The email notified me that my order would be late. My purchase of a life-sized replica of the tap-dancing, monocled Mr. Peanut that I never, ever ordered. I am curious. What sort of crook uses their big “fraud” opportunity to purchase an odd and useless memento of decades-old pop-culture? Why not order a new iPhone? Or Beyoncé tickets? Or crypto-currency? Perhaps this criminal was shopping for his hard-to-buy-for mother or was looking to impress a new love who’s all about salty snack foods? I’ll never know, but it’s kinda fun to imagine. And then again, perhaps I understand more than I’m letting on. Mr. Peanut is a snazzy dresser. He’s the silent hunky-type who’s no stranger to a curvy body. He’d take me dancing. And when the honeymoon is over, I could eat him.

She eschews fur, preferring instead a low-cut LBD, black pumps, and, oddly, a behind the ear dab of Calvin Klein’s Obsession for Men. Does she know that same parfum lures man-eating Bengals to their demise? Unclear. Instinct is a killer, too. La Cougaress prowls the neighborhood watering holes, pounces on the unsuspecting gazelle or water buffalo, revels in the moveable feast. Who needs salt and sesame seed when variety is on the menu? She eyes her prey from across the bar, looks him up and down like a side of beef hoisted on the butcher’s hook. A deer in her green-eyed headlights, he freezes, then melts as her gaze sprouts long fingers that reach across the room, fondle his ball sack. Hunger must be satisfied.