The birds and the Bees

At this time of year, with all the flowers growing and the sun shining and the lambs skipping and the skin burning and the release of Motheiths summer ale, people start getting together. I firmly beleiv that relationships move in seasons just like, well, the real seasons. The about four months ago, and for the duration of about two months, peoples blood starts fizzing around, and then they get their mack on. And about two weeks away from the end of winter, the dumpening happens. The true test of a relationship, I think, is getting through these seasons without being affected too much. For a single person like me, the test is observing these seasonal happenings and not getting depressed about those happenings not happening to you, unless you decide to be happening all by yourself, of course. HAPPENINGS.
Anyway, speaking of happenings, what with many of my friends being in relationships and terms like "marrage" being thrown around (admitedly, the only time such word was thrown around was just then, when I typed it, but still, if any of you guys do decide to tie the knot I am best man. If not, I get to be godfather for your helpless sprog. Cause if you don't do these things for me I will get drunk at your wedding, make an arse of myself and invite myself along to your honeymoon with a camcorder and a high speed wireless internet connection) yes, with the thoughts of marriage looming, I decided I had better give my readers "The Talk" before you get all suspisious about where all those little pink clones came from. You know the talk. The one your dad or mother gave you all those years ago.
In my case, my mother got a book out from the libary with diagrams and numbered parts.
In my dads case, he waited until I woke up one afternoon, made me a cup of coffee, and gave me a box of condoms. Both approches were valuable in their own way.
Some people call this talk "The Birds And The Bees".
I have often wondered about that. What do the birds have to do with putting the wee-wee in the hoo-hoo? And bees? What crackhead came up with this shit?
As it turns out, however, the birds and the bees are what we call a METAPHOR, which means to lie creatively so your eight year old son doesn't try it. But how is it a metaphor? Well, I have the truth from a very reliable source (I made it up with MY BRAINS) and shall now impart the truth to you with:

FLAN HYPERBOLE'S TRUTH EXTRAVAGANZA BEHIND THE BIRDS AND THE BEES: EXTRA SPECIAL TRUTHFUL ADDITION OF GREATNESS INSPIRED BY BOREDOM!

For a start, what are the birds, and what are the bees? Well, pretty obviously, birds are females, as this story was made in that time where women didn't have the rights they did today and slapping a man for calling you a bird would have gotten you thrown in the mental house or just a damn good rogering from your man, your master and social better. Also, birds have pretty feathers, which, just like womens clothing, they use to attract a mate. Their sounds have often been called attractive, but also damn annoying when they go on and on and on for no apparent reason in the early hours, the late hours and every damn middle hour. Birds also make eggs, just as human females do. Next time you eat a chicken egg, remember, your aren't eating a small chicken, you are eating chicken menstruation. For these reasons, Birds are Wommen in this story.
Bees, are therefore of course, men. They hang around in packs, have a pack mentality, make lound noises, dress the same (black and yellow for bees, jeans and t-shirts for human males), talk about the same things over and over again, are stupid and have a "stinger". The stinger is very importaint, for it is much of what the bees "buzz" about. So much so that many bees buzz that they wouldn't be bees at all without their stinger. Infact, that they would die without it. This too is very importaint in the story.
In the story, there are also flowers. Flowers are the child support services bacase they do nothing.
The story begings. It is of course a spring day, where, as we have noted previously, the warm air makes the birds sleek down their plumge and the bees stingers tingle. The bees have been with their bee friends all day, drinking necter.
A bee spies a bird across a crowded medow. Their gazes lock. It is love at first sight. They begin a complicated flight where both the bird and the bee try to get nearer each other while at the same time make no move to go closer to each other at all. To the bee and the bird this flight dance is incredibly confusing as neither knows if the other is actually dancing at all or meerly just flying around. To everyone else, however, it is blatantly obvious and they wish the bird and the bee would hurry up and bang so they don't have to hear about it.
Suddenly, either the bee or the bird makes a move. Either the other dancer flys away hurredly, or the two participants of this ritual meet in the middle of this medow which is hopefully a metaphor for a room and not an actual medow where anyone could see.
From now on it gets a bit mechanical. Coitus is on.
The Bees job is to inject his insides into the bird so that sometime later the bird will put forth new life. He does this by way of his stinger, which, after the bird and the bee have made themselves comfortable on a hopefully soundproofed branch somewhere, he pushes into the birds skin. However, because he is a bee as well as a man, his stinger is coated with poison and the resulting orgasmic "pleasure" at completing his act causes a full body spasm in which the bee shits out his internal organs and succumbs to the final sleep. The Bird, who I have often suspected gets the worse end of the deal in this encounter, at least when I am involved, is upset at the indignanty of having an organ pushed inside her, which, by the way, has been severed from the bee. The stinger is now the property of the bird, and by extension, the bird now owns the bee. A pity the bee is now dead. The chance to lament this situation does not last long, however, as the poison left by the bee from his stinger courses through the birds blood stream. The bird too succumbs to death and falls from the branch to rot on the ground.
Nine months later, the miricale of life is witnessed by the flowers who do nothing as about seventy maggots, the deformed ofspring of the unnatural union between bird and bee, explode from the corpse of their parent and begin, slowly, to devour it down to its bones. Soon, the maggots shall turn into flies, the pre-pubescant stage of the bee, and until they develop their stingers most of their time shall be spent eating, pooping and hanging upside down from things.
And the great cycle of life continues.

Wasn't that wonderful? Just think, when your parents told you this story, what they were really telling you was if you stick it in her, or let him stick it in you, you gonna die. As far as metaphors go, I think it is a pretty good one, and has the added bonus of being sickly.
But isn't that what sex is, anyway? I was thinking about it, as I do, and even though I bemoan the fact of its lack in my life, isn't sex gross? Your parents doing it. Eww. Your grand parents doing it. Ewwwww. Even that fat guy from school who used to breath with his mouth open and had bad hygine has probably paid for it by now. Ewwwwwwwwwww. I mean, I certainly wouldn't want to stick my junk, or anyone elses junk, in my mouth, and although it isn't essential to the maggot making process but many people do it. In fact, many things in the lead up to and during the creating life process are pretty gross, but as soon as someone else is doing them to you it all works differently.

But then again, like I say, it's been a while for me. I forget things. But I don't forget when you put something inside someone THEY OWN IT. Have fun fucking, fuckers.

In other news: I have been seeing a lot more people who aren't there. It be strange. Oh yes.