24 September 2007

The Real Mr. Hockey


But of what use are talents and sentiments in the corrupt wilderness of human society? - William Godwin



I rode over a wasp nest cutting my lawn for the last time this year. The motherfuckers were all wearing their yellow and black colours. I had never encountered a wasp nest in my grass before. They quickly gathered force and attacked me. People think bugs are stupid but note the wasps attacked me and not the lawn mower that had just rode over the entrance to their buzz cave.

They came at me from every angle. I swatted at them defencelessly. One of my flailing arms got caught in an overgrown rose bush. Blood ran down my arm as the wasps tattoo'd me with the grim determination of Todd Bertuzzi.

As I gained my composure after the wasps had had their way with me one of the neighbour's little girls by the name of Mary looked up and asked me, "Are you afraid of bees Mr. Hockey?"

"They were wasps."

"Same diff."

"I was being bitten and then my arm got caught in your dad's mangy rose bush."

"My dad says you are a pussy Mr. Hockey."

"What do you think Mary?"

She giggled and looked down at her still pink new school runners. "I think my daddy said you were a motherfucking pussy. And I think I hear my mom calling me for lunch. Bye Mr. Hockey Pussy."

The beer I had after I went inside helped dull the pain from the wasp bites. But the sting of Mary's barbs did not begin to fade until I had several more. The girl had stung me like the B.C. Lions stung the Ruff Riders in the fourth quarter last night.

1 comment:

Andraste said...

Why, the little shit...