The Charlie Bravo Story


This. Means. War. I was ready to let bygones be bygones, to forgive and forget. Live and let live. To put the scars of our last encounter behind us, and be able to live the rest of my life in a state of armistice.
But that time has passed. I was just minding my own business, blissfully unaware that a forthcoming attack was being planned to bring about my absolute demise.
And I’m talking about the yellow jackets.
The yellow and black spawn of Satan had begun showing up at the Casa over the last few years. They have been pretty chill for the most part, although they are bit bothersome when unsuccessfully competing with the hummingbirds for a turn at the feeders. I’ve often thought of attempting to find their nest and nuke it from orbit but never got around to it, subscribing instead to the policy of “laissez-faire, laissez-passer”; let be, let it go.
Bur a few weeks ago, they lit up first Charlie, then MacDuff, and then myself. Since they tend to build their hell holes in the ground, their nests are very difficult to discover, especially when one’s attention is occupied with running about and flailing wildly like demented windmill.
So I didn’t give them much thought when I went out to mow this afternoon, although I did make the dogs stay inside. My primary decision as to the inmate’s incarceration in the A/C was because of the triple digit temps that we have been experiencing; the yellow jacket issue was nowhere on my radar screen.
For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction; my particular action was to accidently mow over their nest, their reaction was to come flooding up out of the ground in retaliation. In the split second before they hit me, I remember thinking that if they would just give me the opportunity, I could explain to them that mine was an honest mistake and not worthy of capital punishment. Anyway, such thoughts of diplomacy were soon a moot point, as they gave me no such opportunity.
My second questionable idea came very shortly after the first: maybe the lawnmower could take me far enough away at enough of a rate of speed to make pursuit unlikely. This did not happen; my mower is simply a mower, nothing more, but nothing less. She is not a top-fuel dragster or an F-16, which is what it would have taken to successfully extricate me the firezone.
As it became obvious that my strategy for vehicular escape was flawed at it’s very core, I decided to try another much older method; the ancient martial art of Run Fu, as in “run fu yo life”. The fundamental idea at the base of this discipline is to not look at your two-legged method of propulsion as “running”, but instead the Latin term “progredientes alacriter” or to the novice, “advancing away with alacrity”.
I left the mower to fend for herself as I went quickly away from that place, but not quickly enough to keep from being hit multiple times. Fingers, arms, shins, all areas specifically targeted in advance by the yellow jacket’s high command to cause the most pain and suffering; this is due to the lack of tissue in those areas that is available to absorb and dissipate the injected poison.
What a sight I must have been; leaping and prancing frantically around the yard like an over-caffienated Richard Simmons minus the leg warmers. But it was worth it, because now they have tipped their evil little hands as to where YJGZ is located; if you’re wondering, that is an acronym for Yellow Jacket Ground Zero.
Mom took a can of wasp and hornet spray out to the nest and gave it a good blasting. Although I will admit that it was a decent opening salvo, I have soooo much more planned for the little heathens. It’s going to be new moon tonight, and I am planning to use the cover of the darkness to assist in my infiltration.
Then what am I going to do?
I can’t say, as I would be violating my own 5th amendment rights by doing so, and many of you would think much less of me if you only knew what I am truly capable of. Let’s just say my attack will include acts of war that are not protected under the rules of the Geneva Convention, and leave it at that.
It’s always a party at the Casa.

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