This is going to sound bizarre, but it's true: People were raging on Twitter the other day. "No!" you say. "That august body of rational interchange, beset by raw emotion?" True.

This issue had to do with a backyard BBQ. Someone invited all the friends and cooked all the burgers — then sent everyone a bill for $100 to cover the cost.

Opinions were split: Never speak to them again, or never speak to them for 10 years.

I thought of this when the Giant Swede invited us over for burgers. He would never send us a bill. But as is the custom in our circle, we requested that we bring dessert. He was specific: Do not make seven-layer bars that look like core samples from a planet made of sugar. Just Fudgesicles or Push-Ups.

See, it was a no-frills basic cookout. Burgers, but not ground wagyu beef on brioche. Ground chuck on industrial buns. And brats, but not artisanal fennel-infused craft sausages whose ends had been hand-cinched by a Master Meat-Monger. Just ... brats, you know?

This was not being done ironically, by the way. No one would stand around with elegant cocktails and say, "You know, by refusing to reinvent the hamburger, conceptually, he has recontextualized the essential nature of the thing. Like Warhol and the soup can. Oh, look, yellow mustard without any sort of pedigree whatsoever; don't you love it? I practically feel like a caveman."

Alas, the store had no Fudgesicles. No Push-Ups. Had they gone away? I didn't get the memo. Had I just awakened from a long, long sleep to find the world utterly changed? What would happen if I asked a store employee why the Fudgesicles and Push-Ups were gone?

"Hold on, Rip Van Wrinkle, let me get you a chair, and we can see if there's anyone who can come and get you." (To walkie-talkie): "Yeah, we got a man in novelties, talking nonsense. He wants to do pull-ups. Check the news, see if someone wandered off."

"Push-Ups! Not pull-ups! Frozen cylinders of dense orange matter! Could be ice cream, could be sherbet — no one ever told us!"

(To walkie-talkie): "Can you step it up? He's agitated and confused."

I'm sure they still exist. In a way, though, I'm glad I didn't find them. My eye alighted on a special deal for a lemon ice-cream sandwich. Graham-cracker fragments embedded in the lemony depths. It was a limited edition.

You always have to wonder about that. They spend a lot of money inventing something wonderful, then take it away from us forever. Perhaps it might return, like the Shamrock Shake or Pastel Oreos or the other confectionary comets that blaze into sight and then swoop off into the inky dark.

Life's like that. You get together with your friends, and you never know if this particular configuration will ever happen again. Hang around with the same people long enough, and there will be empty chairs — and they'll be filled by grown kids who were toddlers the last time you blinked. You want to make a speech:

"Savor ye these lemon sandwiches, for just as this soft sweet novelty may be snatched from us forever, we may never be here together like this. Life, my friends, is a limited edition. So we ... "

Oh wait, there's the Fudgesicles! I was looking at the wrong shelf. Better get those. I gave the same emotional limited-edition speech last year, except about Pumpkin Spice Drumsticks, and people were checking their watches after five minutes.