Celebratory cheating, take 1

It was a birthday party. At a magnificent Italian restaurant (Via Tribunali, in Capitol Hill). And I made it through the meal itself without a single unsafe bite. I ate lovely olives, a green salad with sliced olives and shaved ham, lightly dressed, and prosciutto e melone (a personal favorite; and yes, there HAD to be garlic in the olives' past...and maybe balsamic vinegar, derived from illegal grapes, in the light dressing). And treated myself to a weak scotch and soda to salute the birthday boy (man - 30). All was well and joyful.

His mother made a cake.

Could you imagine a more appropriate first mistress? A layer of chocolate cake with buttercream chocolate frosting. A layer, formed using a Dora the Explorer cake tin, of fluffy yellow cake. Wall-eyes and an excellent air of death. The waitress brought out an enormous kitchen machete.

When it was my turn to slice into the skull, an evil laugh rose up from my belly (MWAh-ha-ha-ha-haaaa) and I knew I'd be choosing not only to touch that cake to my tongue, but to dig in, eat a slice, enjoy both layers, and do so knowing cheating with those particular intentions (joy, friendship, death-awareness, guttural comic desire) couldn't possibly be of harm.