It is Mardi Gras, and it is time for the King Cake.
I find this purple and yellow pile utterly disgusting, and I refuse to take a piece.
The rest of the group greedily rips off hunks, devouring loudly, until one pulls out a crinkly diaper.
“What the hell is this?” they say, throwing the diaper to the ground.
“Well,” says Carol, “you’re supposed to bake a baby into the cake, and whoever gets the baby will have good luck.”
Foster spits out some toes. “A METAL BABY!” he shouts.
Everybody begins to vomit.
Me, I reach for the cake.