The War of the Wasps
Before we moved to Port Summerville, I liked seafood, but after a while, you get sick of it. I swear we’ve done everything culinary, morally and legally you could do to seafood; we’ve tasted and tried it all. We’ve fried, broiled, baked, sautéed, skewered, and steamed it. I mean everything and anything you can do to seafood. But most of all I still like it stuffed; you can stuff it where the sun don’t shine! I HATE SEAFOOD, SHRIMP, OR ANYTHING ELSE THAT SWIMS!!!
As a Christmas gift one year, one of my friends from up north gave Darlene and me a seafood cookbook. I almost threw up. It was the most thoughtless gift I’ve ever received. You couldn’t give the thing away; at least not around here. Most folks in town felt the same way I did about seafood. The good news was the cheap bastards probably got it at Wal-Mart. I’ll exchange it for something useful, like tampons for Darlene.
I despise anything to do with fish, like going fishing. I still went from time to time with a few friends or as a form of self-punishment, usually after Darlene and I got into an argument. One resulted in man versus beast—me against a gigantic wasp’s nest. The event started innocently enough. Darlene and I had done some yard work before a planned weekend getaway. I did some fence repair, and Darlene mowed the grass, when suddenly, she yelled, “John! Hurry! There are about a million wasps over here!” She dismounted the riding lawnmower and in a full stride, ran away from a swarm of angry wasps. Me, the genius, ran to them. As we passed each other, she yelled, “Run for your life!”
I yelled back, “Get the gasoline! And a match!”
“John! Hurry! Save yourself!” She managed to escape the swarm but I ran smack-dab in the middle of them, and then the bloodbath began. The wasps attacked, stinging me first on my hand, next on my eyelid.
I shouted, “Darlene, I’m hit! Hurry up with the gasoline!” I retreated to higher ground to regroup and develop my battle plan. In all the excitement, I ignored the pain, which grew to feel like getting stabbed to death by a red-hot poker. Darlene stuck her head out the door wearing ski goggles and a hat and swinging a fly-swatter like a baseball bat. “What the hell are you going to do with that thing?”
“It’s a lot less lethal than the gasoline idea. Torch the wasp nest, and while we’re at it, let’s burn down the neighborhood—idiot!”
“Have it your way. Get me a long-sleeved shirt and my blue jeans. I’m going back in.”
“John, are you hurt?” Aww, she really does care.
I moaned a little and replied, “I’ll survive.”
“You should put some pee on those wasp stings.”
“I should what? Most of the stings are on my back. That would be a trick, now wouldn’t it? I’m pretty proud of my manhood, but I don’t think it’ll reach.”
“Don’t be stupid. Lie down, and I’ll pee on your back.”
“You’ll what? Are you crazy?”
“Roll over John. It works on jellyfish stings.”
“You’re not peeing on anything, and pull up your pants. I’ll be alright.”
“OK, I was just trying to help. John, I think the lawnmower is stuck, and the wasp nest is underneath.” What had happened before all of this, was that I dug a hole in the ground to put cut branches and brush in—like a fire pit. When I felt the wind had died down enough, the plan was to torch the pile. Unbeknownst to me, in all the brush was a colony of wasps, more like an empire of wasps. Darlene not only got the mower stuck in my fire pit, but also managed to piss off a bunch of wasps, and I was their victim. The next time they attacked, I pointed to her. “She’s the one who wrecked your house, not me. Sting her.” Then I had a new idea.
“Darlene, go get the keys to the truck and meet me out front.” I developed a plan in my head, which Darlene often referred to as uncharted territory. The first plan of action was to free the mower. Second, was to expose the enemy. Third, was to begin the slaughter.
I reached for a rope, tossed it in the back of the truck, and then headed to the backyard—to the fire pit where the beasts lay. The only place I could tie the rope was to the shift handle. So far, so good. The wasps had settled down, then I got back in the truck and eased the mower from the fire pit. I only disturbed a few and assumed they must have been wasp scouts on a reconnaissance mission. Regardless, the first part was a complete success, and the mower was freed.
Plan two was easy because the operation was attributed to the victory of the first one. So, number two was a complete success as well, and the enemy had been exposed and vulnerable to attack. Time for a break while I considered plan three—the annihilation and destruction of these winged monsters. While I relaxed on the porch having a beer and planning my next move, I heard Darlene whooping and hollering. Instead of just a beer or two, she’d also had several Tequila shots and returned to her mowing duties. One problem—when I freed the mower from the fire pit, I managed to bend the shifter, so now the thing is stuck in one gear—FAST.
Just great! My insane, drunk wife, was operating a speeding, out of control machine. As she plowed through our beautifully landscaped yard, she was yelling, “YEE-HAW!” Darlene ran over everything in her path. She bounced up and down and all around like a bucking bronco. As she did another lap, Darlene waved and shouted another, “YEE-HAW!” Finally, the thing ran out of gas. “Get some more gas, John! This thing is a blast!”
“Darlene, my mower isn’t a toy.” Just then, plan three erupted in my head. “Take cover, Darlene. I’m going to run them down.”
“You’re going to do what? John, are you crazy or drunk?”
“I’m not drunk, Darlene. Now do what I ordered and take cover, soldier.” I made my final preparations for battle. I removed my long-sleeved shirt and jeans. I bared all except for my Bermuda shorts, t-shirt, and my trusty flip-flops. I filled the tank, gave Darlene a salute, and in my best General MacArthur imitation said, “I shall return!” I fired up the lawnmower, lined up my machine toward enemy territory. Because the bent shifter was stuck in high gear, I held the brake pedal firmly until takeoff. I assessed my final flight plan and gave myself plenty of distance between the battleground and me. Before takeoff, I realized how a Kamikaze pilot felt moments from death. As I released the brake and rolled down the runway, I yelled, “Sayonara, Futher Muckers!”
The battle had begun. I made my first pass over the nest, and the wasps wasted no time. The enemy combatants fired every weapon in their arsenal. The first wave of attack caused few casualties; a couple of stings to my arms and legs. Just a flesh wound. I returned to base, regrouped, and assessed my next offensive move. I glanced toward the house. Darlene was in a full drunken stupor, and went into the house and got some of her old cheerleader stuff from high school. She tried to do “high kicks, waved her pom-poms and cheered, “Block that kick!”
I ignored the psych patient, then realigned my Craftsman Fighter Jet for what I hoped to be a final battle. After the brake had been released, I rolled down the runway at full speed. As I got closer, I knew there could only be one victor in this battle of man vs. wasp. I had an overwhelming sense of pride and was seconds away from final victory. I hit the nest with a thump, but this time they were ready. The enemy hit with a vengeance. I was forced to eject from the Craftsman. The pain was overwhelming, and I yelled at the top of my lungs, “Medic!”
Darlene ran outside, “Do I need to call Dr. Stewart?” I rolled all over the ground and swatted those things, trying to save myself.
“Yes, call him, quick! Tell him to pick up a case of wasp killer at Wal-Mart—STAT!” This whole event reminded me of how they described the Apollo 13 mission to the moon; A successful failure. Sure, I succeeded in the death of thousands of wasps. However, I suffered multiple casualties. I was stung about a hundred times. My face, back, and neck were swollen, and I couldn’t see out of my left eye. Plus, I was in too much pain to enjoy my victory. I fetched the gasoline and matches, doused the pit, then lit the bonfire as a victory celebration and put an end to this epic battle. All of this was witnessed by Darlene who came out of the house and said, “Haven’t you had enough excitement for one day? Wasn’t your war game enough?”
Game? After what I had been through for the last three hours, she had the nerve to call it a game? “I sacrificed myself for this family and our safety. What if the kids had gotten a hold of these things?”
“I’m so sorry, John.” Darlene patted me on the back and said with a smug, “You’re our hero.” The patting ended with, “We could have called an exterminator, but noooo, you had to play commando and do it yourself.”
“You got fifty bucks lying around for Tom the bug guy?”
“What you spent on beer and gas preparing for your little war, you could have paid Tom.”
“I’ve had it!” I went into the house, grabbed my fishing pole, and slammed the door on the way out.
“You hate fishing, John. You go just to piss me off because I don’t like it any better than you do. So, what is it?”
“I want to be by myself.”
“OK, John, you can be by yourself—I’m going.”
“I just need to get away for a little while Darlene!”
“Really?” As I walked away, she used that “tone,” (you girls know what I’m talking about) saying, “If you wanted to get away, you could go to a bar like everyone else. But you’re too cheap; fishing’s free.” When I got to the truck, she commanded, “John come back in the house. You’re not going anywhere. Let’s stop this nonsense. Why don’t you open that bank vault wallet of yours and take me out to dinner? I’ll get dressed.” Darlene reached for my hand, and we went into the house. As Darlene worked her way to our bedroom, she turned back to me and said, “And John, put on something nice; I want to go to Mac’s. And please do something with your hair.” I caved to her command, cleaned up and put something on I believed to be acceptable. After she finished getting dressed, asked the most dreaded question a woman can ask a man; “Does this dress make me look fat?”
“I don’t know Darlene,” then exclaimed, “Does my face look fat after being stung about a million times by a bunch of pissed-off wasps?”
“It’s not too bad, John. Why you can hardly tell your left eye is nearly swollen shut.” I thought, “Yeah, and I hardly notice that your fat ass is trying to free itself from the confines of a size three. Like attempting to stuff ten pounds of potatoes into a five-pound sack.” As if she read my mind, which included that look again, asked, “What are you thinking John?” Don’t get me wrong, she still looked great, but Darlene was a size six with the delusion she’s a three.
“You look stunning, my dear, and your dress is amazing, although I can only see with my right eye. Have you lost a little weight?”
“Yes, John, I’ve lost a little weight—waiting for you! Now can we eat? Before we go, let me put some make-up on you, so you look less hideous.” She hid most of the redness from the wasp stings, then I glanced in the mirror.
“That’s great, Darlene. My face is a swollen mess. I’m blind in one eye, and all you’ve done is made me look like a drag queen. She laughed and told me I looked pretty. “Thanks a lot. Let’s finish the job. Got any mascara?”
“John, don’t be ridiculous. The only mascara in my makeup bag won’t go with that foundation. Don’t you know anything?” As we left the house to go to our favorite eatery, she said, “I love you, John. I’m sorry we had an argument.”
“I love you too, and I accept your apology.” Here we go again.
“Apology? That wasn’t an apology. I was sorry we argued.”
“Sounded like an apology to me—you said, and I quote, ‘I’m sorry.’”
“So, that’s what sorry meant to you. Well then, let’s use sorry in another way. Let me think for a moment—oh yeah—I’m sorry I ever married you. Did that sound apologetic?”
“Seemed more of a threat.” Then I continued in a scholarly tone. “Sorry has so many meanings and interpretations, wouldn’t you agree?”
“You’re hopeless, John. Can we go?”
“Darlene, I concur. Let’s continue with our culinary adventure.” Now she was really getting mad. Not mad, mad, it was like starting to get a little happy, but still mad, you know the one. You seem mad, but we know you’re not, but you need to act mad. It’s sort of sassy mad, somewhere between mad and happy. Explaining the mad-not-mad thing hurts my head, but I think you get the point.
We got to the restaurant, and she was still in her mad, not real mad place. “Beside the fact I think you’re an idiot, I still love you.”
Still seated in the car, I stayed in character and replied, “My love for you is oh so bountiful and resilient, and therefore I must continue to concur with the aforementioned soliloquy.”
“Quite romantic, John. I wasn’t aware you had so many big words in your limited vocabulary. I’m just grateful evolution kept up, and you’re not dragging your knuckles on the ground.”
I turned to her, and with a dumb expression, then grunted. “I’ll race you to the restaurant. The last one there is a rotten egg!” I got a head start, and then she jumped out. We ran down the sidewalk as fast as we could, then she took the lead. Darlene won and did her famous victory dance and cheer.
“I beeeat yoooou! Na-nah-na-nae-na.” The good sport I was, gave her a victory pat on the ass and lasted longer than it should.
“John, we’re in public.” She wiggled away from my public groping. We composed ourselves as the maître d’ greeted them at the door. Mac’s was our favorite restaurant, and we never feared getting poisoned.
“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. St. John. Your table is ready. Are you prepared to be seated?”
“We sure are Tucker—get out the feed sacks. We’re ready to chow down.”
Darlene whispered, “Very classy, John. I don’t understand why I insist on taking you out in public. Now I know where your idiot kids get it from.”
“Good genes, my dear.” Tucker led us to our table, but we stopped along the way and made some idle chit-chat with a few friends, waved at the chef then took our seats. The waiter came to the table, introduced himself and took our order for drinks and appetizers.
“Good evening Mr. and Mrs. St. John, my name is Pierre. I will be your waiter.” I don’t know why he introduced himself; we’ve known him since he was ten.
“When did you become Pierre, Timmy?” Darlene asked.
“Tucker made me. He thinks Pierre is classier than’ Hi, my name is Timmy.’”
“Well, I like Timmy, but the next time we come in, to make Tucker happy, we’ll ask for Pierre.”
“Thanks, Mrs. St. John.”
After we finished our appetizer, Timmy, aka, Pierre, took our order for the main entrée. Then Pierre, the classy culinary liaison, turned back into little Timmy, the smart-ass I’ve known all these years, whispered, “Mr. St. John, will you be springing for the usual?”
“Yes, Pierre—the usual for me and Mrs. St. John.” I enjoyed a steak now and then and Mac’s is the place. Darlene hated steak but liked good seafood every so often. To keep pace with my frugal nature, we ordered the Surf and Turf with an extra plate, and everyone was happy.
