Shower Buzz

So there I was, peacefully ensconced in the shower. Shamming the poo right out of my hair. Minding the poo right out of my own business. It started slowly, almost imperceptibly, with a low droning buzz from the other room. "Strange" thought I, "What distant helicarrier be this?" (Anyone who ever tells you they don't think in "pirate-speak" while showering is a Class A Falsifier.) This buzz grew louder, and closer, until I had no choice but to accept the harsh reality of life. My ears were not deceiving me. A bee HAD indeed found it's way into my home, and was now performing a room-by-room search for me. I silently cursed the volume of the shower water, falling around me like a million tiny "plural form of Brutus." The terror of this situation was only magnified by the fact that this was all happening mid-shampoo, and while my ears remained on high-alert, my eyes were locked closed by the sudsy little rivulets now saturating my lush garden of eyelash hairs. I was as blind as a bird, (Yes, I'm pretty sure that's the saying.) and thrice as terrified. The bee droned on, down the hallway, and through the bathroom door. The hum of his sinister bombinations echoed against the light pink walls, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I began to beg for mercy. (Still in full on pirate mode, of course.) "No!" Says I. "Sting not your humble servant!" And still the hum crept closer, and closer to the shower curtain. Every inch of my exterior eyelid dripped now with the caustic substance that I relied on to degrease my head follicles. I knew that my only chance to evade the beast was if my sight were restored, but the consequences of opening my eyes now would be dire indeed. The hum became louder, more determined, the prize now tantalizingly close for my winged tormentor. I had to make the choice. Inaction would be the end of me. It was now or never. So I opened my eyes, and it stung.