People think suburban living is for wusses. They think we sit around all day alongside our tennis courts, sipping pricey coffee beverages while having our feet massaged by large men named Bruno. They think all we know are riches and luxury and ease and whining about our 5-year-old’s spotty cell phone service.
They are wrong.
Tonight, in the darkness of suburban Westchester, where the streets have no names and thug life reigns, I came face to face with a gang of thugs so tough … so diabolical … so evil—well, it was straight outta Compton. Tonight, I took on a bee hive.
Not any ordinary bee hive. An absolutely HUGE one beneath our barbecue, which housed, oh, 20-to-30 yellow jackets. So, with the moon obscured by clouds and a spooky silence in the air, I creaped toward the nest, my Glock (well, a can of bug spray) at my hip, a flashlight in my other hand and my body covered by clothing.
Then—action. Like Denzel in Training Day, I went medieval, unloading at least, oh, 50 rounds. When the mist cleared, 20 lifeless bees sat atop the patio—victim to a man who knows how to drop something propa. (suburban confession: I have no idea what that last phrase means. But I’m Jiggy with it, playa word)
Let the bees be warned: I’m all G.
