A few months ago, playboy Peladeau was a dead ringer for Trudeau’s big brother. The wavy mane of thick locks, the boyish good looks, slightly spoiled and immature... you know the drill, dahrlings, the types we used to drill in high school.
Now he looks like someone left him in an underground parking lot for a fortnight. There’s some mangy unrecognizable thing growing on his face, and the hair - helmet head is putting it kindly.
The man hasn’t even bought Transat and he’s already suffering the ravages of virulent travel industry disorder, Pumpkins. What’ll happen when he figures out travel is a high and depth of despair addiction, he’ll never be able to quit.
I haven’t had a fix in over a year, and trust me, dahrlings, it’s not pretty. Even my esthetician turned me away. It’s not like you can get crack bookings in back alleys.
I may have to step in and help the poor man, Pumpkins. Before he gets in over his head. Or I get over his (as long as he shaves that bit of bush. His too, for that matter.) Or he gets on mine. There are so many combinations, dahrlings, to solving a problem such as this one.
If he does end up buying Transat, don’t hurt him right away, pets. Leave that in my capable hands.
Oui maîtresse!
