What Your Cereal Says About You

by Dan Berkman

Milk and cereal go together like Mike Tyson and kid-eating, but how well do you go with your cereal? Here’s a brief breakdown of how your early morning treat of choice characterizes you.

Honey Comb: You’re Jewish. You went to your local grocery where you saw Honey Comb on sale. Rather than splurge and spend another twenty cents for some respectable food, you saved and bought a cereal that tastes like roofing supply. Mazel tov.

Raisin Bran: You live a fruitless life, so you feel that adding raisins (exhumed grapes brought back from the dead) will add a spark. If you want to really jazz up your bran, try hanging yourself instead.

Honey Nut Cheerios: You still want to enjoy your breakfast without going coo-coo-for-cardiac arrest, so you eat the cereal with the bee on the box. It’s got a mascot, so you’re having a little fun.

Cheerios: You already had that heart attack, so you lost the bee, the honey, and nuts and just eat plain Cheerios now. To add taste, you can allow your sorrowful tears to fall into the bowl. Also, try crushing up a Lipitor and sprinkle that on top.

Fruity Pebbles: You are one of three things: a) an eight-year-old who loves sugar and colors, b) a drugged-up college student who sees sugar and colors, or c) a man trying to lure eight-year-olds into your basement with sugar and colors.

Cap’n Crunch: You know fine food. You appreciate duck confit, poached lobster, osetra caviar, and crème brûlée. That’s why when you hit the cereal aisle, you say “screw it, I’m getting some Cap’n Crunch.” I admire you. You also create unreasonable contractions of words.

Franken Berry: What? Is that the only thing they serve at the refugee camp?

Cookie Crisp: You’re five years old. You saw a large cardboard box with the word “cookie” on it. Using logic for the first time in your life, you reasoned, “I like cereal, I like cookies, I will like this.” You went home, ate it and, and have never again trusted corporate America.

Special K: You’re a woman who thinks she can lose forty-five pounds before the summer by eating cereal all day.

Froot Loops: You’re a toucan devoid of spell check.

Oreo O’s: You live in your parent’s basement where you horde boxes of the discontinued and most delicious cookie-inspired cereal ever created. I am searching for your residence as you read this.

Honey Bunches of Oats: You are an adult living a dignified adult life who secretly misses finding glow-in-the-dark spoons in boxes of sugar flavored like toasted wheat. You can’t let anyone know this, so you disguise your diabetic fantasies by buying what looks like a grown-up cereal.

Smacks: I have no idea because I have never seen anyone ever eat these. The entire Smacks cereal franchise is a front for trafficking heroin.

Alpha Bits: You’re a child who let his parents buy the cereal for the last time.

Lucky Charms: You’re a total sap for T.V. marketing who failed to recognize before it was too late that this is nothing more than cat food with sprinkles.

Fiber One: You haven’t taken a dump in twenty-three days and you’ve called a summit with your colon.

Kashi: Your parents are hippies and named you after a piece of furniture they sold to finance their drug habits.

Golden Grahams: Oh, so they do have another choice at that refugee hut.

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