"Whoa. That's the biggest one yet. I could just squish it."
"You've used your hand. Why not use your body?"
"Every single person that has experienced this reaches down, because they feel so connected to Milo."
It wasn't Peter Molyneux's fault. It wasn't Milo's fault. It wasn't even Microsoft's fault.
Let's face it. Between Milo's E3 2009 debut and his last public airing at TED Global in June, many of us gamers eked out every last paedo gag we could.
There were plenty of places to find them, too; not least in the goldmine of unintentional double entendres from both the virtual boy and his Xbox Geppetto.
Paedo. Strange word when you stare at it. And not just because it's so peculiarly stuffed with vowels.
It should, by rights, be a powerful, panic-inducing expression - after all, it's semantically about as distressing a noun as you can hiss.
But since its star turn in the tsunami of late-90s red-top witch hunting, cheekily contentious young males have stolen it back from their self-appointed, fidgety moral guardians - and stolen it back with fierce defiance.
Outside of hot-headed tabloids, 'paedo' is now no more used as an earnest label for a vile sex offender than as a below-the-belt taunt. (Sensibly, its fully-formed older brother still commands somewhat more sombre editorial regard).
You only need witness the hyperactive lampooning of Milo across games forums for proof; the majority don't-tell-mum witty, a few anyone-called-the-police-yet worrying.
Like most gags that tickle the gaming community's dark side, this Milo-ribbing banter mollified a paranoid, oddly noble anger; one ignited by the maxim that any bloke over the age of 25 who plays with a child that is not his own should be treated with suspicion.
Lionhead and Molyneux - whether deliberately or through blind ignorance - smashed open this nervous vein of wisecracking head-on.
And yet for all of our mutinous, un-PC jesting, we forgot one thing: These are not the kind of jokes that giant corporations like Microsoft wish to be associated with.
It has cost us dear.
Ask any male who witnessed Molyneux first introduce us to Milo, and it's likely they felt a smidgen of unease - or at least nerves - about what unfurled. (Unless they're some kind of morally impeccable saint. Or a Catholic priest. Either way, they're almost certainly not on Xbox Live.)
"It is enormously contentious for us to do a game, a story, an experience, about a boy," Molyneux would concede 14 months later - when Microsoft's order to shut the project down had likely already infiltrated Lionhead. "You are immediately appealing to all the dark thoughts of humanity."
Microsoft, very aware of the dodgy implications (and potential headlines from a national press that pathologically targets gaming) has constantly sought to convince us that Milo is nothing more than a proof of concept project; a 'tech demo'.
Except at every stage, Molyneux has declined to agree.
In June, Molyneux spoke of his excitement over the day when "millions of people" would help Milo get "smarter and cleverer" - via his plans for an elaborate, Cloud-based AI.
A full game certainly seems to exist somewhere, whether or not Microsoft wants to acknowledge it.