A very serious issue we all need to be concerned about is the presence of artificial intelligence in our everyday lives, and we will get to that shortly, but first we need to discuss how I got stung by a bee.

At the time, I was sitting on the dock at the lake, with my wife, drinking an ice-cold can of Ovaltine.

I saw the little bee, flitting through the air. He looked so busy and diligent. Almost cute, even.

Generally, I don’t worry about bees. Bees hardly ever do any harm. I vaguely remember thinking to myself, “Gee, I hope that bee doesn’t land on me.”

But anyone who knows anything about bees, however, knows they are deeply attracted to redheads. Bees, you’ll note, are the ONLY creatures on the planet attracted to redheads. God knows, girls aren’t.

I learned this in middle school when kids started playing kissing games wherein they would draw a circle on the floor and make a boy stand in the center. The girls would either kiss the boy or pay a fine. I made $21.34.

The bee landed on me. Specifically, it landed on my hair.

That’s when I yelled: “It’s a bee!” I said this for the benefit of my wife. I’m sure the bee already knew it was a bee.

My wife, who was reading a magazine, saw the bee in my hair and a crazed look came over her.

“I see it,” said my wife. “Don’t move.”

My wife was inching toward me, with an eager grin on her face. The same excitable, almost insane glare she gets whenever she finds a pimple on someone’s body. My wife loves pimples. She is obsessed with pimples. Whenever she sees one, she has to pop it. This pimple could be on anyone’s body. It could be on the chin of, for example, Meghan Markle, Duchess of Sussex, and my wife would tell her to hold still.

“Just don’t move,” she said.

She held a rolled-up Real Simple magazine like a tennis racket. The magazine, poised high, was hovering over my parietal lobe.

“Do not hit me with that magazine,” I said.

“Relax.” She raised the magazine higher.

“Jamie,” I said. “I am serious, if you hit me with that—”

SWAT!

I nearly blacked out on impact. By then, the bee had relocated to my cheek, and I could not believe what I was seeing. My wife was drawing back with the magazine again.

“Don’t hit me with that mag—!”

SWAT!

“Quit hitting me!” I shouted.

That’s when the bee moved to my lap region.

We both just looked at it, lingering there on the tendermost portion of my body.

“Don’t even think about it,” I said.

“Just don’t move.”

My wife cocked her magazine arm and, just like that, I lost the ability to sire children.

By then I was groping myself, in too much pain to care if the bee stung me. So, just to hold up his end of the bargain, the bee stung me on the foot and flew away gaily.

My foot still hurts like a mother. I don’t know how anyone can think about artificial intelligence at a time like this.