Cereal Killers

Variety packs of cereal were a staple in my household during the late 1980s and early 1990s.    I had my go-tos like Pops and Golden Grahams, which consistently provided just the right amount of diabetic crisp without inundating my senses with a rainbow of ingestible food coloring.  I'd almost always eat these first, followed by the likes of Honey Nut Cheerios and Cinnamon Toast Crunch, which for some reason I regarded as keystones of a healthy breakfast. Probably because a single cheerio looked like a Somalian bagel and I still believed French Toast was a good source of iron.  Anyway, I saved anything with a mascot for last.   Not because I didn't enjoy the majestic flavor of marshmallows and toasted oats unleashed with each bite of Lucky Charms or the fiery textured crunch of Frosted Flakes.  But because, even at an early age, I regarded the ardent mascots for these cereals with more than tinge of childlike circumspect.  Cartoon adults hanging out with Kids?  Creepy.  And I, naturally,  believe(d) them all to be pedophiles attempting to lure me in with their boxes of sugary candy.  

There was Tony the Tiger, who framed himself as some kind of uncertified coach and mentor for children.  He always found the weakest, most vulnerable kid within the larger group, who was usually being bullied, and devoted some extra special attention to him or her along the morally blurred sidelines.  This seems like standard red flag predatory behavior, but if you're not convinced, his promised secret to success was eating his "Frosted" Flakes.  I don't think I need to spell out what I'm getting at here, but I'll leave you with an excerpt from his not just good, but grrrrrrreat theme song. "A taste of Tony's Frosted Flakes, brings out the tiger in you!"

Toucan Sam's nose looked like a giant penis. And he was always following it towards the scent of Fruit Loops, where I think it's fair to presume young children were waiting. 

The Silly Rabbit was continuously thwarted in his efforts to rob the kids of their Trix.  Thankfully.  

And finally, the most complex of all cereal mascots was Lucky the Leprechaun.  He understood that he lost the lottery of life with regards to his sexual proclivity, and he's actually desperately attempting to fight his urges.  He continuously cried, "Those kids are after me lucky charms," which I've come to interpret as the plight of an unbalanced drunken sex offender, who is in a constant internal battle with his warped mind that apparently has convinced him the kids really want to eat his "Lucky Charms."   

I guess this is why I believed, up until recently, Serial Killer was spelled Cereal Killer

A History of Grammar: Hair Did

I'm partial to people who at least attempt to speak in a grammatically sound fashion.  I don't correct people when I hear them say "irregardless" even though I'm probably not doing them any favors, and I've grown to begrudgingly accept people overusing "got" at times when they should definitely be saying "have." Regardless, the misusage of the verb "DO" when referencing the act of hair care is intolerable for a couple of reasons, and the phrase "Getting/Got/Gonna get my hair DID" should be immediately squeezed from your vernacular.  I'm going to tell you the main reason, which stretches beyond poor English, but let's quickly review some grammar.

Correct:  I'm getting my hair done at the salon.

Incorrect:  I'm getting my hair did at the salon

Correct:  I did my hair before the dance.

Incorrect.  I done my hair before the dance.  

Correct: I need to do my hair before going to the funeral.  

Correct: I did my hair and then left for the funeral.

Correct: My friend did my hair and then we went to a funeral.  

Correct: I had my hair done for the funeral.  

Incorrect.  I got my hair did...

Now, after extensive etymological research, I've successfully traced the origins of this grammatically unsound hair care phrase to a 1950s brothel on the outskirts of Hoboken, where for a small fee, men could diddle hair.  Yes, DID was an abbreviation for DIDDLE.  So, if you want to say "I got my hair did" as an abbreviation for "I got my hair diddled,"  I guess I'm okay with that.  I understand the need for some innuendo, since perhaps you aren't so comfortable  letting others know in the surrounding vicinity that someone has wrapped your hair around a penis and ejaculated on your scalp.

The Hail Mary

Oh what a tangled web we weave when all we are looking for is a beej.

The Hail Mary.  A distant, less desperate cousin to the booty call, popularized in 21st century after midnight coital rituals with the advent of text messaging.  While the booty call often embodies a “Friends with Benefits” “No Strings Attached”  outlook for which one person almost always plays the loser, the Hail Mary is by and large a "Winner’s" game.   How is the person desperately hailing a drunken prayer of a pass across cellular lines a "Winner?"  Well, the "Loser " of some form of romantic entanglement is generally on the receiving end of the Hail Mary pass...a mirage conceived within the beer goggles of a former winner's  nostalgia juxtaposed against their current herpe riddled club environment at 1:00 AM.  If he or she (generally she, but I will cover gender reversals and biological variations in self-respect later) decides to play defense and knocks the ball(s) to the ground, she frees herself of loser status.  But, if she decides to, for whatever reason, let that one and a million throw enter into her arms/mouth/vagina, she is still a winner in my book. The dude who discarded her, who thought he could do better, has come to his drunken senses, sent a prayer, and by the grace of a forgiving goddess, been granted amnesty for his prodigal penis.

Getting drunk ain't no slam dunk but it's a good start.

Seldom is the Hail Mary pulled off without at least one of the two parties involved under the influence of copious amounts of drugs and/or alcohol.  On most occasions, the more intoxicated person throws the Hail Mary pass.  However, the scale for success increases exponentially if the quarterback can find a drunken receiver. And unlike a game like Football, where the quarterback can only make one last second grasp for the end zone, the extent of sexual hail marrying really goes as deep and dirty as your phone's contact list. Throw a hundred balls into the air if you'd like.   If you catch (or they catch you) the right person, in the right desperate, down, and drunken  moment, then that lopsided toss might magically be picked up by the wind and ascend into a perfect spiral pass headed for the "score."

Men aren't from Mars.

Of course, men and women have different Hail Mary techniques.  If you are a lovely young lady watching reruns of Friends before bed, you might be courted with the gentlemanly text "My dick, your mouth, twenty minutes?"  There is no room for subtlety in a successful male hail mary pass.  Females have their own hail mary play though, and it rarely materializes at an iniquitous hour.   “I really hate how things ended.”  “I miss our friendship.”    Those are popular female Hail Mary maneuvers that have been known to work with varying degrees of success.  The good news for any would be receiver is that there will generally be sex preceded by thirty seconds of gob job forplay involved...but you might have to do some "dancing" first.

And then there's the morning after but that's another story...

Life's Three Certainties

If you are of sound, mind, and body, and don't spend your weekends sailing a schooner, then I'm sure you've heard the expression,  "Nothing is certain but death and taxes."   On the surface, this fatalistic proverb that first appeared in Daniel Defoe's Political History of the Devil appears incontrovertible.  But if you'll indulge me with your good Christian ears for a moment, I'd like to demonstrate its impermanence. In the Land of Milk and Honey, otherwise known as the United States of America,  those who make under $10,000 annually (in declarable income) needn't file a tax return.  Technically these whimpering souls live under the poverty line or are illegally holding funds, but come April 15th, they can hold up their dirty hands and give Uncle Sam the finger.  In regards to part two, the idea of death is perhaps slightly more complicated.  To the impotent being, dying might appear unavoidable.  But unlike the previously mentioned, obviously satanist text, there is another book, the Good Book, that annotates a little concept known as "eternal life."  So yes, die you shall, but then you'll be reborn in a matter of speak.  Anyway, argue with me if you will about the veracity of the aforementioned quote,  I've discovered three eternal truths of far greater consequence...

1)  Jewish people will eat Chinese Food on Christmas.  Even after the glorious rapture takes all the good Christian people up to heaven where everyday is Christmas, Chinese Restaurants will still make a killing on December 25th.  Well, just so long as the Hebrews can get past the giant scorpions and bees and all the other evils plaguing the deluged and quaked up roads.  

2) Single men and women drenched in an iniquitous perfume and cologne called Desperation will flock to bars on Valentine's Day.  They'll tell you they are exerting their independence or don't need to be validated or something else you can sillily disregard, but really, it it's not the people in committed relationships that make February 14th International Condom Day.

3)  Out of shape Americans will resolve themselves to work out 3-5 days a week starting on January 1st.  Of course by today, the 2nd Monday of 2014,  all those feeble minded fatties have flipped fitness the bird and run off (well drove off) to Jack in the Box to try the new Hot Mess Burger.