And they all go marching, down in the under ground.

Tragically, the "under ground" is my kitchen. Specifically, the cabinet just south of the microwave.

I hate ants. I couldn't hate them more if they marched around my kitchen with tiny little Bush/Cheney '04 signs stuck to their butts. Well, possibly a tiny bit more, but the difference would be negligible. That's how much I hate them. I hate them like I hate that I, English teacher, had to look up how to spell "negligible" because it just didn't look right. Every spring I must do battle with sugar ants who invade my tiny home and tromp their horrible, wee feet around in my raisin stash.

I am a vegetarian. I buy plastic shoes and eschew (as opposed to just plain chew) meat and gently escort spiders outside rather than kill them if they're just too big and hairy-legged to share my space, and I feed a pair of hungry guest cats out my back door, and doesn't nature owe me just this one tiny dispensation of NOT BEING INVADED BY ANTS? Come on!

So, critter-loving, tree-hugging, no-kill goodie that I am, I mash those tiny ant bodies bare-fingered if I must. Spring sees me turn from Buddhist to Bad-Ass as I open that cabinet door to be greeted by a mad scurry of tiny, brown, antennae'd horrors. Now I'm on the hunt. I buy fistfuls of bait traps, giant cans of aerosol-propelled death, and I wade in. Windex? I scoff at such wimpy weapons. Leave your boy scout troops at home; I'm bringing in the Big Boys. If it hasn't got a skull and crossbones on the label, I don't want it.

Just went into my kitchen to find only one ant, and he was coughing up blood. First round to me.

Nip Wits

Clio sez: "Touch the blankie, lose an eye."






From the Animal Rescue Site, I purchased a catnip "bed" and cat toy. Both are filled with organic cat nip, and they arrived today. The cats are going nutz out there, flinging the furniture around and generally making a mess. Nippity doo dah.

Chills! Hills! Thrills! No Spills! (which puts us one up on last year)

The Notorious Toe Jam Hill -- where many an ego goes to die.

So yesterday, BF Toasty and I did the Chilly Hilly bike ride. It's a 33 mile bike ride around Bainbridge Island, with a total elevation gain of 2,675 ft. (or so it says on my t-shirt). That's, like, a fifth of the way up Mt. Rainier! OK, so it doesn't sound that impressive when put that way, but it was the steep bit, right at the very top, that's what. Seriously, when I go up inclines like that, I'm usually wearing a rope.

There was some variety of precipitation (not including the 'air hankies,' which made parts of the ride like a Mucus Slalom) nearly the entire way, and I think the temp. topped out around the mid-40s, so the ride definitely lived up to its name. It also lived up to the name Wet Bloody Misery Ye Gods Not Another F&%#ing Hill, which is what I dubbed it at about mile 11.

Last year, the day before the Chilly Hilly, BF Toasty managed to break his wrist. Conveeeeeeeeenient. I think he might have sacrificed another bone or two, had he known how very very long the CH was. At one point, topping out on infamous Toe Jam Hill, he rode past me and wheezed, "Soul . . . Crushed" which had several panting riders snorting out their noses, myself included. The ferry ride back was a festival of hot chocolate and trail mix and cookies and brownies, hundreds of riders on board wearing sugar-encrusted smiles and dribbling crumbs down their jerseys. The few passengers on the ferry that weren't decked out in spandex and Gore-tex and didn't make that little clicking sound as they walked were undoubtedly thrilled to have damp, sweaty, chili-fed riders everywhere, desperate for seats big enough to put their entire bottoms on.

There is a cheery camaraderie in sharing a semi-miserable experience with others. I had several breathless conversations with strangers, all of us lamenting the witlessness of not only doing this silly thing we were doing, but of having paid for the privelege. I watched (and was the beneficiary of) lots of really strong riders cheering on the less strong as we wrestled our bikes up the hills. I saw riders stop in the cold and wet and help others change tires or fix chains. One particularly jovial team alternated their calls of "On your left" with "Up your ass!" which was funnier and much less offensive than it sounds here. The people in cars, who had ample reason to be cranky about waiting and waiting and waiting to be allowed to use their streets, were cooperative and cautious.

So, as I pop another dose of Ibuprofen and try to decide where I'll wear my new Chilly Hilly t-shirt for maximum exposure and bragging rights, the question inevitably arises: Will I do this ride again?

Yeah, no.

0.6 of a Good Deed

Just a reminder to everyone to hit The Animal Rescue Site every day. By clicking on the button, you provide some wee critter in a shelter somewhere with 0.6 of a bowl of food. And it's free. You just have to pretend to glance at the advertising.

OK, these people failed to hire me to work for them (CharityUSA.com), but we're talking Animals In Need here, so I'm willing to put our differences aside. Also, you can, like, feed people and help fight breast cancer and teach kids to read and blah blah blah whatnot, but don't forget the critters! Puppies! Kitties! Hungry and wee ones! Just hit the %$#@*&! button and don't argue with me.

http://www.theanimalrescuesite.com/cgi-bin/WebObjects/CTDSites.woa

Paws for Reflection

<---------- Note very large dictionary in background; quiet
symbol of the terribly literary.

So, half-a-dozen chapters into Compass Jones, I'm thinking it's time to, you know, stop, take stock, try to figure out if this story has an actual plot, or if that's just an optimistic rumor. The smart money's on rumor.

I've been asked a few (OK, a couple of) times now, "What's in the box?" (Compass Jones, Chapter 5). To be honest, I don't know yet. I'm just hoping it's not a puppy. But I'm soliciting guesses (read: ideas) from my audience, so both of you, get crackin'! Let's hear what you think is in the box, and then I'll tell you why you're wrong. Or I'll steal your idea, delete your comment, and take all the credit for it myself. Hey, fiction isn't pretty.

Soggy Moggy

I hate towel-washing day. I wander around the house, dripping, because I have nothing to wipe my wet hands on. Then I remember that I have cats.

My Car is an Academic Underachiever

My car failed its emissions test the other day, and I felt incredibly embarrassed when the guy passed me the sheet with the word "fail" in at least six places on it. (It failed not because it emits anything more noxious than any other American car, but because the speedometer doesn't work which makes the "check engine" light go on, which makes for a fail.) We stayed up all night studying, and today my car passed. I was stupidly proud of her for passing this time and wished that my new tabs had wee little gold stars on them.

Musings On the Job Hunt

If a Bachelor's degree in English literature means I am entitled to ask, "Do you want fries with that," I can only assume that my Master's degree entitles me to offer curly fries. Perhaps if I ever get my PhD, I'll be able to proffer the super-size option. One lives in hope.

Jesus Sends Me Stock Tips

A Shy Deity at the NYSE



I don't know about y'all, but lately Jesus has been sending me hot stock tips on my email. Now, He's pretty aggressive about it, for a god, but I guess you don't get to be one of the reigning deities by being dainty. Anyway, I get these Holy Hot Stocks!™ pretty much every day and to pretty much every one of my several thousand email addresses. BF Toasty (the BF means "boyfriend," for future reference) says they aren't real, but I'm not willing to mess with the edicts of the Lord, so I'm investing like a newly defrocked priest in an untended school yard. I know His tips when I see them: they usually start out with a somewhat mangled Bible quote (I'm guessing that's a test for the truly faithful) in the subject line, something akin to, "Sayeth then Judith raise eyes unto donkeys, your salvation covets your neighbor's wife." When I see something like that, I know I'm going to have some trouble getting that camel through the eye of that needle, and that's all part of the Big Plan™.

I have heard that Jesus has a soft spot for lepers, and while I'm not actually one myself, it's possible that the title of this blog has mistakenly gotten me into the Stock Talk Shop of the Gods. Hallelujah and pass me the phone.

So . . . Whaddya Think?

I've been wanting to write a novel for grown-ups, and I've decided that I'm going to do it here (well, not exactly here; see link below or to the right). Both of my readers will help to keep me honest and moving forward, and I'm trusting that neither of you will steal my manuscript -- such as it is -- and market it to millions in some far away fantasy land like Poland.

I welcome comments, but only if they're glowingly complimentary. If you don't like it, you can keep it to yourself.

If you're up for it, the book-in-progress can be found at:

http://compassjones.blogspot.com/

-- Moi

Open Letter to Nancy Pelosi (and Anyone Else Who Might Be Listening)

The Election is Over: Why are You Still Here?




Speaker-Elect Pelosi,
It gives me a chill to address you that way; a long-awaited, much-overdue chill, but I at least got some good goose bumps out of it. I am writing to congratulate you on finally burrowing your way out of the dung heap that has been the U.S. Congress for so long. I truly believe that the Democratic Party will now begin to clear the way to true and desperately needed reforms. But I urge you not to drop the idea of impeaching the "president." "Accountability is un-American," said Berkeley Breathed in one of his Bloom County cartoons. Let's not let that be our nation's motto: or its epitaph. Bush and his lackeys have done enormous damage to our country's reputation abroad; they've pilfered the needle from our moral compass, made us less safe, less sure, less kind. They've destroyed our schools and encouraged the destruction of our environment. They've made many of us ashamed to be Americans. For all their lies and misdeeds, Bush and Co. should likely be tried for treason, but I'll be happy to start with a simple impeachment. Now is not the time to be magnanimous, despite the happy flush of victory. In times like these, just days after the most acrimonious election in recent history, forgiveness smacks of hypocrisy, particularly when those whom we forgive are unrepentant. We owe it to ourselves and the world to show that we do not suffer liars, criminals, bullies and cheats. Impeach him. Impeach Bush, then impeach Cheney, and only then can you truly begin to clean House (and Senate).

Thank you,
RaggedyAngst

Notice: Putting the Baby Down is NOT the Same as Putting the Gerbil Down

The pros and cons of choosing child-less-ness:

Pros:

• My cats don't need me to set a "good example," and if they do, not peeing in the bed qualifies.
• There are no strained (sprained, stained) veggies in my house and there won't be until toothlessness recurs.
• I don't have to kiss boo-boos, explain where babies come from or feign amusement in a solid hour's worth of knock-knock jokes.
• If I want to go somewhere, I go. I don't have to arrange babysitters or try to figure out the intricacies of car seats. I don't need to make sure I have 47 noisy toys and 11 different varieties of mashed former food in an enormous shoulder bag that has fluffy sheep on it.
• The only thing in my home with fluffy sheep on it is my Wallace and Gromit video.
• No diaper shall enter my home until incontinence recurs.
• Teenage angst is something I hear about but will never again have to witness unless I start watching Dawson's Creek or some other equally insipid teenage-angst-soggy television show.
• All the food in the fridge is mine. So is the beer.
• My furniture will never be be-drooled, be-shat or be-teethed on. Except by my cats, and for them, all is forgiven.
• There is no danger that my cats will turn out to vote Republican.
• All the whining in the house is my own.
• My cats are highly unlikely to get pregnant, caught shoplifting, arrested, or in a car accident with my Jetta and some horror Monster-in-a-Mom-Suit driving a Cadillac Escalade that costs more than my mortgage.

Cons:

• I have to go to animated movies by myself or with other adults. On second thought, this really belongs on the "pro" list.
• My cats will probably not take care of me when I'm old. Fortunately, the way the things are going with the current world leadership, I likely won't have a chance to grow old, so this is irrelevant.

Beveled without a Cause

It's 11:06 on a Tuesday morning, and I really want to pop open a bottle of champagne. This is inconvenient, since everyone I care about is at work or otherwise unavailable to share in my celebration, including Toasty, the boyfriend. Getting pissed on your own at 11:07 on a Tuesday morning is pathetic, even if it's on champagne that has a reason for being there.

My reason: I just finished the first edit of the second draft of my second children's book. Most people would likely celebrate finishing the first draft. I do that too, but since editing is infinitely more onerous than actually writing, finishing an edit is much more of a cause for celebration in my world. But there's that Tuesday-at-11:08 factor to consider. So the party's on hold (your accomplishment is important to us. please continue to hold) until further notice. Or until 5-ish.

So at whatever time it's acceptable to celebrate, wherever in the world you might be, raise a glass with me. Honor something worthy in your life: finishing a major project, running that marathon (or Ironman, as my superjock friend Rachel recently did), getting that promotion or not getting that pink slip. Or go the other way and celebrate something totally frivolous, just for the fun of toasting the final healing of a papercut, taking the last cup of coffee from the pot and not making a new pot and not getting blamed for it! or having an unsavory neighbor hauled away by the Feds. My last book was self-published, the first set of books printed had a tendency to shed pages like a mangy dog, and my tepid marketing strategy resulted in sales well into the thousand. But the second one's ready, and hope springs eternal, and now I have to relearn PageMaker, and someone pass me the bottle, 11:17 be damned.

Update on Shady Neighbor

Well, it seems the DEA have taken my neighbor for an indefinite stay at some detention center or other. I remain cautiously gleeful. "Gleeful" because he wasn't nice to my guest cats and because he had unsavory types banging in and out of my building in all of the wee-est of the wee hours. "Cautious" because he might come back. I have since spoken to other people in my building, one of whom went out on the morning of the raid to move his car, and apparently there were some 15 body-armored DEA types surrounding the building. I feel for the guy or two who got stuck with the duty at the back of the building where there is no pavement, only blackberry thickets, a rather sudden drop-off to the highway below, and squelchy raccoon turds in-between.

Since then I have heard several people approach the building and key in the now-obsolete entry code, only to be met with "entry de (wait for it) nied." I keep wanting to sing out a "he's in jail" response to the tune of "Nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah," but so far I've managed to restrain myself. The body armor lingers in my mind: body armor suggests the notion that our guy had weapons. Of the variety that require body armor. Which suggests the possibility that his bosom buddies are also packing heat. I'm not quite brave enough to taunt drug users who are (a) potentially armed, and (b) needing a next hit. There is a crabbiness quotient here reaching into the lethal zone, and I'm really more of a duck-and-covergirl.

So until I know that neighbor Shady McDealsSomeDrugs is truly gone for good, I'm outfitting the guest cats with wee little flak jackets and hunkering down behind my sofa to sing the Nyah Nyah song quietly to myself.

Life Among the Special People

Five o'clock this morning, I hear the sound of heavy boots outside my bedroom window. It's dark, still, at 5 o'clock in the morning, and as my bedroom window is below ground level and hidden from public view behind some dying rhododendrons, I'm less than thrilled about the heavy boots and the feet that are likely in them. I hear the sound of a police radio and somebody somewhere says, "Roger that," -- surely the last sound someone's drug stash hears before it heads down the great u-tube toward oblivion. But then I hear Boots keying in the numbers to open the front door, so I figure he lives in the building, and I roll over and attempt to go back to sleep. Seconds later there's a bright flash, a *bang* big enough to shake the building, and there's heavy boots running and heavy fists pounding, and before I know it, I've got my cordless phone in one hand and a panicking cat wrapped around the other, and I'm high-tailing it for a room with fewer windows. I hear someone shouting, "Police, open up!" from mercifully far away (2nd floor, toward the back) and then I'm not sure what happened for the next few seconds as I was busily dialing 9-1-1 and extricating the cat from my neck. The operator assures me that yes, this is a police "activity" (I imagine them making Christmas tree ornaments out of pieces of felt and colored pipe cleaners: this is an "activity." Men in full body armor setting off percussive devices and pounding on doors is not an "activity," it's a raid.) and I should stay inside. Really? I want to ask. Inside? And here's me, all set to stroll out in my jim jams and ask some really pertinent questions.

I can hear cops posted all around my apartment. I live in the corner unit, and I have exits on either side of me, so the police are hovering close. I realize that my Midwestern training has kicked in, and I am wisely cowering in a doorframe. That's the strongest structure, you know: the doorframe. But like a double-wide in a tornado, no amount of doorframe burliness is going to help me now, so I go sit on the couch and try to figure out what's going on. I can't see anything, so I'm listening like nobody's business. I'm all ears. I'm ears from here to here. Even my skin is listening. Prurient curiosity, I know, but I'm pretty sure the guy they're taking away has kicked my stray-cat foodbowl a time or two, so there's no love lost between the crazy cat lady and the psychopath on the 2nd floor. Good riddance, say I, and take your cat-hatin' drug-dealin' attitude-havin' . . . self with you. I realize this makes no sense, but I'm operating on little sleep and waaaaaaaaay too much adrenaline.

Parenthetically, I'd just like to add that (I used to live in one of the crappiest neighborhoods in the city. There were methheads littering the streets, and I had my own personal crack addict living under the stairs. Not once, in the year that I lived there, was I aware of a raid. My current building is the safest one I've been in in years. Go figure.) End of parentheses.

In any event, justice has presumably been done, at least temporarily. My little building is properly a-buzz with post-raid excitement, and my cats are down off the ceiling fan. I can continue feeding my guest cats with gleeful abandon, knowing that their foodbowls are safe. That is, after all, what it's all about.

Immigrant Bites President on Leg -- Millions Rejoice

A title from Yahoo! news today:

"Bush says immigrants must learn English"

missing subtitle:

"Immigrants respond: 'You first!' "

Oh Father, Who Art Serving Half-Price Pitchers Between 3 PM and Eternity

God, as of last Friday night:

As I was driving home today, I saw a white van with a bumper sticker that read, "When the last trumpet sounds, I'm outta here!"

I find that depressing. Since when did people start having the same attitude about life that most of us have about a bad day at work? Gee, I can't wait until this is over so I can go home? You realize you're not talking about getting in the Ford Explorer and driving to the 'burbs here, folks, you're talking about dying, right?

And what does that say about heaven? Is it some sort of eternal happy hour except all the drinks are Shirley Temples, and you can eat all the nachos and cocktail weenies you want and not get fat?

It is exactly this attitude toward life that makes me want to say to those banging on about religion and "finding" Jesus as though they'd misplaced him somewhere: "Yahweh ain't necessarily mahweh."

I'm taking my ballsy and I'm going home

There's a reason this picture is here, I swear. Read on.





Thanks for the picture:
http://mywebpages.comcast.net/wnor/spleen.jpg

"Ballsy" (meaning "brave") is such a great word -- it's crass, yes, but it's also direct, succinct, powerful and playfully daring. Sadly, if unsurprisingly, there's no really good female equivalent. Some might argue that this is because females are traditionally more craven and cowardly than males, but then those who argue that might soon find themselves on the business end of a botched circumcision. So, for the rest of us, it's time to find an appropriate feminine equivalent. There are a lot of brave, gutsy ("gutsy" is just too gender-neutral and frankly a bit ick-making) women out there who deserve a term of their own.

"Titsy" is, I think, a strong contender. It's fairly gender-specific (moobies notwithstanding), and has the same mischievous air of its south-of-the-border brother but not quite the level of Tropic-of-Capricorn vulgarity. Is "titsy," however, too playful? Is it a bit frilly, a bit girly, a bit . . . Barbie? It's a fun word to say, and I challenge you to say it now, out loud, wherever you are, however inappropriate it might be. What's the reaction? Did people ask you what you were reading (and did you tell them, 'cause frankly, I could use a broader audience)? Did they expect a profile of women's soccer in Sports Illustrated or a foldout in Penthouse? No, I think "titsy," while amusing, is a no-go. It's just a little too lightweight, lacking the gravitas of "ballsy."

So "ovaries," then? Ranks high on the gender-specificity, but a touch clinical, perhaps? "She's got ovaries," seems perhaps more accurate than descriptive and invites quizzical looks rather than high-fivin', fist-pumpin' shouts of "yeah!" and "you go, girl!" Possibly this could catch on as a term of admiration, but I don't have high hopes. Ovaries are mysterious, and most of us have only the most nominal idea of what this elaborate, interior scrollwork actually looks like. And there's no good adjective version available. "Wow! That was an ovary-ish thing to do!" is awkward at best. Ovarzish sounds like a Russian surname. Though that could just be the italics.

There are lots of seriously offensive possibilities that we're not going to discuss, so don't even start with me.

Perhaps the best alternative is to find a comfortable, gender-neutral term that has all the ooomph of "ballsy" but without its concomitant inequalities and its other-side-of-the-equator earthiness. "Brainy" is, tragically, in use, and in our cowboy culture, not as much a term of approbation. What other parts of the body denote strength, courage, fortitude? (If we must stick with the body-metaphor, and in the interest of space, I'm going to.) Well, according to several medical websites, the heart is the hardest-working organ in the human body, and the enamel of teeth is the hardest substance, but "hearty" and "toothy" are busy describing other things.

So I'm going to go for the obscure, the unexpected. That's what "ballsy" really means, isn't it? It's unexpected acts of bravery, surprising courage, the lunge for home plate or the top of the mountain against all odds. So I'm going for that most underrated organ: the spleen. The Rodney Dangerfield of the human body, the spleen is responsible for "creating lymphocytes which destroy and recycle red blood cells." (http://www.mamashealth.com/organs/spleen.asp) It is the body's eco-terrorist, staging midnight raids on used red blood cells that would otherwise hang around, reliving the glory days and littering the body like so much toxic waste. Like courage, we can live without our spleen, but how much poorer would life be then? So, the spleen it is.

The next time someone makes a bold, unexpected move, reward him or her with a thumbs up and a "Wow. Seriously spleeny."

Help us, Karen Yarbrough; You're Our Only Hope

Illinois General Assembly House Joint Resolution 125, introduced by Representative Karen Yarbrough on Thursday, April 20, 2006. Please contact her to show your support. http://karenyarbrough.com/index.html

WHEREAS, Section 603 of Jefferson's Manual of the Rules of the United States House of Representatives allows federal impeachment proceedings to be initiated by joint resolution of a state legislature; and
WHEREAS, President Bush has publicly admitted to ordering the National Security Agency to violate provisions of the 1978 Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act, a felony, specifically authorizing the Agency to spy on American citizens without warrant; and
WHEREAS, Evidence suggests that President Bush authorized violation of the Torture Convention of the Geneva Conventions, a treaty regarded a supreme law by the United States Constitution; and
WHEREAS, The Bush Administration has held American citizens and citizens of other nations as prisoners of war without charge or trial; and
WHEREAS, Evidence suggests that the Bush Administration has manipulated intelligence for the purpose of initiating a war against the sovereign nation of Iraq, resulting in the deaths of large numbers of Iraqi civilians and causing the United States to incur loss of life, diminished security and billions of dollars in unnecessary expenses; and
WHEREAS, The Bush Administration leaked classified national secrets to further a political agenda, exposing an unknown number of covert U. S. intelligence agents to potential harm and retribution while simultaneously refusing to investigate the matter; and
WHEREAS, the Republican-controlled Congress has decline to fully investigate these charges to date; therefore be it
RESOLVED, BY THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES OF THE NINETY-FOURTH GENERAL ASSEMBLY OF THE STATE OF ILLINOIS, THE SENATE CONCURRING HEREIN, that the General Assembly of the State of Illinois has good cause to submit charges to the U. S. House of Representatives under Section 603 that the President of the United States has willfully violated his Oath of Office to preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States; and be it further
RESOLVED, That George W. Bush, if found guilty of the charges contained herein, should be removed from office and disqualified to hold any other office in the United States.

All the Buzz

Somewhere under there is a biker.
Can you find her?








picture thanks to the guy who took it at
http://www.wmconnolley.org.uk/bees/misc-pics.html


Once a week I don the fancy biker pants complete with inset butt extender (otherwise known as a "gusset," or something equally unattractive) and commute from one of my jobs by bike. It's a sexy thing to do, I know: I'm all decked out in my padded pants and my used and rather tired hyper-fiber clothing originally from REI but recycled through previous bikers and a second-hand shop. Add to that look my perpetually worried face as I wonder if I'll make it home this time without a tire exploding somewhere en route, usually in some far-off BUFU locale where the only sounds are duelling banjos and the dripping of road-kill-possum fat into the campfire. I have those nifty shoes that clip into my pedals which are, I know, relatively awe-inspiring except when someone's Darwin-reject child darts out in front of me, and I can't get my foot loose from the pedal, and I go down with a very unBikerDudelike thump, hopefully taking the child with me and thus doing a public service in the name of tidying the gene pool.

All of this is merely a preface to my real discussion, which is about yesterday, when I rode, open-mouthed and oblivious, through a massive swarm of bees. "Open-mouthed" because I was panting from the exertion of biking. "Oblivious" until the Holy-Crap-I-Just-Rode-Through-a-Swarm-of-Bees awareness dawned. I had visions of a cartoon funnel of angry bees, disrupted in one of the more stressful moments of their busy little lives, coming after me, all butt-beweaponed and churlish. I could ride my bike into the lake, I realized, and likely drown because I wouldn't be able to get my feet loose from my pedals, but never mind, at least they wouldn't be picking bees out of my nose with tweezers at the hospital as they counted the stingers and wondered what I could possibly have done to piss off these relatively benign flying honey-pots.

Amazingly, despite riding pretty much right through the center of the gang (visions of swaggering, leather-jacketed tough bees, smoking last year's honey comb, beating up the larvae and shouting, 'Hey, biker, you want a piece of me? How 'bout an abdomen?'), I came up unstung. Even the one that blundered through one of the vents in my helmet and pinballed around my ponytail for a while opted to keep his stinger to himself.

Nothing much else happened, all the rest of that day.