Bee Bomb

In the late sixties the A-bomb was old news. The H-bomb was a thing. In the age of thermonuclear devices, leave it to Steve and Paul to develop a thermonatural device, the B bomb.

The device was crude, but effective, and I was certainly vulnerable.

I  was already terrified of the more creepy crawly aspects of nature. The swing-set by the A-frame playhouse in the deep back yard had been turned into a nightmare-inducing hellscape by the presence of velvet ants, which I learned at the time also bore the name Cow Killers for the wallop of the female’s sting. That did it for me … the deep backyard was now off-limits. Indeed I learned recently that these ants are not really ants at all, but some sort of wingless cicada-killer wasp, a fact that does nothing to reassure me retroactively.

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Moby Ipsum

“I look, you look, he looks; we look, ye look, they look.”

“Well, that’s funny.”

“And I, you, and he; and we, ye, and they, are all bats; and I’m a crow, especially when I stand a’top of this pine tree here. Caw! caw! caw! caw! caw! caw! Ain’t I a crow? And where’s the scare-crow? There he stands; two bones stuck into a pair of old trowsers, and two more poked into the sleeves of an old jacket.”

“Wonder if he means me?—complimentary!—poor lad!—I could go hang myself. Any way, for the present, I’ll quit Pip’s vicinity. I can stand the rest, for they have plain wits; but he’s too crazy-witty for my sanity. So, so, I leave him muttering.”

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T’Lipsum – Yorkshire Ipsum

Th’art nesh thee nay lad soft lad wacken thi sen up t’foot o’ our stairs. Nay lad where’s tha bin. Th’art nesh thee a pint ‘o mild any rooad t’foot o’ our stairs. Where there’s muck there’s brass t’foot o’ our stairs ah’ll gi’ thee a thick ear. Ah’ll learn thi tintintin tell thi summat for nowt soft lad mardy bum. Chuffin’ nora ah’ll box thi ears soft lad ee by gum tell thi summat for nowt ah’ll gi’ thee a thick ear. Bobbar nay lad. Breadcake soft southern pansy wacken thi sen up. Be reet where’s tha bin mardy bum mardy bum. Tell thi summat for nowt where there’s muck there’s brass shu’ thi gob. Dahn t’coil oil. That’s champion ey up will ‘e ‘eckerslike shurrup by ‘eck. Eeh. Shu’ thi gob face like a slapped arse god’s own county soft lad th’art nesh thee tha daft apeth.

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