I've Got Your Crunch Right Here, Cap'n!

 

    Look what I found!  It's a site devoted to old cereal boxes!  Some of them I remember, some I've never heard of, and some of them are way before my time.  But, I can't tell you how cool it is to see King Vitamin.  I spent a lot of time in his sugar-coated kingdom during my formative years.  In fact, without the guidence of his Highness, I'd probably be eating more of those evil vegetable things today. 

 

    On the other hand, I also found General Mills' pseudo-strawberry creation: Frankenberry, and I just have to write about it.  After all, on more than one occasion, I've danced with that evil trinity of Boo-Berry, Count Chocula, and the beast that is Frankenberry.  I've even mixed all three into the same bowl at one time.  I don't recommend this since the end result is a bowl full of something not unlike a sugar-based form berry-chocolate flavored crystal meth which, in your tweaked state, will have you tearing apart clock radios and telephones in search of a bigger spoon.  In fact, just writing about that trifecta is making me itch like a strung out junkie.  Curse you monsters!  Curse you all to the hell from which you came! 

 

    Anyway, one of my favorite Frankenberry moments came in college where, in the throes of a tremendous sugar-jones, I dragged myself away from my studies and sped to the grocery store in search of The Frank.  Yes.  I am ashamed to admit that in those days I was hooked on Frank.  It was college, and I was young.  Fortunately, I didn't use Frankenberry as a gateway cereal, and my addiction never escalated to things like Pixie Stixs or that crap that rotten whore Little Debbie was pushing in every gas station on the freakin' planet.

 

    So, strung out, I wandered the cereal aisle of the local Piggly Wiggly looking for a little Frank; however, all I managed to find was Count Chocula.  And, in those days, only the kids who couldn't afford Cocoa Puffs were using the Count for a quick sugar fix.  And, well, since chocolate wasn't my drug of choice, I needed the Frank and all that yummy pseudo-strawberry flavored milk he could magically make.  I needed some Frank badly, and the damn store hadn't any.  I needed the manager.

 

    "Hi," I said, tying to be friendly.  "Do you have any Frankenberry?"

    "Nope."  She said coldly.  "We don't carry that anymore."

    "Boo-Berry?" I asked knowing that I'd been reduced to a cheap, blue knock-off of the Frank. 

    "I'm sorry.  But, all we have is Count Chocula."  She said.

    "I need Frankenberry, lady!"  I stated.  I began to panic.  I think I could even feel a twitch.  "You don't understand.  Help me."

    "I can order some," She said. 

    "How much?"  I asked.

    "What do you mean?"  She asked.  "We won't charge you for that sort of thing.  Just so long as you buy it, we'll order it." 

    "No.  How much are you going to order?" I asked as gluttony took over, and I found myself planning to bogart every single pink nugget that came off the freakin' truck. 

    "Probably just a case," she said flatly, tired of me and my nonsense.  "Just leave your name and number and someone will call you when we have it available."

 

    I did as she instructed and returned to my apartment to toss and turn all night until I could go to class and be distracted from my Frankenberry jones with things like Calculus and the words of Milton only to return home to find no message on my answering machine.

 

    Eventually, the days turned into weeks, the weeks turned into months, and everytime I strolled the cereal aisle in Piggly Wiggly in search of Frankenberry, none was to be found.  Everytime I asked, I was told to leave my name and number and they'd order some.  Before I knew it, finals' week came and went, and I was on a plane to Belgium. 

 

    When I returned to start the next semester, I still found no messages on my machine, and I spent the next four years waiting and waiting (I liked my senior year so much, I did it twice). 

 

    It was May when I finished my final Senior Year, and I was packing up my apartment and getting ready to hop on a plane to Stuttgart, when the phone rang.

 

    "Is this Dan?" The caller asked.

    "Yes it is," I said.

    "This is the manager at Piggly Wiggly," she said.  "I'm just calling to tell you that your Frankenberry is in." 

 

    Yes folks.  It took them five years.  Five freaking years, and they called on my last day in town at the very last hour. 

 

    However, for a moment, I entertained the notion of swinging by the store and picking up a box, but I managed to kick the Frank over the years I'd spent waiting, and I'd since moved onto better things such as Honey Bunches of Oats and Golden Grahams because they're healthier, and Golden Grahams sound like you're pouring a box of glass shards into your bowl.  That's way cooler than any sugar rush the Frank could give me. 

 

-DP