The bees have forgotten how to fly. Walking bees make for
slow honey... slow, expensive honey. Bitter honey, honey
that lacks the sweetest of flowers from window boxes.
Without honey nations will crumble and apples will fall,
without nations and apples there's no way bees will ever
receive the state-supported state support that they need to
learn to fly again, bees will die as they're trodden on by
people who don't have the politeness to wear bare feet, no
bee wants to fuck a dead bee, no bee-fucking means no bees,
with no bees honey becomes the zenith of slowness and
expensosity, or conversely the nadir of alacrity and cheap
affordable housing for all, with no honey nations that
dragged themselves up from nothing the last time they
crumbled will crumble and apples, a year after they last
fell, will fall.
The bees would tell us how they forgot to fly, they'd dance
for us, but they've forgotten how they forgot to fly. It's
always the way. The bees need our help, they need to learn
how to fly again for our sakes, and if they don't want to
die, then for their sakes too. A bee that can't fly is like
a fly that can't be, and they don't come much zenner than
that. The flies know how to be, and yet the bees don't know
how to fly; how ironic. Definition of irony: when the flies
can be, but the bees can't fly. You can dog a cormorant but
you can't cormorant a dog; if irony extended to things
bigger than flies and bees, it'd be ironic. Teach the bees,
tuppence a bag, tuppence, tuppence, tuppence a bag. Stick
yourself into a bee mould, press the button, shape that
flab, flap those wings, lead by example.
The bees don't appreciate being told how to fly, it rankles
them like a whelk. It's understandable really: they're
sensitive about their defining qualities being eroded by
proxy. If you happened to forget how not to fly and how not
to make honey, then some bee moulded itself in your image
and started not flying and not making honey just to show you
how to do it, you'd be offended too: it'd appear that they
were making light of the fact that they couldn't fly and you
could, that they were rubbing it in about how easy it is.
When you teach the bees to fly, think about how you'd like
it if you weren't a bee and a bee was teaching you to be a
not a bee.
I saw a bee nearly fly today, but it fell and died; it's a
start either way. As it flapped its tiny little wax wings,
it flew too close to the candle and melted, falling, crying,
burning and dying. It was mythical in its unoriginality.
Candles look like flowers to bees with their freaky little
bee eyes, so when vaguely recalling once having flown, with
their minds all Swiss cheesed (to use the vernacular of
Scott 'Major League 3: Back To The Minors' Bakula) they head
for the candles, confusing the agonising heat for previously
unused wing muscles. (My sentences are longer than yours.
Nyah). The dead bee showed that bees are willing to try and
drag themselves off the ground, flapping and screaming. It
also shows the futility of beevine existence: try to fly and
die or walk and die. If they can get past the flying into
the candle thing then there may be hope for bees, for honey,
for nations, for apples. I would ask that instead of
teaching a bee to fly, you didn't light a candle, but that
won't work for obvious reasons that I'm not going to go into
because I simply don't have the overhead projectors
required. I wonder if they really know what life is all
about, or if they just like the taste.