I’m being dragged along some wilderness trail by some nature loving Berkeley college girl, whom I’m probably trying to get into the over pocketed kaki pants of. Exhausted, I stopped by the creek to wrench off my $20 Payless hiking boots and soak my feet. Mercifully, before I’m forced to continue on, I choke to death on a Powerbar and keel over into the stream. My flesh decomposes and my bones, absorbing the minerals in the creek bed, ossify.
Sixty five million years later (after the odd Ice Age or two) my fossilized remains are found by a paleontologist of the insect-like Bee People. Slowly, delicately, he liberates my bones from the surrounding rock using only an antenna brush and thorax pick.
Once inside the Bee Museum of Natural History my skeleton is arranged in a dramatic battle scene depicting a savage life-or-death struggle with my natural prey–the skeleton of a wooley Holstein cow, which rears up on it’s hind legs and bears it’s fangs! My razor sharp mandibles (in actuality my scapula (or shoulder blades) which are mistakenly mounted on either side of my skull by a Bee scientist who believes them mandibles) are poised to rip out my foe’s throat!
In the background there are beautiful oil paintings depicting events of my everyday life: Displaying my brightly colored head-crest to attract a mate, regurgitating a paper-like substance to build my hive, caring for the larvae, etc.
Down below, a little bee-kid clutching a stuffed Inky toy looks up at the giant skeleton towering over him.
