“What’s with that getup?”
Listen, jackass. It’s a beekeeper’s outfit. I need it, okay—we all do. What am I going to do, let the bees sting me? It’s a protective measure, and I’d appreciate you not giving me the third degree about clothing that’s just part of my culture.
“So, you like, have bees at your house?”
It’s like you people don’t even listen to me. Take a picture, it’ll last longer. Look: I’m white. I’m a man. My home and backyard are filled with dangerous worker bees that produce honey for me. It’s not that unusual and you don’t need to keep staring at me like I’m some circus freak, okay?
“Why are you a beekeeper?”
Ugh, women. No, I don’t keep bees. Nobody does. I work with bees. They’re my friends. Typical. I’m sure you non-white men just don’t understand our culture and our way of life. You have to just accept there are things that you just can’t understand unless you’re a white guy.
“Do you get stung a lot?”
Um, wow, you’re literally not allowed to ask me that? There is such a thing called “boundaries” and it seems like you and the bees both don’t understand that. By that I mean yes, I am stung an enormous amount, because just like you, the bees don’t seem to grasp the struggle of the white man in this society. While the relentless, never-ending bee stings hurt, your intolerance hurts more.
“What’s that cologne you’re wearing?”
Wow. Cologne? Does your insensitivity know no bounds? I’m wearing bee pheromones, to make me more sympathetic to the bees that have begun to overtake my home. Maybe you could take a page out of their book and cloak yourself in a scent more pleasing to me for a change.
“Honey” is so condescending and patronizing to call a white man and– oh, you were asking about the honey my bees produce, this is embarrassing. Anyway, fuck you, suddenly we’re best friends now that you learn about my bees and my honey?
“Excuse me sir, do you have the livestock permits for these bees?”
Alright officer, I have them right here. BEES! GET HIM!