Cereal: The Every Meal

My love for cereal is so strong that I’ve decided to dedicate my first post in a long time to it.  I truly believe that it can be eaten at any time, and for reason; breakfast, lunch, dinner, desert, snack, you name it: cereal is the every meal.  If restaurants served it, I would order the milky-crisp delight every business lunch, or dinner date.  In fact, I’ve even dreamt of a restaurant called, “The Cereal Bowl”, where they would serve every brand imaginable.  Sometimes I crave so many different types, but don’t want to invest the capital in all of those boxes.  The Cereal Bowl would solve this dilemma!  Not only for me, but also for everyone, because I know I’m not alone on this.

Think about it: every cereal under the sun!  Whether you’re a healthy eater, or a dumb kid who just loves chocolate, we’ll have a cereal for everybody.  Not to mention, we also cater to nerds who are lactose intolerant–and we cater!  Even though I’m so against the idea, as the owner, I think I would even allow mixing and matching; so long as it’s not something stupid, like Cap’n Crunch and Reece’s Puffs.  In my restaurant, soup Nazi rules would apply.  I would also not allow any soggy-type cereal, i.e. Oatmeal; I don’t give a shit how good and good for you it might be.  We serve wet, and crunchy only: cereal racism at its finest.  Even if you eat yours like my brother, who waits until the milk has soaked the pieces for so long that they flop off the spoon!  That’s disgusting, and improper cereal eating etiquette.  “No cereal for you!”

It’s meant to be eaten as fast as possible, so that the bottom of the bowl is just as crunchy as the first bite.  Not to mention, with the popularity of the restaurant you would have to eat fast, or get trampled.  I’ve thought extensively about the layout, too.  It’s definitely not buffet-style, although that would be ideal for the customer; but, in the restaurant business, it’s never really about the customer.  No, it’d be “hip” like Chipotle.  We pour it; you pay it; you get the fuck out.  Second helpings?  You better know ahead of time, or you’re out.  Cereal is a serious matter.  A super cereal matter, you might say?  Well, I would say, “Shut the hell up, and get out of my store!”

That dream will take some time; especially if I wanted to incorporate all of the great ideas, like melted ice cream as milk (I like original milk, but I can understand why someone would enjoy the ice cream, not to mention it’s revolutionary), or fun spoons that come in boxes.  You know: light up, color changing, Trix rabbit character (my favorite), etc.  Until then, we can only hope for it to enter the restaurant world through some sort of testing, such as appetizer, or desert; preferably desert, because if it were appetizer, then I’d never eat my meal.  I can see me now: I’m sitting in a restaurant, and just finishing my meal.  The waiter enters, wearing a tailcoat tuxedo and thin mustache.  He’s French.

“Monsieur, I see that you’re done eating your fancy, high-priced meal, because that’s what famous blog writers such as yourself do.  Are you interested in one of our over-priced deserts, so that your bill is more; thus, giving me a better tip?”
-Me, “I know your gimmicks, Frenchie, but you’ve swayed me to at least look at the menu.”  I scan it, looking for my favorite desert: Franken Berry.  Nothing along the remote lines of cereal even appears.  So, I clear my throat, “I noticed you don’t have Franken Berry.  Are there any other delectable bowls in which I could indulge; Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Fruity Pebbles, or even some Kix?”  I ask not because I don’t know, but because I want a segue into my complaint.
Frenchie, “But,sir, we have world class, chef crafted peanut butter brownie deluxe topped with gourmet ice cre—“
SMACK!  He falls at the might of my backhanded blow.
-Me, “If I wanted your cheap ass deserts, I would have dined at Tuby Ruesdays!  I want something of substance, something I’ll remember.  I want some god damn Franken Berry!”  I throw down my napkin, and he cowers in fear as I shoot to my feet in the most ferocious manner; generating a force so strong that my knee-backs launch my chair across the room.  It hits an old lady eating soup.  I don’t care.  I’m angry, and continue, “I thought this was a classy joint!  I refuse to pay for our meal…Kids, let’s get the fuck out of here.”  He’s still in a fetal position on the floor, so I spit on his face, and exit.  The three kids follow, spitting in sequential order.  My wife isn’t there, I’m not sure why.

My mom’s cousin’s wife (I don’t know the easier way to say that) helped me realize my psychological (although, I would argue it’s physiological, as well) attachment to cereal.  We were chatting about me coming from such a large family, which prompted her to bring up a fond memory she had of her childhood neighbors, whom also had a large family.  She remembered the cereal bowls that they always had sitting around; not plates from warm, cooked breakfasts.  Five kids are simply too hard to handle in the morning, so it’s much easier to give us cereal:  A. It’s nutritious; B. It’s delicious; and C. It allows mom to at least enjoy her coffee before the little shits ruin her day.  You see, cereal is not just a food, but also a bond; not just between milk, and processed crunchies, either.  It brings families together.  Then again, it can also tear them apart; fighting over the last bowl, or last bit of milk–the bit where there’s not even enough to cover the top layer of cereal, yet you make it work.

Sigh…as you can tell, I have a great passion for cereal, and I could really keep this post going, but as much as you would love to continue reading on our (hopefully) shared love for the crunch that keeps us going, I have to bring it to an end: just like every bowl, or box.  (As a side note, I almost shed a tear thinking about that mixed feeling you get at the bottom of a box, when you’re about to enjoy the most amazing burst of flavor, yet you know it’s also the end.  So deliciously painful.)  It’s hard to stop my rant, because I left out some awesome paragraphs; for example, one on hors d’oeuvres, and platters that you party planners would have loved to see!  After re-reading my post, it really hit me that I just wrote a 1000 word essay on why cereal is “the every meal”.  And I feel no shame.  This is why Dan Ray Sucks, and if you grew up fighting over the last bowl of name brand cereal in your cabinet, or wish it were served not only at restaurants, but at its very own, then you suck, too.

Tips to suck less:
-Leave a comment.
-Follow.
-fb/tweet/just tell your friends, friends’ friends, random bums–I don’t care, just do it.
-Finally, eat cereal, and eat it often.

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Things Guys Do…in the bathroom

I have this tendency to make bathroom jokes, not because I’m an immature comedian, but because they are just so relevant.  I’m going to (use some puns and) cut the crap, so we get straight to the good shit.  I’ve come up with A List of Things Guys Instinctually Do in the Powder Room…Gun Powder, That Is:

-Pee on something – Whether using the stream as a laser beam to split a piece of toilet paper in half, sinking a floating object (and keeping it sunk), or being outdoors and going on whatever you please; essentially, we’re reverting back to a caveman state of mind by marking our territory.
-We like to go from high objects.
-We like to test our distance.
-We have trouble aiming in the wee hours of the morning.
-We don’t make eye contact in public restrooms – especially not at a urinal.  Jesus, that’s just asking for an ridicule, an ass beating, or the unwanted affection of someone who takes your glance  the wrong way.
-We don’t wash our hands after peeing, even if a little dribble gets on the fingertip.
-We leave the door open, and the seat up, because…well, we just do damn it.
-Finally, we take pride in what we’ve done, but only if it’s a notable accomplishment worthy of a picture to a friend.

Again, sorry for the potty humor, but I had this idea came to me as I was in the middle of…I don’t think I need to explain.  The restroom is a sacred, ritualistic site for the male sex: it’s the only place a guy can really feel free and natural.  There’s something about the privacy, the peace, and the potpourri that brings a man back to his rugged, stinky roots.  Dropping trou connects us men to our past: to a time where beasts roamed the earth, and the phrase “shit or get off the stump” was not the subject of a patience matter, but rather a life, or death matter.  It’s not just me, either; every man shares these, or similar tendencies.

The restroom makes everything equal.  It takes away anything that makes us different, and shows only the human side of people: there’s no race, no judgement, no jealousy of whose wife has nicer tits, and absolutely no such thing as class—only primitive beasts.  A porcelain nature you won’t find in the female shitter.  Anyway, these are my deep thoughts on the poop room, which is why Dan Ray Sucks; and if you think that the restroom is more than a place to do your SSS (Shit-Shower-Shave), then you need something more important to think about, because you suck, too.

Tips to suck less:
-Leave a comment.
-Follow.
-fb/tweet/just tell your friends, friends’ friends, random bums–I don’t care, just do it.
-Finally, stop writing bathroom jokes.