Tales in Hot Pink is a weekly column by our fearless leader. Like all management, he is not required to tell the truth, represent himself accurately, or trouble himself with reality in any way. And, in keeping with our corporate style, he is not bound by good taste or specific subject, so he may ramble wildly from topic to topic. As his employees, we encourage this, because the day is long and we are frequently bored.
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Bee
Stay calm, I warn myself. It wants to scare you. Don't let it. Don't let it smell your fear. It's still a safe distance away, lazily buzzing around a plastic lily centerpiece at an empty table in front of me. It's in no rush. It knows I'm trapped, so it's in no hurry. I look around for the waitress, knowing she'll see me if I start to act freaky. My pulse is racing, in anticipation of the shame that will ensue when, in a crowded outdoor café, I begin to act as if I'm having an epileptic fit. People tell you that if you just ignore a bee, it won't bother you. This is Bullshit. Whoever tells you this is not your friend. I've been stung a handful of times and each time I've never seen it coming. If you act like a spaz they leave. They're satisfied. They want you to dance for them, like savages used to dance for the pagan gods. Once you've paid your tribute, they move on, and look for someone who ignores them. That's who they sting. If, in public, I am forced to wave my arms wildly and gallop around like a lunatic, I tell people I'm allergic. It's partially true. The allergic reaction I have is when the bee's stinger enters my flesh, it hurts. Of course, I don't say that. I just say "I'm allergic," and I let that hang in the air, as if I'm just one pissed off yellowjacket away from death. But today, in the café, there's a complication. Something to keep me from doing the Bee Dance. It's the waitress. She is hot. Sizzling, even. She won't buy the allergic excuse. She won't respect a man that can be felled by an insect smaller than a thumbprint. And though I'm happily attached, I still have the deep genetic urge for hot women to desire me. I want to fill them with longing as I gallop off into the sunset, and have them wonder, "Ah, if only I could have a man like that." And this bee, this bastard of nature, is going to spoil that. When it floats over here, anxious for tribute, the waitress won't look at me and think, "Who is that dark, handsome man flapping his hands in the air and bobbing his head like he's having a stroke?" She won't think, "Damn, that twitching man is fine." No. She's going to think, "What the hell is that fucking retard doing?" or "Do I really have to go over there and take his order?" So I start trying to believe the lie. Just ignore it and it will go away. Stay strong for the blonde. Do not be afraid. But I have deep, cold fear as the bee lifts off the plastic stamen and takes to the sky, bored with phony flowers and seeking victims. "Can I start you off with something to drink?" a soft, sweet voice asks to my left. "Yeah," I say, tearing my attention away from the buzzing menace and toward the perfect specimen of womanhood that smells like lilies and summer. "I'll take…" I try to think of something that will make me remain calm in the face of danger. Five cc's of heroin? No…she asked if I wanted something to drink. Does crack come in liquid form?
"Yes," she says uncertainly. "But it's only nine in the morning." "Is it?" I ask, surprised. I check my watch. "Better make it just two shots, then." I smile politely, mysteriously, devilishly. "Okay," she says, confused, but she writes it down. "I'll be right back." "Take your time," I say graciously. As soon as she walks away, I return to my natural state of panic and try to locate my nemesis. The winged fiend is hovering over a plate of fried eggs. Please get caught in the yolk, I think. "I'm sorry," the waitress tells me, tearing my attention away from what I hope will be the solution to my problem. "The bartender doesn't come in until noon. Can I get you something else?" "No, " I laugh uncertainly. "I was just kidding about the vodka," I lied. "I really just want coffee." "Oh," she says, not amused, and sketches the order down in her pad. "Did you want to order now?" "Sure," I say. I look through the menu and I try to figure out what I can order that won't attract yellowjackets. Scrambled eggs are out. Nothing with sugar. No fruits. In short, nothing on the menu. I look back up at the waitress. I'm about to ask "What do you suggest?" but the words get caught in my throat. The evil bastard is there, floating right by the waitress's left ear. "What's the matter?" she asked me, apparently noticing the color drain from my face. "You have a---" I can't say the word, so I point--- "Right by your ear." "It'll go away," she says. She looks bored. No, I want to scream. No, it won't. It's going to get you, I want to shout. But I sense that shouting will not win me any points with the waitress, so I pretend to be as unconcerned as she is. "Yeah," I nod. "They won't bother you if you just ignore them." And I calmly turn back to the menu, my head swimming with terror. You can't let it sting her, a chivalrous voice in my head warns me. What kind of man are you, just sitting here, looking for the appropriate pancake order, while a beautiful woman is just millimeters away from agonizing pain? Strike now. It will never expect it. I move before I think. I am poetry in motion. Every muscle in my body is focused, every action is smooth and untroubled. I feel as if I'm moving in slow motion. I burst out of my seat and let out a loud scream, something I heard in a Kung Fu movie. I swing the menu and swat the buzzing bastard hard enough to send it whizzing onto a nearby table. It tries to orient itself and figure out which way to fly, but it is dangerously exposed on the white tablecloth and I take advantage. I nail it over and over again with the menu, mashing it to a fine pulp with repeated whacks and my loud accompanying "Keeyahs!" The scene is dramatic enough to stop traffic and bring a busy city street to earsplitting silence. Out of breath, my bloodlust spent, I look around at my surroundings. It is apparent that I have overreacted. Again. The waitress's mouth is slightly open. I get a strong impression that she finds me particularly unattractive. "Check please," I say meekly. |
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| A collection of more diseased madness below. Check
out a few, and then buy The Reluctant Prophet. We won't tell
anyone what you spent your grocery money on. No one needs to
know. We can keep it just between us.
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E-mail jokes or nekkid pickchures to Tom at: |
