(Note: I should probably warn you that I group any striped, stinging insect, including wasps, hornets, and yellowjackets, under the umbrella term "bees." Mostly because I can't be bothered to learn the difference between them.)
I'm sure the asshole business isn't news to anyone, but it still needs to be said. I've had some interesting experiences with them, myself.
There was the time, for example, that kid-me was fetching a sleeping bag from the camper. I often slept in there in the warmer months (because I was eleven and deeply uncool), so the sleeping bag was not rolled. This was a lucky thing, because since the last time I had overnighted there, a nest of angry bees had taken up residence in the open vent.
They weren't pleased with having their space invaded, and they swarmed the bee-jeezus (sorry, I couldn't help myself) out of me. Being particularly quick-thinking when fueled by adrenaline and sheer terror, I tossed the sleeping bag over my head burka-style and escaped with just three stings.
A more amusing (to me) time was when a bee started chasing my dad, and he ran all around the yard yelping and swatting at it. It's the one kind of creepy-crawly that my manly-man dad cannot handle. (Hi, Dad!)
Or that time my model friend--Yes, I do have a model friend. No, I will not give you her number. Creep.--took a swig out of a can of Pepsi wherein a bee reposed. As it turns out, "bee-stung lips" is not a beauty phrase to be taken literally.
But mostly, I hate bees because they live in my shower.
|I am totally judging this guy. Also his sweatpants. Via|
(True: "The bee's knees" orginally meant something small and insignificant, way back in the late 1700s. I know that because I read it here.)
(Update: Also relevant? This.