I used to catch bees in a manner that would have horrified Pol Pot. Stick in hand, I would march up to any available honeybee (blissfully unaware) and give it a solid whack with the weapon. At this point the bee would do one of three things:

A. Sustain injuries (I refuse to accept liability)

B. Die or

C. Fly away because I missed it completely.

If I injured the bee (or at least stunned it enough that it was not able to fly), I would grab it by its back and plop it into a container of my choice. From that point I would generally subject it to a number of tortures: shaking, poking, or even drowning. I considered myself somewhat of a bee hunter extraordinaire; I knew the proper amount of force to knock them out, and I knew the clover fields where they frequented well. To be fair, my activities were not exactly humanitarian in nature, but I was a young kid, and during the long, hot, dull summer days, any sort of entertainment was welcomed as a godsend.

Up until a particularly unparticular July day, I went about my genocidal business without consequences. That was the day I learned the meaning of “Karma’s a bitch.” I began my search for the insect infidels in the early afternoon. It had rained earlier that day, so the ground was wet and unstable; the muddy earth had already tarnished my white shoes. I spotted my first target. “You should have stayed in bed today, little bee, because now bad things are going to happen.” Just kidding, I didn’t say that. My psychopathic tendencies do not reach verbal expression.

I hit the bee with my stick. It twitched slightly, and then didn’t move. Oops. I must have killed it. I tried to pick it up, but was met only with an intense pain from my index finger. As I tried to retreat the moisture on the ground caused me to lose my footing, causing me to plant my back into the mud. To cap off the comic event, a second bee sting on my leg ended the lesson by karma.

Do not kill bees. You will get stung.

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