Walked out of my shower one night to find that my lovely daughter had taken my childhood ventriloquist doll (don't ask) and sat it on my kitchen counter.
In it's hand, was this note:
It did, what?
Daughter: "He did poopies."
He did. Delicious, chocolately, childhood-ventriloquist-doll poopies.
Hey. Chocolate is chocolate. Doesn't matter how it got there.