Swarmed.

I'll be gone all day tomorrow skiing (Whoot!), so I decided to go ahead and post for tomorrow too. Enjoy.

Of the many hilarious people in my family, my youngest brother is, by far, the funniest. I recalled this story about him the other day, and after the uncontrollable laughter subsided, decided to write about it...

Over the summer, our basement was assaulted by an enormous swarm of bees. It was the most bees in one concentrated area I had ever seen in my entire life. And bees...aren't exactly my BFFs. Needless to say, our family quickly became accustomed to their presence, and we, more or less, perfected the art of bee slaying. It was really more of a sport than anything else. Each family member had their own particular style of attack.

Mom was the tactical, aggressive type. She would strategically place "bug bombs" throughout the room and detonate them as she ran out of the room. Breach and clear, mom. Breach and clear.

Dad, much like myself, doesn't care for bees, and preferred the sit-back-and-watch-mom-do-it approach which is actually more effective than you would think...

My brothers and I tended to be the mercenaries of the group. We would venture into the basement on solo missions, armed with only our wet towels and at least half of our sanity intact. If you can picture Bruce Lee with a wet towel instead of nunchucks, I'm sure that's pretty much what we looked like. Although most of the time, we hit ourselves rather than the bees.

Anyway, my youngest brother, returning from one of his missions, dashes up the stairs, slams the door behind him, and immediately reports his findings. Gasping for air, he yells something to this effect at my dad:

Brother: "OH MY GOSH, DADDY. There are bees EVERYWHERE downstairs."

Dad: "What? I thought we'd killed those things. So, how many are there? Ten? Twenty?"

Brother: *pauses in deep thought* "Ummmm...maybe five, a little bit."

You've gotta love that kid.