Requiem for a Bee

A mystery once confined to U.S. territory, the disappearance of honey bees, has blossomed into a global phenomenon. Where are they going? Why are they going there? Who cares? I hate bees and so do you.

This final solution to the bee question is a genuine triumph of the human race, even if it was just an unplanned collateral extermination. No one can point to the real final straw - gen mod crops, climate change, the eave shortage brought about by depressed housing starts - it could have been anything. The present epoch is defined by humanity's numberless crimes against nature. Whichever specific abomination proved the bees unfitness for survival doesn't matter. All are our doing and we all can share in the credit.

But what about the plants pollinated by bees? Good riddance to them too. Any organism incapable of procreating without the aid of another species has a seriously flawed reproductive plan. Apples and the rest of their lazy ilk should all be ashamed. The bees themselves were probably deeply humiliated by their embarrassing chore. No wonder over seventy percent of them were alcoholics.

True, the list of crops serviced by bees is vast, but if discoverychannelologists have taught us anything, it's that once an unpopular species goes extinct a much cuter one always takes its place. Hairy grotesque mammoths gave way to the sleek and graceful elephant. Horses adapted to the advent of cars by evolving into puggles. Angelyne's subsidence cleared the way for Paris Hilton, who subsequently mitosed into the Kardashians. Once the echo of the last buzz dies, it may be flocks of flying kittens sporting pinwheel tails in place of ass mounted poison darts that help us to forget the bees were ever here. Don't count on it.

In all likelihood, the bees' successors will be us. The most somnolent bee works 54 times harder than the average American, so for every bee that returns to Mars, 54 jobless citizens will be rescued from the idle bliss of unemployment. In addition, life in the hive will solve the housing crisis, grant us a sense of belonging to something greater than ourselves, and fulfill man's age-old dream of sleeping in hexagonal wax tubes.

To those who will miss honey, follow this recipe: one glass of corn syrup, stir in 10 mL of FDA approved E160b food colorant, then go refill your squeezy bear. Honey is a culinary anachronism from the days when our undernourished ancestors needed quick energy to escape enraged swarms of bees whose honey they had just stolen. To the olive-sized Australopithecine brain, hundreds of stabbings was a fair price for a fistful of sugary glop. Some prominent typists even contend the association of sharp pain with a sweet reward was early man's first courageous step toward modern drug abuse. Although they may be gone, the bees leave behind them their enduring legacy of our robust international heroin trade.

And finally, if we remind ourselves often enough of honey's true source, the urge to eat it will naturally fade away. It is vomit. Insect regurgitation. Arthropod puke. If the desire still persists after telling yourself that the amber goo you long to stir into your tea is the concentrated residue from a million gallons of barf launched from the filthy gut of a cockroach's cousin, try substituting small amounts of smack until it subsides.