I am eating Rice Krispies for the first time in some while. It’s going well when suddenly, out of nowhere, a darkened piece. Huh? They must have burned one. I ain’t superstitious. Nevertheless, extradition is the way, and so I hand it over to the authorities waiting properly outside the bowl. Spoonfuls later, more trouble. This one’s not black. It has dark brown streaks on it. Harder to explain. But I must try. Perhaps the other was burned, and this one just singed. Onward. Whoa, whoa, whoa. Here’s a Krispy with brown speckles on it. What the—what is happening? My mind races forward. This could be huge. Am I going to have to start watching my cereal every time I eat it?
And what is General Mills doing about this? Perhaps they’re trying their best already, and they only need me to do my share at this end. I hope not, because I don’t think I will do that. I need to be watching television or staring at the wall during this important time. And besides, I always thought inspectors were included in the cost, which is a lot by the way, if you ask me. And if these private corporations cannot be trusted, are we going to have to federalize cereal? And what then?
But just as despair was wrapping its fat fingers around my neck, a ray of hope—I remembered the children. God save the children and their glorious market influence. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, next to those two mountains, I need not fear of cereal error. Because everyone knows there’s not one kid in America who’d tolerate this nonsense, not even for a second.
