Posted on 12/28/2006 9:00:01 AM PST by B-Chan
They could have had the hive that caused a huge hole in my front yard!
Dang global warming. Has anyone called Algore?
Citrus production.... hmmmm. Are the Florida growers using any kinds of other pesticides that might be affecting the bees?
C'mon. This one's obvious. It's all Bush's fault. These bees refuse to live in a nation that refuses to sign Kyoto.
"Fall Dwindle"...what a name!
Obviously, the bees' jobs have been outsourced to Mexican killer bees, and they've migrated in search of work.
}:-)4
Maybe their genetic material simply breaks down after a few colonies are produced, like a time clock running out. Only the original "main" strain can keep up the production of new colonies............
GREAT tagline! Howling over here!!
My grandfather in PA lost all his bees and all his stuff in the orchards and fields is 100% pesticide free (and looks like it - hope you like bugs with your apples).
I blame it on the Africanized "Killer" bees - doing work that American bees just won't do. /sarc
No corpses; bees have probably flown the coop.
This die-off cycle has apparently been noticably going on for nearly 100 years. Hence the archaic-sounding name. It's quaint and very turn of the century - the 19th century! ;-)
THE BEES ARE LEAVING - OMG - Do you suppose they know something we don't? Could be TEOTHPAWKI (The End Of The Honey Pot As We Know It)!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!
Yes. A statue of bees was found with the inscription "So long, and thanks for all the pollen".
LOL! Ya gotta love the occasional obscure Douglas Adams reference (may he rest in peace)...
To bee, or not to bee: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
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