Normally fake food is a total let down. If I’m in an antique mall sifting through 15 booths of Faberge eggs and moth-eaten mink stoles with the heads and feet still attached and I turn the corner to find a table spread with more deserts and goodies that you could shake a dick at, I don’t hesitate. I dive in, arms flailing and teeth masticating. And if that food is made of poly-resin? Let’s just say I have a mouth full of crowns and a deviated anus that say the results ain’t pretty. Side bar: who the fuck buys fake deserts? Is it for masochistic diabetics? I don’t get it. But I do get this awesome birthday cake postcard. It makes it look like a drunk left cake in your mailbox and boy are drunks festive.