These are the tax days. They are payback, and ketchup.
Dollars, which used to be big, are now small. You can fit more dollars into each price. If you are shipping dollars around, this method of resource clustering can introduce efficiencies up your pipeline. Lucky ducky art the dollar merchants!
But if you are a mortal human, best you shop with points as well as dollars, lest you let pennies drip out from between your dimes. But do bear in mind dimes have a purchasing power equivalent to zero unless accompanied by an adult.
The purchasing power of points is also trivial, but the important thing is you and the points card can be friends.
War! They say the dollars are having a war, with other nations of dollars. Wave after wave of dollar soldiers are fed into the paper shredders of enemy taxation, and they probably shoot things at one another — hypersonic rolled nickels, or origami drones folded out of the debts of widows, with little compounding interest guns shooting off everywhere, rented-a-tent-tent! rented-a-tent-tent!
I don’t know why the dollars have declared this war in which we, the mortal humans, are the collateral damage. I thought dollars were our friends but it turns out they are not. They are poisonous, like bright little frogs or tritium. Dollars have sharp edges that can cut your finger, and over-stimulate the gluttony gland located in the right hemisphere feral blortex of the brain, leading to worrying concentrations of avarice in the blood. So taxes and blood are spilling and prices are bloating, and every day more dollars die.
There are heroes on both sides. Evil is everywhere.
(If you’re a time-travelling tourist, my advice is to go home. This decade is a mess. Visit us some other time. Have you heard about the 1830s? They freed the slaves. Chief exports of the 2020s, in contrast, are cooties and uh-oh.)
Economically speaking the net result is that I have to have my eavestroughs put back on, because they came off in a storm, and I do not know enough about eavestroughs or ladders to accomplish this goal without crying, thus obliging me to hire an eavestroughs man or eavestroughs woman for many wee dollars (and then, later, a bit more wee dollars) to do it on my behalf.
The worst part is I’ll have to be home for them to come and talk to me about eavestroughs, and discussions like that sometimes go sideways if the tradesperson discerns my shocking ignorance of bolts and their various hammers. It’s like talking to someone and finding out they’re illiterate. The tradesperson doesn’t even know how to feel.
Here’s a tip. Prices make more sense if you cut them in half in your mind. (Sixteen dollars? That’s outrageous! Eight bucks, eh? I guess that’s fair.) This method of finding financial savvy may not be as accurate as your app but it’s easier on the heart and doesn’t have pop-ups.
I know, I know — I’m typing as if you’re reading and, honestly, you’re probably not. Who would come here to read anything? Nobody.
So if you feel like you’re having the experience of reading, maybe you’re just having a dream. Or the blog is having a dream. Or I am. It’s hard to keep track of myself these days, as I wander the world forlorn, ever lost without the wisdom and guidance of a chatbot.
Alas, I remain mortal, praying to Dolly Parton the dollars will some day find new peace.
(P.S. If you are an eavestroughs tradesperson, please leave a message.)
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