Excuse me, dahrlings, but...

We're Blowing Smoke

The sound of the winter discount drum has reached my ears, Pumpkins. Its little taps calling agents to don their war paint, blow great billows of smoke at the heavens, and complain a bit. No actual blood will be shed in the yearly ritual, but those arrows do bruise one’s pocketbook.

The first thwack arrived yesterday from Karen (see “comment†below) – she’s caught the discounters discounting. Other than offering up a well meaning ‘like, duh’, I’m at a loss to offer any guidance, Pumpkins.

Borrowing from Darwinian logic for a moment, calling a lion a big ol’ meanie will not make him less carnivorous. You see my point. He really doesn’t give a pair of pyjamas what you call him. He does as he pleases, because he can. Ranting and warring is a waste of precious energy.

To survive, dear Pumpkins, the gazelle must move to new pastures. Sniff out tours and groups and grasses and stuff. C’mon, people, a little help over here. I’ve run out of animal metaphors. What say you to all the hard-working Karens out there?

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