It's a Zen question for the season. If a mayhem reporter leaps from his second story porch with a girlish shriek, who will write a story about the ugly aftermath? Who will come with notebook and camera to tell the tale of the ravaged reporter who leaped to his demise for no clear reason?

It almost happened. It was mid-afternoon Friday, April 30. The sky was clear and the heat was intense. It was the first real warm day of the season. I knew it, the throngs of people at ice cream stands knew it and the winged, stinging insects knew it.

I despise winged, stinging insects. They are treacherous and tricky and they can sense from miles away when someone is relaxed.

I was relaxed the day in question. I had the newspaper in one hand, a giant cup of coffee in the other. I was barefoot and my legs were propped up on the porch rail. As far as I was concerned, this was bliss. This was the kind of day a person endures six months of winter for.

The terror came from the east. It was a brownish bug roughly the size of a small helicopter. It zigged and zagged and cast menacing shadows on my newspaper. I glanced up in the early stages of panic and there it was. A hornet or wasp or some bee on steroids. It's wings were long and sleek. The stinger looked like a spear with barbs designed by evolution and it was pointed straight at me.

Here's where you have every right to shake your heads in disgust and commence calling me a sissy. The scene was not one I would want replayed on videotape footage years from now as I recount my years of bravery on the crime beat.

I jumped to my feet and uttered the aforementioned squeal of terror. Remember the sounds little girls made on the playground when you threw frogs at them? My screech was even more sissified. It's a Homer Simpson shriek.

Next, I flung the newspaper away so that it would not slow down the speed of my flight. In my haste, I overturned the giant cup of coffee and dumped some of the scalding brew on my bare leg. Then I bumped into a porch table that was impeding my path to safety.

All you macho woodsman know that aggressive insects crave this kind of commotion. They love the fright they've inspired. I'm certain that wasps, bees and hornets laugh parts of their tiny anatomy off when they see such a spectacle.

The bug/helicopter was zipping around my head when I hurled myself from the porch and back into the safety of the apartment. But by now, I was convinced the little demon had landed on my back and was positioning itself for the final attack. When this happens, you have to do a little dance with your head craned around impossibly on your neck. If there is someone in the room with you, it's imperative that you start screaming: "My back! Is there something on my back? There is, isn't there!"

There was nothing on my back. The humongous bug went off to pollinate something or to torment a little girl on a playground. I was unscathed, aside from the scalded leg, the stubbed toe and the jack-hammering heart. Ha! Child's play. Because, understand this: I'd rather jump in front of a train, dive onto a pile of broken glass or drive my car into a stinking bog than let one of those creatures get on me.

It's not the pain. I've been stung several times and barely flinched. No, it's the notion that one of those baleful bugs can get on you and then use its diminutive size to drive you to madness. It could be on the back of your neck. It could fly up your pant leg or down your shirt. The most insidious threat is the one you can’t see and I want no part of it. I’ll go out in the woods and take my chances with a bear or a dinosaur or something. Even if they pick me up and swallow me whole, at least I’ll know where they are as it’s happening.

Before you go mocking me and making buzzing noises wherever I go, I’ll say this. Some of the meanest people I’ve known had similar neurosis when it comes to stinging insects. They’d fight anyone, sneer at guns or knives and take any sort of dare thrown at them. But let an insect buzz by their heads and they’re all high screeches and flailing arms as they beat feet in a trail of dust and screams.

There is just no room for macho in the insect world. No room at all. In fact, I read a recent article that explains how stinging insects are designed by nature to instill fear and loathing into otherwise intrepid humans. It was in a magazine, for God's sake. It must be true.

That’s all I’ll say on the subject. I’ve said to much already. Just, before I go, would you check my back for me? Is there something on me? There is, isn’t there!