Trevor Strnad’s Deadspeak: Booyah
Faithful followers, this week I am going to broach yet another subject of great controversy: religion. I bow only to one god, and I assure you that my way is indeed right and that yours totally sucks. That god is all powerful and is an integral part of your balanced breakfast: the magic that is cereal. I absolutely worship breakfast cereal. It’s my favorite food by a landslide.
This admission may beg the question: Don’t only children eat cereal? Well, children and Jerry Seinfeld? Frankly, I don’t give a shit. I eat fucking cereal, lemme tell ya. I eat it out of a bowl as big as a kiddie pool, using a spade as a spoon. Well, actually, out of a giant country crock container. I am one of those people that eats cereal twice a day. The combination of its deliciousness and ease of preparation make it a perfect fit into my world of stoned laziness. If you’ve ever wondered why I’m fat, you’d better ask my friend Cap’n Crunch.
Speaking of which, just the other night at around 4 a.m., I was in my kitchen engaging in a truly shameless cereal pig out (the box of Cap’n was tilted back, straight into my mouth, letting its golden glory cascade into my eager maw) when my roommate nonchalantly came into the kitchen for a late night snack. I was crunching so loudly and bestially that I did not hear him approaching. He said “Hey,” startling me so badly that I jumped ten feet through the ceiling tiles. Totally busted.
Oh, the things I’ll do for Cap’n Crunch. It tastes so wonderfully yet cuts the mouth to ribbons with a texture somewhere between that of pink panther insulation and german razor wire. By the end of a massive bowl of CC, one can feel more like a victim than a victor, but what a delicious bloody road it was. I am also quite fond of both Fruity and Cocoa Pebbles varieties, Cinnabon, Wafflecrisp, Life, Cracklin Oatbran…the list is endless. I musn’t forget Frosted Flakes, whose flavor mystically multiplies when paired with two percent milk (lactose free, of course — we wouldn’t want to shit ourselves).
After this band thing folds, I’m gonna do everything in my power to move west to Battle Creek, Michigan, and marry into the Kellogg family, where I can live out the rest of my days slaughtering troughs of Raisin Bran at a severely discounted rate. Trevor Kellogg…hmm…has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?
If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen with cereal box in one hand and jug of milk in the other, praying. Cronies, raise your spoons to the sky and bark at the moon.
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