Insect Monarch

All Insecta was abuzz. The time to elect a monarch was upon us, and while a certain species of butterfly seemed to have the inside track, the outcome was by no means a foregone conclusion. Indeed, the candidates were teeming, and vetting was both thorough and merciless.

Mabel, one of the leading candidates, was being grilled by a swarm of interviewers.

"Is it true," asked a dung beetle, "that you are a submissive mate, in keeping with the tenets of the SLC?"

There was an angry buzzing and an assortment of ... not cat calls ... maybe bug calls ... from the assemblage.

"Irrelevant!"

"Speciesist!"

"Boo!"

"Bzz!"

"But," replied the dung beetle, defending himself, "Mabel is running as a devout adherent of the Six-Legged Code, and she herself made the 'submissive mate' statement."

Some of the more stingered among the audience began to circle. Mabel waved them down, a praying mantis could.

"Thank you for that question," she smiled at the dung beetle, although she appeared to be lining him up between her forelegs. "I am, indeed, a submissive mate. And when I say 'submissive,' I mean that I bit his head off. That's what 'submissive' means to us. I wish he could be here to confirm that for you, but ... I was just too darn submissive."

"That's a relief," said the dung beetle, sweating profusely, despite his species. "At least, we know you're not a fundamentalist."