* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where entomology lives! And as far as we're concerned, Zack Bornstein is the bee's knees -- as well as certain other more private portions of the bee's anatomy.

A Drone Bee With Sexual Anxiety: My Turn To Mate With The Queen


Look, Your Highness, with all due respect, I think we need to have a little talk before —

Please hear me out. I’ve been thinking a lot about us, and about this family you’re forcing me to start — yes, as a drone, it’s my only purpose in life — but to be frank, you’re just not — and please don’t take this the wrong way and have me executed — you’re just not my type.

Yes, I understand you’re the only type.

I mean no offense, but growing up — and I know my childhood consists of just yesterday — but growing up yesterday, I always imagined myself with someone a little, you know, younger than my mother. Someone who knows my name a little, someone a little…less constantly giving birth.

Ow! Look, I barely know you. I’m a sensitive guy. If this is my only purpose in life, I wouldn’t mind taking you out a couple a times. You like Indian food? Katz pastrami? I know a great Ethiopian place down on 3rd —

No? Maybe some small bits of leaves covered in pollen? Whatever you’re into —

Whoa, that’s gross! Do you just squeeze new bees out whenever you — never mind, Queen, try to understand: I’m a romantic. I like movies and galleries and that new tart frozen yogurt — so good, and good for you, too. There’s one right next to the Ethiopian place on —

Oh Jesus H! Twelve eggs just splattered out of your —

Okay Queen, honest hour: you’ve seen a lot of stingers. I’m talking thousands and thousands of guys literally just like me. And to a little drone like me, who’s clearly never stung anyone — you can tell because I’m still alive — it’s a little, you know, a little intimidating.

Don’t think that’s not because I couldn’t. I just always wanted my first time to be something special. You know — roses, candles, maybe lick honey off each other’s —

Hold on — please close whatever orifice that is. I can see halfway up your —

I’m not dying to make love to you — and I mean that in every way possible. I’m a little suspicious, but every guy you’ve ever been with has died — you’re literally drop-dead gorgeous. I realize it’s a biological thing, but still, is it right for me? One sting and I’m done, kaput?

Maybe I’m not meant for reproduction, maybe it’s not my thing. I see myself as more of an artist, a connoisseur, a sommelier —

Can you tell the guards to quit shoving me towards you?

Trust me, you don’t want this happen. It won’t be good for you. I’m literally the most inexperienced I could be. I’ve got no idea what I’m doing with this thing. It’ll probably hurt you. I know it’ll hurt me, and not just physically — I’m still very new to this whole living thing.

Ah, let go of that! There’re twenty guards watching us. Is there like a cabana or a waterbed in the back there? You’re the Queen, you’ve got to have something better than this mound of entrails for us to —

Seriously, do you think we’re ever ready to have a kid, let alone two hundred? It’s just too many too fast. And I know your thing about only girls — it’s fine, but I’ve always wanted a boy. You can’t play catch with girls — especially girl bees. No hands —

Plus, dear Moses, think of the shower drain, what with all of those girls shaving their legs — four hundred of them, six legs each — that’s what, five thousand hairy legs? Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t mind having a girl or two, but you want three hundred — how are we going to afford that on a drone’s salary?

And think of the car we would have to buy! I’ve never seen a minivan that could seat more than eight, maybe nine squeezed into my pop’s old Odyssey, and you’re thinking how many? Seven hundred? A thousand?

It’s just not feasible now. I’m young, I’ve got a career ahead of me. Sure, one whose only purpose is to fertilize you and die, but still, that’s a trade, a craft, a respectable profession —

You’re going to have me killed? C’mon — what, are you kidding? What’s the threat? Look at me! You think I’m packing a knife? Where, in my mouth? Just give me a chance to live a little, buy a motorcycle, explore the hive, find myself. We could still work this out in the end —

Fine, fine! Wait! Put me down, close your mouth. I won’t taste good. I’ll be chewy, gristly. There’s no meat here. Okay, Queen, I’m ready! I swear, look: my stinger, it’s ready. I love you — just let me go. Don’t let it end this way. I love honey, I know poetry. I want to be with you — just give me another chance to…