The guys in the field baled up a nest of bumble bees (probably on purpose, the bastards). The bees took great umbrage at this, but they realized that the perpetrators would be beyond their reach once they disentangled themselves from the hay. Given this, they delayed their counter assault for when the bale in question had taken its ride up the elevator into the barn where it became the responsibility of the poor fool up there attempting to not die of the heat while he was filling his respiratory system with dust and chaff. At this point, the poor fool became aware of something poking at his ankle. A quick inspection revealed that the ankle in question was covered with furry yellow and black bodies. It was at this point that the pain kicked in. A medical conference was held and the conclusion was that the ankle should be soaked in the somewhat cool water of the stock tank. By the end of the day, the ankle had achieved impressive size. A good night's rest resulted in the owner of said ankle being completely unable to stand on that foot. Ah, the memories. (For this, and other reasons too numerous to list, I hated, and continue to hate, baling)
