Patty Cake and the Baker Man

I don’t know who they are, where they're from or what they were up to, but I don’t bloody like it. I wouldn’t like it if I knew them and knew what they were celebrating, or if I merely knew someone who knew them and was on hand for the festivities. I wouldn’t like it if I was offered assurances that all was well and fine and that doting, muscle-bounded dads everywhere were photo bombing their babies after dropping them into vats of whipped cream or pulling them out of frosted, layered cakes. I wouldn’t like it as I am wholly unimpressed with the thought, let alone image, of some plonker bare-handing a bare-chested baby child and posting the results Instagramatically ‘round the Twitternet™. Call me old-fashioned — better yet, pour me one, haha — but ‘tis my belief that if you want to properly portray your beloved pudgeball as a princess, you doll her up in a fancy dress, attach a dime store tiara 'top her curlicued noggin', then make your way to the nearest Olan Mills® Portraiture Studio, where they set the strobe lights and shutter speeds and commence to photo flashing. You exhibit good judgment and leave the premises with your dignity, along with a delightful assortment of glossies to share with family, friends and station house associates, in any combination of portrait sizes: 8x10, 5x7, 3½x5 and, not insignificantly, billfold.