
Early fall seems like the perfect time to eat lunch outdoors. The air is cool and dry, the foliage is lovely, the sun is warm and bright but not hot. Everything in nature just seems to come together for my comfort and enjoyment.
Except the dying, desperate yellow jackets.
I had a terribly persistant one trying to get between me and my sandwich today. Swatting at it was doing no good and I had to keep my eyes peeled lest it crawl someplace I didn't expect it. Running through my mind is what always does in these moments: What is wrong with you? I am thousands of times your size and all that restrains me from CRUSHING you to DEATH is fear of experiencing a little discomfort. But there is no reasoning with the insect world; we can't begin to comprehend their principles of risk-analysis.
At last, I managed to trap it in the punt of my lemonade bottle as it landed on the inside of the lid of the plastic sandwich box. Of course, that meant I couldn't sip any lemonade without the risk of freeing an enraged bee. Then I noticed that, in the kerfluffle, I had gotten a big wad of mustard on my pants. I was pissed; I wanted it dead. Could I do that by somehow sliding the bottle around until he was crushed underneath it? Doubtful.
So I thoughtfully finished eating, in the process shooing away two other bees who had the sense to know when they had met their match, then dumped all my refuse into the lid of the box. This would help weigh it down for my next manoeuvre. I commenced psyching myself up. Soon, I was ready for the swift movement it would take to trap it when I lifted up the bottle--and for the possibility that it would be clinging to the bottle and need to be trapped again immediately before it realised it could fly free.
As it was, my preparation was unnecessary: It had apparently resigned itself to being caught, so when the bottle shot upwards, it was crawling peaceably around the lid. Too late: I snapped the box shut. It buzzed angrily around and I thought of the hell to pay if, unbeknownst to me, there were a flaw in the box large enough for it to escape through. As I watched the sunlight stream onto it through the clear plastic, it occurred to me that I could just leave it here to cook to death slowly over the course of the afternoon. But, on reflection, I decided I couldn't bring myself to do that. It would be wrong.
It would be littering.
So I carried the box to the trashcan, reached in, and placed it gingerly atop the refuse (lest the box pop open and release and even more pissed-off yellow jacket). I walked a short distant away and happily drank down the last of my lemonade.
FEAR ME, PESKY ARTHROPODS! I AM MADE DEATH, THE DESTROYER OF WORLDS!