Driving Out 70

So, one beautiful summer's day, back when gas was less expensive, the Butcher and I were driving east on 70 (though it may have been 70S, I can't remember) and we were going farther east than we'd ever been on that stretch of road, out past 840, out past that town that seems to be in a perpetual state of yard sale, out, out, out until there was nothing but us, some hills, some chickens sitting by the side of the road, and some scattered houses. And, clear out there, we saw a weird thing. In front of one of the houses, on the north side of the road, was what appeared to be a large fiberglass birthday cake and I'm talking a "four strippers could fit in that thing" large birthday cake with three tiers. Written on it in pseudo-icing was "Happy Birthday Jesus." Since then, we occasionally fight about the meaning of this cake. The Butcher insists that it probably was exactly what it looked like: a large cake that naked women might emerge from in honor of a man of Hispanic descent whose birthday is in the middle of the summer. And the Butcher still thinks that cake was evidence of some kick-ass party that we were either too early for or too late. But I insist that it was probably exactly what it looked like: some forlorn Christmas prop that couldn't fit in the storage closet at the tiny church it belonged to and so was parked in this front yard most of the year, its wayward message serving as a beacon to those in search of a church home. Sadly, though we've been out both 70 and 70S many times since then, we've never seen the giant cake again.