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My Bee Name: The Peter bird get the bee in the ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ face.




You love beans. You’ve always loved beans. You’ve loved beans since you were the size of a bean, which you were until the age of twelve. That was when you ate your first bean, a nourishing meal that made you grow to the size of roughly a thousand beans, a size that you have remained being to this day. Now you eat beans every day for every meal. You eat every bean that crosses your path. Your monstrous appetite for beans can never be satisfied. It is Thursday and you are visiting your doctor about your terrible stomach pains, that are probably unrelated to all of the beans that you eat. It’s bad news.

“If you eat one more bean you will die,” says the doctor, pointing to a diagram of a bean on the wall. “So stop eating beans.”

You slowly produce a bean from your shirt pocket. It is a shiny and green, like all beans. “What are you doing?” says the doctor. “Don’t eat that bean, it will kill you.”

You press the lovely bean against your lips with the index finger of your right hand, rolling it around slightly and pushing it just gently enough that your lips begin to part and the bean’s pearly skin skims the enamel of your teeth, which have partly rotted away thanks to all the sugar that’s in beans. That familiar bean smell fills your nostrils. Oh god. You want to eat this bean so bad.

“It’s very important that you don’t eat the bean,” says the doctor.

You produce a second bean from a small purse you hang around your neck. It looks much the same as the first bean, which you continue to press against your lips. The doctor is beginning to panic. “Why won’t you say anything?” he screams. “Why do you love beans?”

You eat bean number one. No doctor’s going to tell you to not eat a bean. You’re the man who can’t stop eating beans. You swallow the bean and move on to bean number two. ♥♥♥♥ this doctor. He said you couldn’t eat a bean, yet here you are eating no fewer than two beans on the trot. What a ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ nerve. You die.