The Bees are still my friends.

My friends, I know that bees are good and gentle creatures. I also know that they seem to defy the physics of air resistance. Also, I enjoy to watch the bees buzz about the flowers and trees; however, I do not enjoy the feel of the bee's sting. Tuesday, you see, I was frolicking in the grass with my barbarian friends, and a bee stung my foot. It hurt, and then it hurt more. I declared my pain, but only in such a way that would not embarrass me in front of my barbarian friends. "Bar bar bar!" I exclaimed, and then summoning all my manliness, I removed the stinger manually from my flesh. A proud and joyful yawp followed, one that signified my embrace of the pain. Though the wound continued to sting, I displayed no expression of discomfort, for I was among barbarians. I would like to say that did the same when I had bitten generously into a sizable jalapeño earlier that day, but I shall leave you to manful assumptions on the matter. Back to the wound delivered unto my foot by Nature itself, once the pain stopped, I forgot about the event until the next day. It was then that I noticed that swelling had surrounded the previously inconspicuous wound, and this swelling waxed considerably. In fact, it still appears to be waxing. Here is the point: if I die by bee sting more than a day after the event, remember how heroically I endured the suffering of being so stabbed by a poison-laced blade. At my funeral, therefore, play the tragic tunes of Tchaikovsky's Hamlet fantasy overture, dedicated to none other than Edvard Grieg. I have never listened to it, but I have no doubts that it is a delight. I would also like a eulogy for the bee that stung me, thanking it for this opportunity for me to display my might.