Earlier this afternoon the wife told me there was an enormous bee hive by the deck.
I took a look—not a good scene. Big hive, a ton of bees resting on top. But we had family coming over for dinner. Something had to be done.
Enter: This guy …
When I’m not writing books or blogging about the bathroom or Tweeting nonsense or watching Happy Days re-runs, I’m this guy: The Bee Crusher. My outfit in trademark pimped-out superhero: One black sneaker, one blue slipper. The Hoodie Footie my wife bought for Valentine’s Day. A towel around my head and two pink rubberized kitchen gloves on my hands.
Oh, most important—an autographed copy of Kostya Kennedy’s excellent Pete Rose biography (aka: the nearest available book).
With great courage and supreme power, I tiptoed up to the hive … closer … closer … closer … closer—SLAM!!!!! I pushed the book up against the bees, utilizing every ounce of force to bring forth universal death. I held my stance for six … seven … eight seconds, then backed away.
I am The Bee Crusher.