[In the interest of science, I have decided that I will purchase and devour four of the breakfast cereals that helped give me a strain of juvenile diabetes not seen outside of Oompa Loompa populations. The cereals will be judged on their bouquet, ability to resist lactose infiltration (stay crisp in milk) and presentation (aka are they as brightly colored as the vomit of a socialite who lives on nothing but wine coolers and fruit snacks).]
If you wanted to badly enough, you could almost pretend Frosted Flakes were healthy. The same way you can almost pretend that odor during doggy style intercourse is a pet hidden under the bed farting and not the fact your girlfriend got a little lax with her wiping. Like cracking a beer after a night of binge drinking, Frosted Flakes “didn’t count.” I mean, corn flakes are healthy, and Frosted Flakes are nothing but corn flakes with a little bit extra, am I right? (This is dangerously similar to my “trannies are just women with a little bit extra, so I’m still straight” logic.)
Eager to round the last of these four bases on what I hoped was a high note, I reached for my box of Frosted Flakes and paused to appreciate Tony the Tiger for all he was. There was no duplicity with him with him like those closet case switch hitters Fred and Barney or the John Wayne Gacy-esque Chef Wendel, who probably had his two fellow chefs restrained in a pawn shop basement with ball gags in their mouths. No, Tony was an elegant tower of power, from his azure, mandrill’s asshole-colored nose to his sleek, aerodynamic crotch, reminiscent of that sported by Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs.
One bite of Frosted Flakes let me know that not everything I remembered fondly from my childhood was a lie: crisp, playful, sweet and able to actually fill the hole in my being I tirelessly attempt to plug with calories, as I took those bites, all was right with the world. Sure, subsequent bowls (of which there were several) weren’t able to quite recapture the magic of that first one, but such is the peril of chasing the dragon. For even a glimpse of that childhood unhealthy cereal joy, I was forever grateful.
I encourage those of you reading this to seriously evaluate what you’re doing with your life, because obviously it’s wasteful, wicked and wrong. But once you’re done doing that, I encourage you to duplicate my journey and buy a few of the cereals that were responsible for fond childhood memories. It’s a lot like following the path of that guy from Into the Wild, except you won’t be eating twigs and berries and dying like a shithead 200 feet from civilization. An adventure for the Internet age, as it were. Enjoy.