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Summit Up

Good morning and welcome to Summit Up, the world’s only daily column scared to know where all these bees are coming from.

Maybe it’s an omen: We were having coffee Friday morning with one of the subjects of our many crushes, when we learned she’s allergic to bees. We learned this, you might have already guessed, because a particularly kamikaze apian variety was either trying whisper something in our ear, or pierce it for us.

Oh, but it’s not over there. Not two hours later (we had to sneak in a round of disc golf before going back to the office; shhh, don’t tell) we exit our excuse-for-a-truck and turn around to see that we’ve, for how long we’re not sure, been sitting on a bee. It’s a good thing our bucket seats are so comfortable; if we’d had to realign our posture too severely, we might very well be writing this lying on our stomachs right now.

And there’s more: As we write, there is another bee zipping about the Corporate Suites, no doubt plotting a dive-bombing run for that split second we take our eyes off him. (Or her. We’re not sure how one sexes bees, and we’re not about to try.)

It always surprises us when we see bees here in Summit Up Land. Scientists to this day are perplexed as to how these insects fly at all, and we always figured the thin mountain air would make it that much harder. Unless, of course, these are genetically engineered bees. These could very well be mutant killer bees sent after us by any of the many groups we regularly deride in this space right here. It could be the fast food trade industry, those discount retailers, the resorts or some scientist we offended with a Scum Alert! Who knows, instead of poising our water supplies or using shoulder-mounted rockets to down more airplanes, maybe al-Qaeda has come up with something even more sinister.

Sorry. We realize we’re probably crying wolf here, but we haven’t had our coffee yet today.

Moving on …


Matt Shelton has a good point, but it’s more than that. It’s a Scum Alert!! Scum Alert!! We’ll let him explain:

“What is it with sticky-fingered, hog-licking, petty thieves in this county? I have lived here almost seven years and have played softball for each of the six summers here. I have yet to make it through one season without someone pilfering something of mine (three pair of shades, one glove, one pair sandals, and – get this – an athletic cup)! Only two games into this young season and someone decided that MY sweaty, well broken-in sandals were fair game. They disappeared sometime Thursday evening while I was out playing a doubleheader on the Blue River fields. They are a pair of Bass sandals, 9 1/2. I don’t expect to see my beloved sandals again, but for whomever filched them, I can only wish upon them the foot fungus that undoubtedly lives on those sandals! Hopefully, the fungus will not stop at their toes. Perhaps they will also lose their fingers and no longer be able to serve their own five-fingered discount.”

Well put, Mr. Shelton.

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