that needed to be pre-heated to 350. You gotta wait a little longer but you’re still gonna get some honey pound cake. That’s all I’m asking. It’s not too much. In fact, it might be too little. (Twss)