Chips flew like confetti at a bad divorce party, and Timmy stood triumphant amid the wreckage, cape askew, one shoe dangling like a defeated foe.

"Look at that," Dave marveled, brushing Doritos from his shirt. "Kid's got more chaos coordination than a Black Friday sale."

Jennifer scooped up a fallen pretzel. "Reminds me of my toddler's first 'art project.' Used permanent marker on the dog. Vet called it 'modern abstract fur.' We renamed the pup Picasso."

Sarah dodged a rolling juice box. "My little Picasso finger-painted the TV remote during Frozen. Now it only plays 'Let It Go' on repeat. It's like living in a musical hostage situation."

Tom hoisted Timmy onto his shoulders. "Why did the kid bring a ladder to school?"

"Why?" Marcus prompted, reloading his chip hand.

"To get to the high scores! But seriously, mine climbed the fridge to raid cookies. Caught him mid-heist, covered in chocolate like a tiny mob boss. 'Evidence?' he says. 'What evidence?'"

Marcus chuckled. "I told my daughter, 'No cookies before dinner.' She hid one in her pillow. Found it two weeks later—moldy science experiment. Now she calls it her 'pet rock.'"

Dave nodded sagely. "Why don't kids play hide and seek with parents? Because good luck hiding from someone who knows all your spots."

Jennifer smirked. "My stealth master hid in the dryer once. Fifteen minutes of lint-rolling therapy later, I learned dryers aren't for drying kids— they're for amplifying screams."

Sarah raised her cup anew. "To superheroes who turn snack tables into battlegrounds and parents into punchlines."

As candles flickered to life on the cake, Timmy yelled, "Cake time! Who's ready to get sugared up like zombies at a candy apocalypse?"

Timmy's mom sighed. "Finally, something normal."

Dave winked. "Normal? With this crew? That's just the setup for the punchline."

And speaking of punchlines," Marcus added, eyeing the flickering candles as if they were tiny beacons of caloric doom, "singing 'Happy Birthday' is the only social ritual where thirty people stand in a dark room, chanting at a minor until he uses his breath to extinguish a fire hazard."

Sarah nodded in solemn agreement. "My family sings it like a funeral dirge. By the time we get to the name, the ice cream has melted and everyone is contemplating their own mortality."

"At least you get real cake," Tom countered, eyeing the chocolate mountain greedily. "My wife tried to make a 'healthy alternative' last year out of zucchini and sadness. It tasted like cardboard that had given up on its dreams."

Jennifer leaned in, whispering loud enough for the neighbors to file a noise complaint. "Why did the birthday cake visit the psychologist?"

"Why?" the group responded, conditioned like Pavlov’s dogs.

"Because it was feeling crumby!"

Dave groaned, clutching his chest theatrically. "That joke was so stale it belongs in a museum. Speaking of ancient history, are we singing or just aggressively breathing on the dessert?"

Timmy’s mom gave the signal—a desperate hand wave akin to a drowning sailor—and the group launched into song. They harmonized with the precision of a bag of cats thrown into a washing machine. As the final off-key note died a painful death, Timmy inhaled enough oxygen to vacuum the tablecloth and blew out the candles with the force of a tropical depression, spraying a fine mist over the frosting.

"Charming," Jennifer observed, recoiling slightly. "Nothing says 'celebration' quite like a biological hazard assessment."

"Hey," Dave shrugged, already reaching for a paper plate. "If you haven't eaten secondary saliva by forty, have you really lived? It's just immune system cross-training."

Marcus clapped his hands together like a man about to perform a magic trick. "Why did the birthday boy bring a plunger to the party?"

Sarah groaned, already bracing herself. "Why?"

"Because he heard it was a shit-show!"

Dave nearly choked on his cake. "Oh, that’s bad. Here’s one: What’s the difference between a toddler and a terrorist?"

Jennifer rolled her eyes. "Do I want to know?"

"You can negotiate with a terrorist."

Tom wiped frosting from his chin. "Why don’t parents trust stairs?"

Marcus squinted. "Why?"

"Because they’re always up to something!"

Jennifer groaned. "That’s just mean. Okay, fine—why did the diaper go to therapy?"

Sarah sighed. "Why?"

"Because it had too many issues!"

Dave high-fived her. "Nice. But mine’s better: What do you call a baby who’s a bad influence?"

Tom threw his hands up. "What?"

"A corrupter!"

Marcus gasped. "Oh, that’s dark. Here’s one: Why did the kid refuse to use the potty?"

Jennifer groaned. "Why?"

"Because he didn’t want to let it go!"

Sarah clutched her stomach. "I can’t—Timmy’s mom is going to murder us."

Timmy’s mom, now visibly sweating, muttered, "I need a drink. A strong one."

Dave grinned. "Speaking of strong drinks—why did the baby bring a ladder to the bar?"

Tom groaned. "Why?"

"Because he heard the drinks were on the house!"

Jennifer wheezed. "Okay, last one—why did the toddler bring a shovel to bed?"

Marcus, now fully committed, played along. "Why?"

"Because he wanted to dig himself in!"

Timmy’s mom grabbed the cake knife like a weapon. "I swear to God, if one more person—"

Timmy, now hopped up on sugar and chaos, screamed, "WHY DID THE POOP CROSS THE ROAD?"

The group froze.

"TO GET TO THE OTHER SLIDE!"

Silence. Then, uproarious laughter.

Timmy’s mom dropped the knife. "I’m moving to a monastery." Dave, ever the opportunist, raised his flask. "Cheers to the monastery. No joke requirements, just peaceful silence and probably some really boring craft beer."

"Actually," Sarah mused, watching Timmy smear frosting in his hair as a new styling gel, "monasteries have Gregorian chants. That's just organized yelling set to music. We'd fit right in."

The cake had been reduced to a geological layer cake of crumbs and sticky fingerprints. Little Timmy, now vibrating at a frequency that could shatter glass, careened toward the piñata, a garish unicorn that looked like it had seen better days and worse parties.

"Ah, the piñata," Tom announced with reverence. "The only activity where we encourage children to violently assault a papier-mâché animal with a stick until it vomits candy. It's a beautiful metaphor for capitalism."

Marcus grabbed the bat, a flimsy thing that looked like it would snap under the weight of a serious thought. "My turn. I need to work out some aggression from my last performance review."

He swung with the gusto of a man who had indeed been told his 'synergy was lacking.' The unicorn's head spun on its string, mocking him.

"Why did the piñata go to the doctor?" Jennifer called out.

"Why?" Dave yelled over the thwack of the bat.

"Because it was feeling a little hollow!"

Marcus missed on his next swing, nearly taking out a potted fern. "Not helping, Jen! This thing is built like my retirement plan—impossible to crack open."

Finally, with a swing that channeled every minor inconvenience of the last decade, Marcus connected. The unicorn exploded in a shower of cheap candy and existential dread. Children descended upon the loot like piranhas in a feeding frenzy, a tiny, screaming mosh pit of greed.

Sarah observed the carnage. "And thus, we teach the next generation the core tenets of society: blind violence, sudden reward, and trampling the weak for a fun-sized Snickers."

Timmy emerged from the scrum, clutching a single lollipop covered in dirt. He looked at it, then at the weeping remains of the unicorn, and burst into tears.

"There, there," Dave said, patting the boy's sticky head. "You've learned a valuable lesson today: sometimes, life beats you with a stick and then a bigger kid steals your Twizzlers."

Timmy's mom, now holding an empty wine bottle like a talisman, sighed. "I'm going to go stare into the void for a while. It's less judgmental."

"Excellent plan," Marcus agreed, brushing glitter from his shirt. "We'll be out here, teaching your son about the harsh realities of sugar-based economies."