Stephen Bishop
[While working a hive, a BEEKEEPER carried on a thoughtful conversation with HER MAJESTY, who just happened to be in a chatty mood. As you likely know from reading the tabloids, there’s been some royal intrigue, mostly concerning the relationship of the queen and her daughters, the latter of whom have been spotted by paparazzi lazing about the landing board. Meanwhile, her good-for-nothing sons have done diddly squat, except drain the royal coffers of honey. During all this drama, the queen had remained quiet – in fact, she hadn’t been seen for weeks – but upon opening the hive, the BEEKEEPER saw her majesty frequenting a top bar, no doubt searching for a stiff drink.]
HER MAJESTY: Barkeep, a gin and tonic please. I need a break from all this royal fuss. You would think, living in a palace, I could find some peace and quiet somewhere, but I can’t go anywhere without these dratted attendants.
BEEKEEPER: (looking around to see who said that): What the heck?
HM: Hey, yeah, you – you’re the barkeep right? This is your queen speaking, and I’m ordering you: bring me a gin and tonic.
BK: But you’re a bee. You can’t speak. That’s not possible.
HM: Ha! Funny, I needed a good laugh. All I do is speak, lay eggs, and host garden parties. Last week, we had representatives from the colonies of Australia – real delightful people, but all the press wanted to focus on was my children, who, let’s be honest, need to be taken behind the London Tower and whipped.
BK: Tower of London? We’re in the foothills of North Carolina.
HM: Ah, yes, whose capital is named after old Queen Elizabeth’s good friend, Sir Walter Raleigh. You know, rumor has it, she and Raleigh had a thing for one another. Too bad my great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather, King James I, had Sir Walt sent to the chopping block. Judging from his portrait, Raleigh wasn’t a bad looking chap, but don’t tell Prince Albert that I said that – I wouldn’t want to make him jealous.
BK: Wait, Prince Albert? Who are you exactly?
HM: Dear sir, I am Her Majesty Victoria. By the grace of God, I am Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland – and Empress of India.
BK: You can’t be Victoria; she died over a century ago.
HM: I assure you, sir, as the dot on my thorax signifies, I am your Queen, and as such, I command you, Royal Barkeeper, to bring me that gin and tonic. Were I not so desperate for a drink, you would already face stiff punishment for your wanton disregard for royal protocol. To think a mere barkeep has the gall to question his Queen!
BK: But I’m not a barkeeper; I’m a beekeeper. All I have is isopropyl alcohol for Varroa mite washes. And the only protocol I know is that six mites per three-hundred bees means I need to treat the hive for Varroa.
HM: Do you continue to disobey the direct order of the Crown? Guards, seize him! [guard bees start circling and buzzing aggressively]
BK: I swear I’m not a barkeeper. I don’t even drink. And you’re not a former Queen of England – you’re a talking bee!
HM: Seize Him! Off with his veil!
[guard bees start pelting BEEKEEPER’s veil; he starts smoking hive heavily, while taking stings in both arms. Then, in anger, he grabs his hive tool and smashes HER MAJESTY. Suddenly, ALL BEES stop moving.]
ALL BEES (in unison): The Queen is dead! Long live the Queen!
Stephen Bishop is a humor writer who lives in the foothills of North Carolina. Remember: if you talk to your bees and your bees talk back, it’s best to change your smoker fuel. You can see more of Stephen’s work at misfitfarmer.com or follow him on twitter @themisfitfarmer.
