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A pleasant afternoon of Temecula Valley wine tasting is ruined by killer bees, but Chris and Sally Sadhart were at least prepared for the stinging contingency by their California Health Insurance agent.

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Wine Tasting

Chris and Sally would never have thunk it. They were an amorous and amiable couple, married for the better part of three years, prudent in the extreme, and were headed out to Temecula for a pleasant sojourn of wine tasting. “The tour will be fun,” Sally said, “and the local wines are superb.”

But there were so many wineries to choose from. Finally, a fateful decision was made. They turned their 2007 Toyota Tundra into the driveway and parked.

The tour began pleasantly enough. Harry, their guide and waiter, brought over twin tasting glasses of Syrah. “It’s a dry red table wine,” he said, “very nice.”

“Very nice,” Chris and Sally echoed in unison. The afternoon was perfect. A cloudless sky, not excessively hot, a little breeze was blowing at low levels near the ground, like a miniature headwind. It felt good on the skin.

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Next was a Cabernet Sauvignon. “This one is mild, note its deep red color, and its blackberry aroma,” the suave Harry said, dressed in a lavender Tuxedo, to accent certain flavors.

“Wow,” said Sally, “this is wonderful!”

“Indeed,” echoed Chris.

Harry interjected a factoid to make the couple’s experience yet more delicious. “Were you aware that this Sauvignon is aged in oak barrels for 18 months prior to bottling?”

He didn’t say that the particular oak tree on the premises used by the winery for bottling had been destroyed because it had been infested by killer bees.

“No, we weren’t aware,” Chris replied a little too loudly and emphatically.

The Zinfandel arrived next at their outdoor table. “This white dessert wine doesn’t age well, I’m afraid,” he spoke a second prior to the look of pure fear becoming apparent on his features.

At the worst possible moment, the Sadharts began arguing.

“It’s spicy,” said Sally.

“You’re wrong. It’s fruity!” Chris yelled with altogether too much emphasis.

The swarm of killer bees, guided to their table by the current of the micro-breeze and the vibrations of their arguing and possibly by Harry’s colorful if incongruous attire, began stinging the couple again and again. This did not feel good on the skin.

The Sadharts were fortunate that Harry had once been an ambulance driver and that an Urgent Care center was very close, and especially that the bills were taken care of.

“It was prudent of us to obtain emergency coverage from a California Health Insurance agent,” Sally purred through swollen lips a few days later. “We were extremely prudent, dear, although we’ll be in agony for the next few weeks.”

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Stian had never been considered especially responsible by his parents – until he “popped the question” to a helpful California health insurance agent.

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 He was blonde, tall, handsome and invincible according to his peers, a group of fellow 24-year-olds considered equally invincible by each other. All of them were recent college graduates prone to taking incredible risks. Bryan, a heavy-set version of Stian, liked to hang glide off the steepest California cliff faces, catching the first thermal while shouting madly in his counterfeit Dylanesque twang, “You don’t need a weatherman to see which way the wind blows.” Angela, an emaciated version of Bryan, did roulette drugs by needle just “for the thrill of it.” Carrie, a Gothic version of Angela, enjoyed being buried alive and popping up unexpectedly in the manner of her cinematic namesake.

Stian would run barefoot through rattlesnake pits with one of his friends holding a stopwatch as he raced to and fro. “Do it again,” Angela would trill, “You’re so funny.” Carrie would pop up like a tart and sometimes Bryan would glide into view, usually with a beer in his left hand, the sinister one.

“Where did he come from?” they’d all ask, except for Stian, who was concentrating on the pit vipers.

But one day Stian’s parents Joe and Flo came by to bring their son a latte. “What do you think you’re doing?” asked a horrified Joe.

“He’s twenty-four and still doesn’t have the sense of a pet rock,” murmured Flo.

“You’d think he’d at least have health insurance when he pulls these stunts.” Joe told his wife, still in a state of shock for the moment instead of The Golden State, “But no-o, not our irresponsible son.”

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Stian gingerly stopped his antics with the snakes and stepped out of the pit as if he’d been bitten. He’d overheard what his parents had been saying about him. He was sobbing as he walked past an incredulous Angela, Carrie, and Bryan straight to his parents, also incredulous.  “Here’s your latte,” his mother said, attempting to hand it to him.

“Hold onto that,” Stian said, still teary-eyed, “just hand me your cell.” Flo’s cell phone was pink, with black crocodiles on the receiver.

“Who are you going to call?” Joe asked softly.

Through a drizzle of tears, came the answer, rather defiantly, “Your California health insurance agent. I’ll bet she has a low cost plan for people my age.”

“That’s my boy,” said Flo, her own tears forming.

“He’s a man, not a boy anymore,” Joe replied, choking up too. “Stian knows what he’s doing.”

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Get an Instant quote form several top rated Dental Insurance Carriers all in one easy to read quote. Print Dental Insurance Applications and apply for coverage.

Individual dental plans available from your California Health Insurance Agent might apply to saber tooth cat syndrome.

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Jack Daniels of Malibu Beach had loved to surf until the accident. The blonde-haired twenty-something possessed a marvelous physique and received plenty of covert glances from beautiful women on the beach every time he went surfing. But it was the surfing he loved. The glorious pursuit of aqueous perfection gave him goose bumps. He worried about sharks and barracudas and miscellaneous garbage tossed into the waves by careless jerks aboard pleasure craft, but it was the obvious that initially did him in.  One afternoon he grabbed his board and strolled out into the Pacific in moderate surf. Excited, as he was about to catch a wave, he smacked his face down abruptly with his mouth slightly ajar onto his red, white, and blue surfboard. His “problem tooth” snagged, the peculiar incisor sinking into the polyurethane a half inch deep, wedging solid. “With my head stuck like that,” Jack later told the television crew, “It was a miracle I didn’t drown.”

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He vowed never to surf again while that tooth was in his gob. As a boy of thirteen his mother had taken him to a dentist for the first and last time. “Open your mouth kid,” the dentist, “Call me Seymour,” had said. Jack was shy, but opened, only to have the insensitive dentist remark a little too loudly, “Oh boy. This kid has saber tooth syndrome. It’s still a baby tooth, but …”

Jack had learned not to smile. He was a good-looking teenager, but when he’d open his mouth and people saw it – they looked away. Now, the lonely ex-surfer had to do something about it.  But what? He didn’t have dental insurance. Jack finally worked up the courage to call a California Health Insurance agent, Mr. Louis B. Snaggle. “Hello. I don’t know if you can help me. I have s-s-s-aber tooth c-aaaa-t syndrome,” Jack managed.

“How long is it?” the friendly agent asked. Jack told him.

“Come right over. We can get you covered,” Mr. Snaggle reassured him.

A minor dental procedure later, Jack was back surfing. He didn’t see the garbage floating in the seawater until it was too late.

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