Stings suck, or why I will no longer be bullied by the wasp lobby.

I've been spending a lot of time outside. Not because I like outside, but because my dachshund cannot be left unattended.

He loves tomatoes.

And now that my tomato plants are finally bearing fruit, he views my tiny garden plot as his personal salad bar. I say, "Frank! Get outta the tomatoes!" approximately 437 times a day.

So, I was standing next to the tomatoes, keeping watch while Lil' Frankfurter pretended to be looking for a place to potty. I was just standing there, you know? So, I decided to pull a weed.

Note to self: Pulling weeds is for suckers. Because I evidently interrupted a wasp. And to show his displeasure, that wasp stung my arm. Twice.

I like to think that I didn't start screaming "FUCK!" repeatedly until I was actually inside my house. For any neighbors who might report that that was not the case? I apologize.

But there I was, screaming "FUCK" in my kitchen, holding an icepack to my tricep while trying to open a Benadryl one-handed. I had forgotten how much wasp stings hurt. And how stupid individually wrapped medications are.

Then I took the Benadryl and forgot everything. My arm kind of hurt, but I was floating along. Nothing could faze me. Lil' Frank wanted to eat some tomatoes? Fiiiiiine.

But the next day? The next day, my arm featured a bright red welt about the size of a Little Debbie Oatmeal Crème Pie. It was hot. It hurt. It itched. And, according to the interwebs, it was "a large localized reaction."

Woe, woe is me! I kvetched about my sad, sad plight to pretty much anyone within earshot or within sight of the welt I'd covered with a paste made of baking soda. I'm turning into my grandma, but with way more whining.

One of my pals asked, "What do wasps do, anyway?"

It was a valid question. If I got in the way of a wasp who was researching leukemia or working on a road crew, that was one thing. But a wasp who was just chillin' in my yard, where he does not pay rent? That seems like something else entirely.

So, I did some research. The interwebs informed me that wasps are super-important. They do basically the same work as bees, except they aren't as beloved. And, if wasps go away? ARMAGEDDON. Mass environmental destruction. Fire raining from the sky! Dogs and cats living together!

I think we can all agree that this is propaganda from the wasp lobby. Big Wasp is behind all of these lies. Here's the truth:

Wasps are the payday loan sharks of the insect world.

Sure, some of them are bookies or own vaping emporiums. But for the most part? These greasy, too-much-cologne-wearing, pinky-ring-having slimeballs do nothing but rip off hardworking folks like you and me.

That wasp robbed me of an entire workday as I mellowed in a Benadryl stupor. And now I will never be a tricep model, as the welt is still evident. That's not even getting into the emotional scars.

So, friends, I beg of you: Do not get your information from Big Wasp. Do your own research. The next time a Facebook friend posts a pro-wasp link, don't just mindlessly click "Like." Seek out independent sources that aren't part of the pro-wasp media or under the wing of the wasp lobby. We have to think for ourselves.

Years ago, Mom, Poochie, and I stood at the sliding glass door, cheering as Dad sprayed Raid into one end of our metal jungle gym and then ran like hell as a swarm of wasps flew out the other end.

This "Leave It To Beaver"-like tableau is on my mind and close to my heart, especially in light of recent events. Dad? Thank you for teaching me what is right.

Conversations with my family.

Dad: So, I see you've been quoting me in your blog again.

Me: Yeah?

Dad: You know you can't just get away with that because I read your blog.

Me: I know, I know - but I can't think about White Christmas without thinking of how much you hate Rosemary Clooney's character! You calling her a bitch is what Christmas means to me!

Dad: Well, it's true. She's awful!

Me: Yeah.

Dad: You can't tell me that if they made a sequel to White Christmas that she and Bing Crosby wouldn't be divorced. They'd be divorced and the whole movie would be people telling Bing what a bitch his ex-wife was.

Me: So, another holiday film?

Dad: Right. You can't tell me that he could put up with her. They'd totally be divorced. That's why they never made a sequel to that movie.

And ... scene!

My dad's a smart guy, and he's got a point. But it got me to thinking ... what would happen in other holiday movies if they made sequels? Would Cindy Lou Who become a militant vegan who lectured the Whos on the evils of roast beast and who horrified her parents by piercing every bit of skin on her body?

What ever happened to Old Man Potter? Did he ever die, or was he involved in the Madoff scandal?

And Tiny Tim - did he inherit all of Scrooge's money and become a total visor-wearing, Kardashian-dating, reality show-having idiot?

These are the issues that keep me awake at night.

So, you know what this means. Yes. It's time for another giveaway.

Leave a comment with your most outrageous holiday movie sequel idea. The more inappropriate, the better. The most awesomest of the awesome sequel concepts will win what is truly a great gift basket ... let's just say that I purposely gathered an extra gift on par with what my besties will receive this year. It will change your life!

Sequel it up by noon on Sunday for a chance at fame and fabulous prizes. Make me laugh and enable me to do what I love: give shit away. Everybody wins!

Now. Whatever happened to Ralphie's little brother, Randy?