Count Chocula is, needless to say, embroiled in a centuries-old feud with that shirtless werewolf cereal.
GateHouse — I have discovered two equally displeasing things about Halloween this year: 1. The neighbor down the road, the one on the corner at Sundew Court, which is like the least-evil name ever (she might as well live at Dew Drop Hug Soup Emotionally Supportive Boulevard) has produced a front-yard Halloween display of such breadth and creativity that frankly my fake tombstones (“Here Lies Doug M. Upp” — ka POW), cheesy blinking “Great Pumpkin” Linus and assortment of artfully sliced-up pumpkins looks like a cruel failure by comparison. The neighbor’s display occupies probably 2,500 square feet, likely required several meetings with the power company, includes what I’m sure were Army-sized rations of that cobwebby cotton stuff and is making the rest of us aspiring warlocks feel SUPER INADEQUATE. Thanks, Sundew Court. See if I include you in the next block party volleyball game.
The second, and obviously more important problem: I cannot buy Count Chocula anywhere remotely near my house, and/or Sundew Court.
I don’t want to minimize anyone’s problems. I know times are hard for everyone. Your boss is slicing back your hours and your bank is being a jerk, but frankly my problem is worse than any of yours multiplied by a fafillion, because none of you have, in the past week, driven around for a full afternoon stopping at five grocery stores in the futile hunt for a fictitious cocoa-based vampire who apparently IS NOT FOR SALE IN SOUTH CAROLINA, due to, I am sure, something Rush Limbaugh said once.
Whatever, Flintstone, my kid thought of this idea before you did, and he's only 6
Island Packet — Not to be the indigestible kind of overbearing, obnoxious screaming-on-the-soccer-sidelines father dude, but I have to report that my 6-year-old is a genius. But he is not a genius in the traditional sense — he cannot, for instance, perform a full piano concerto (he can only make it like halfway through Rachmaninoff’s “Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini,” which is kind of embarrassing), and he can’t complete major surgeries or anything (OK, he did that partial knee replacement one time, but to be fair he was looking at Wikipedia).
What he has done is revolutionize breakfast, via his most recent invention: Cocoa Pebbles And Fruity Pebbles Mixed Up Together In One Bowl And Eaten Without Milk.
I am going to pause so you can drive to the nearest Grocery Mart, screaming and with your arms flailing wildly over your head if you have a large enough car, to purchase or steal (whatever, I’m not your Dad) two boxes of Pebbles and speed maniacally home to hungrily gorge upon what will certainly be the most life-changing breakfast-oriented experience you will have all month. (Having planned for this, I brought a book to pass the time. It is by Nicholas Sparks. I have just begun it, but I am pretty sure it will involve young, star-crossed lovers who hail from two different worlds and whose all-too-brief summertime romance ends abruptly when one of them is eaten by a monster.)
Get a good look, because this is as close as you're getting to an Eggo until June.
GateHouse — Well, it’s over, there are no more waffles.
I am going to pause for a moment to let that news sink in and give you the time, if you are so moved, to kill yourself, because this waffle fiasco is pretty definitively the worst thing to happen to our collective breakfast-related condition since the lunchtime mauling of Sonny the Cocoa Puffs bird in that panther cage (he was so young, and chocolatey). Sure, the recession has brought all manner of terrible things to America, including rampant unemployment, obscene corporate bonuses and like 35 weekly hours of Jay Leno, but this is the first time in the modern American economic model that a slowdown has proven so protracted and severe that it has wiped out a breakfast food outright. (And I don’t mean to be alarmist, but I’m also hearing pretty stormy things about muffins futures.)