The Gay Uncle hasn’t been to a baby shower in some time. Not because he hates baby showers almost as much as crowds, parades, and rainbows. Not because he never knows what to bring the expectant family (not a problem, he just grabs a copy of The Gay Uncle’s Guide to Parenting off the staggering pile in his office, writes a witty inscription, and wraps it up). And not because he doesn’t enjoy watching people open up onesie after onesie and joining in a Greek chorus of fake “awwww”s. No, it’s mostly because his contemporary friends and family members have gotten too old, too tired, or too vasectomized to have kids. But every so often, someone manages to land one in the hole, so to speak. This happened to a friend in L.A. recently, and so while Gunc was out west covering the auto show as his alter ego (Vanity Fair’s Gay Car columnist) he popped by the party. He caught up with a horde of mutual acquaintances, ate a delicious deck of tiny crust-less sandwiches and chugged some expensive wines. In fact, everything was going swimmingly. Until he saw the cake. The G.U. would like someone to explain to him how an acre of pink fondant onto which is moored a tiny, naked, plastic infant being joyously suffocated under a rose-y blanket is an appropriate means of commemorating such an occasion. He awaits your responses.