Brownie Points

I have just returned from an expedition to Commonwealth Avenue and find myself compelled to warn you to stay indoors. My only hope is that this missive reaches you in time. Once you set foot outside, all is lost.

Perhaps you've heard the rumors. If so, I'm afraid I must confirm them.

It's Girl Scout Cookie season.

As we speak, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of girl scouts are roaming the streets of our city, hawing their wares to a captive public. Once they lock upon a victim -- they like to call them "customers" -- there is no escape. You must buy those cookies.

It is one of life's greatest truths -- perhaps only behind "The only three people a man can trust are his barber, his tailor, and his bookie -- that if a girl scout wants to sell you cookies, you are compelled to buy them. They are unrefusable.

They are easily recognizable by their war cry. In a high, melodic tone, the girl scouts will say, "Hi, Mister!" before they approach. As we know, no man alive can resist a child when they call him "Mister." Much like the Smoke Monster's clicking, once you hear it, you're a goner.

And then, of course, you must buy their cookies. For what other alternative is there? You either buy their cookies or you become that heartless crank who stared into the eyes of total innocence only to refuse it. No? What do you mean "no?" Would you also refuse to pet a dog?

So there they sit, two boxes, smiling smugly at me on top of my kitchen counter. These are especially dangerous for someone who lives alone. With no one else to assist me in consuming them, the chore falls entirely to me. Yes, they're delicious. But for those of us straining to stay in their weight class, they're utter danger -- the nuclear option of cookie choices.

So I pray that you receive this in time. It's too late for me, but perhaps you can save yourself.

(Knocking on door)

Now who could that be?