"Hello, are you Katrik?" the nurse asked the 14 year old boy, sitting still beside his mother on the large orange couch.
"Yes he is!" the mother said with enthusiasm. "All ready for his check-up! He's a bit shy, so go easy on him. And don't worry if he's a bit light when you weigh him, he is very light-boned. He does have bones though! Really, there's nothing wrong with Katrik, his father and I just thought that since he hasn't had a check-up since he was baked... or born, that is--I appologize for that slip, it's just that sometimes my birth canal looks so much like an oven door--well, anyhow, we thought it was time.
The nurse gave Katrik's mother a suspicious glance. "Are you sure Katrik isn't really a cake?" She dipped a finger into Katrik's cheek and licked it. "This tastes much more like icing than flesh."
"No! A cake? That's silly!" Katrik's mother defended, nervously. "He's a good boy, with sweet skin, is all. Now you take him into the examining room, and you make sure he's good and fluffy and healthy, like I'm sure he is."
"No need to examine him, ma'am, I'm already quite sure he's a cake," the nurse said as she plucked off Katrik's arm and ate it. "He's tasty, but he's not a little boy."
"Well, now, I'm not denying that perhaps he has some cake blood in him, that is, my husband's mother was said to be overly fond of cakes..." Katrik's mother explained unconvincingly.
"No, I'm sorry. We do not examine cakes here and I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"No," Katrik's mother replied. "I can't."
"Why not?" the nurse asked sternly.
"I'm a cake too," Katrik's mother admitted. "Perhaps if you could just carry us to the car..."
"I'm sorry, I can't do that, I am also a cake. Everyone is."
Indeed, in some ways, we are all cakes. Now be off with you.
If you like anything here, or if you don't, please e-mail firstname.lastname@example.org. It's not like he's made of sandpaper or anything.