I bring to you a rare glimpse not only into my job but into my embarrassment and foremost fear. What you are looking at above is the before and semi-after of a bee hive. I say semi-after because I treated the hive and when I returned to remove the comb I assumed I had dealt with all the little demons. Alas, I had assumed wrong and the price I paid was a hefty one. I placed my ladder aside the house and climbed confidently onto the roof, snapped the second of the two pics above, and strode over to the comb with gloves and a trash bag. The trash bag would prove to be my undoing. I set it down on the roof line and inched closer to assure the hive was indeed little more than 12 pounds of pocked marked mush. It was at this point I heard it. The buzz, which is the worst onomatopoeia, that signaled the bees, and there were many. I was stung on the thigh, and this was enough to get me to turn tail and attempt to blaze a trail back to my ladder, but that trash bag... I forgot about it entirely in my panicked fervor and stepped squarely onto it. Let me step back and ask this question. Have you ever been moving at a good clip through the living room of your respective dwelling and set a foot atop a magazine or errant piece of paper? Then you must know where I was headed. My feet shot out from under me with all the speed of two dragsters ripping off the line. Here is where another problem manifested. I was on a roof, but not for long. I crashed off the first story peek and into the shrubbery below. Luckily they opted for more traditional foliage, had It been a palmetto bush I do not believe I would be here to write this.

-I hate bees.