The baby-mama at work had these little candy bars made up for everyone with all the baby info (name, weight, birthday, etc.) on the wrappers. It is an adorable non-cigar item which I was really looking forward to eating, but it turns out there’s an etiquette to this. Apparently, to some of the women in my office it’s as wrong to eat the symbol of a baby as it would be to eat the actual baby.
The thing is, I would eat a baby if it was made out of tasty milk chocolate*. But announcing this fact did not go over as well as I had expected. So now I’m just sitting here staring at this chocolate bar which will slowly melt or go stale, even as the soul of the baby will gradually melt away to nothing or grow stale from disuse as he gets older and is forced to grind away 24 hours of every week in a thankless government job which torments him with chocolate bars he is forbidden to eat. Curse you, Adulthood, and the treats you promise but never deliver!
*whereas for the Lad a garlic bread baby might be more appealing.