Oh, Fudge

I recently got invited to a party and spent most of the evening sitting on the host's white couch in between various other guests. The conversation was eclectic and thought provoking. There was plenty of food--salad, pasta, fruit, chips, candy.
All the while I kept glancing to my right where, underneath a pink Christmas tree, lay three unopened boxes of pecan covered dark fudge. I hadn't had fudge in years, not counting fudge pops, which is really fudge 2.0. I went through the possible logistics and rationale for leaving them out unprotected and came to the conclusion these boxes were part of the refreshments. Wouldn't you?
So I waited until I was alone on the couch, got up and took one of the boxes. Without hesitation, I broke the seal and gouged out a chunk of this dark delicacy with a knife. It tasted so good I wanted to just leave the lump in my mouth the rest of the night.
Three minutes later the host comes over and demands to know who opened the fudge. That was a gift, is all she said. So I basically blasphemed someone else's gift. Twelve pairs of eyes glared at me as I sunk deeper into the couch.
Come on. Who gives three boxes of fudge as a gift? And who buys a white couch? At least I didn't spill anything. This is why I never get invited anywhere. Damn good fudge, though.