We're frozen in place with no choice but to eat all of this king cake until our waists expand to break the ice. Or just wait a couple minutes and it'll be 94 degrees with 4,000 percent humidity. It's our annual awakening of the King Cake Baby from his diapered slumber under the wood of the basketball court, emerging only to deliver cakes and make some sportswriter dork spill a few hundred words about "nightmare fuel" or whatever. (I am #TeamKCB.) Also this week: everyone is fired and Comic Con.