I don’t claim to have a comprehensive understanding of the world.
Or even an adequate one, really.
I’m gonna be thirty in a handful of months, and I think in those three decades on this Earth I’ve learned only a few definitive, concrete rules that I’d feel confident now passing on to others.
Their order of significance varies as the days come and go, but chief among them always is:
Don’t fucking fuck with wasps!
Having spent my childhood summers in the Czech countryside, it is a lesson learned hard and viscerally imprinted: One wasp is enough. It will fuck you up. More than one? Run for the hills, you moron.
So to watch a man casually climb a stepladder and then calmly narrate his own barehanded annihilation of an entire goddamn nest full of the little murderbuzzers—
Well fuck, I guess Wednesdays are the days for finding out that even as you near thirty years of age you actually know fuckall about the world.