I wanted to be a beekeeper as far back as I can remember… beekeepers are a different type of breed. In Arizona, where I grew up, they were the absolute coolest man. They lived life on the fucking edge. They got pussy 24/7… I’m talking sixty-two hours a week man. They got tattoos of birds, threw bags of dog shit at the police, over-tipped at Chinese restaurants… they did whatever the FUCK they wanted. They kept bees for christsakes.
Drug-fueled orgies. Candy dishes full of ecstasy, viagra and prilosec. Piles of money. Drunken motorcycle races through Tuscon. Gallons, I mean GALLONS of fresh honey everywhere…. those were the good old days. But that’s all beehind me now….
Chapter 1: Here We Bee Again
I got my first beekeepers outfit the day before my ninth birthday. My old man got it at a garage sale for three bucks. It was the best day of my life. That’s a pretty big deal coming from a guy that’s bungee-jumped off the Space Needle, free-based in the Louvre, and had sex with a woman that looked like Wolverine (not Hugh Jackman… Wolverine).
That outfit. I wore it fucking everywhere: School, the zoo, old man Carruther’s house… EVERYWHERE. I slept in it. I showered in it. I even tricked it out: laser beams stitched into the elbows, scratch-n-sniff zippers, and two custom-made badass patches. The one in the front said: “Who’s in Charge Here?” and the one in the back said “I Bee!”
My parents didn’t want me to have anything to do with beekeeping. In fact, they were dead-set opposed to it. Mostly because their parents died from bee attacks and they knew how dangerous a job it was… and a little because they had hoped I’d follow in my father’s footsteps and sell homemade meth to rodeo clowns. But I had a talent. That much was obvious. By the age of thirteen I was taking care of over 80 colonies in my parent’s backyard. I was harvesting twenty pounds of liquid gold by eighteen. That’s when the money started rolling in… and that’s when things really started to get sweet…
I’m told I came out cross-eyed with webbed-feet and a peciluar fondness for carrots… later, I got the typhoid and my eyes went back to normal. To this day, my parents still say it’s a miracle that I have those webbed-feet.
I wont sugarcoat shit for you, it was hard growing up. We only had three pair of pants to share among the thirty-two of us. Food was scarce, we all suffered from a lack of education, and Ultimate Frisbee hadn’t been invented yet…. Hard times did indeed abound.
My brothers and I all shared a bunkbed that was twelve feet high and shook like my Pa’s hand before he had his morning coffee.
Well, we were supposed to share it but most nights I fell asleep outside, dreaming about what it’d be like to be a Space Cowboy drinking Space Whiskey on a comet with Moonbeams and other kids with webbed-feet would be there too. But those was just dreams.
My parents were Tobacco farmers. Had been since FDR’s twin brother (Flobberton Delanor Roosevelt) lost the farm to my Pa on account of a bad hand of Gin Rummy. To this day FrDR still claims he was swindled out of the land (which he most defintely was as my Pa loved to recount the story about how he cheated the shit out of him).
We lived a simple life. Most of us kids just talked to the frogs and sat staring at the Sun.
Ma and Pa tried there best to put supper on the table when they could, but it was hard (especially since we had to sell the table to pay for my Pa’s fancy subdries addiction).
It all came to a head one night when…
- 10,000 lightbulbs
- Diamond-encrusted glitter
- A case of shoehorns
- Kleenex Boxes filled with horse semen
- Chandelier (that looks like Chandler from FRIENDS)
- Meat! Meat!! Meat!!!
- Jacket made out of bats that look like jackets
- Shoes that are really envelopes
- Rape whistle amulets
- Glitter-encrusted diamonds
- AIDS Quilt Cape
- Face mask composed entirely out of fingernail clippings of Little Monsters
- Bigger Egg
- Diaper eye patch
- Glitter-encrusted meat diamonds
- Mini-Cooper skirt
- Motorized sarcophagus
- Fanny-pack filled with microchips and Gummi bears
- Member’s Only jean jacket
- Fierce Utility Belt
"I'm here to help but I can also kill ya!" – Shoelaces
— Sam Grittner (@SamGrittner) January 25, 2013
Dear People Who Clip Your Nails In Public,
I feel like we shouldn’t even be having this dialogue. It’s like me telling you not to shit in someone’s bunkbed, set loose all their trained Falcons, or continue to insist that 9/11 wasn’t committed by a bunch of janitors that just wanted to cause some hijinks… this is day one stuff. But for whatever reason you continue to be not just a nuisance but a scourge on society. This is no longer cuticle.
Why in God’s nametag do you think it’s justifiable to clip your fingernails in public? “It’s just a part of my body that grows, man… RELAX.” No man, I won’t relax. I won’t go “jogging” or “watch what I eat” or “give up my dream of having sex with all the world Professional Yo-Yo’ers in South America” or “stop criticizing other people for their small foibles even though I have a million of my own.” In fact, as of today I’m going to fight public disgusting body ignorance with even more disgusting body ignorance. BUT PURPOSEFUL IGNORANCE THAT I’M COMPLETELY AWARE OF. The next time I see you on the Subway or at your desk or behind the counter at Orange Julius clipping your fingercovers, I will do one to all of the following:
- Order a delicious Orange Julius!
- Give myself a buzzcut while standing directly over you
- Shave my chest while giving you the “stinkeye” (that’s my bellybutton with stink lines I drew coming ‘out of it’ with sharpie)
- Perform a briss within five yards of your person
- Check my balls for testicular cancer while doing a play-by-play narration in my best John Madden voice
- Perform a sponge bath on the person sitting/standing directly next to you
- Give you the “poor man’s facial” (see: sneeze on your face)
If you cease and desist, I will too. Also, if you’re the same person that listens to music from the speakerphone on their cellphone I WILL BUY YOU A SET OF HEADPHONES.
Please stop being Mini-Hitlers.
Thanks in advance!!!