Sawing into the baby in this king cake made me feel kind of like Solomon Gone Mad.
Since the baby isn’t actually contained in my slice, but has remained embedded in the adjacent cakery, does it even count? Am I nonetheless subject to the obligations of “getting the baby”?
Does my twisted ankle curry no sympathy?
You got the baby. you found the baby. The Baby is yours. So when you buying the next cake? Endymion Saturday?
You saw it first, its yours.
The image clearly shows the baby is 70 percent in your slice. You’re the babydaddy.
I’m not sure–I always thought you had to end up with the baby on your plate in order to assume responsibility.
But that sure does look like a delicious king cake.
dat bebe be yours, yo
I’ve had friends who would rather chew up the fetus and swallow it than admit that they got the baby. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a turd with a plastic arm coming out of it.
When I worked at Tulane Medical Center, it became clear where a baby was in the king cake, and people started cutting around it. By the end of the day, there just was four limbs sticking out of a little wad of dough.
Heh. A bum ankle’s got nothin’ to do with it. You discovered it, you got it. Period. And as Shlomo Ha’Melech would probably say, if you care so much about it, then it is yours.
What obligations do you have now?
I’ve gotta buy the next king cake. Although, given that Carnival is almost over, I may just have to buy the first king cake of the season next year.
Also, MF, we got your package — very battered but with contents intact. Some of the cutest baby clothes ever. Thank you very much.
The metaphor here would make for a great discussion if y’all weren’t pregnant.
Whew! Glad it got there! I was wondering where it was!