Oh, Crackle. I fell for you hook, line, and sinker the moment I noticed you sizing me up in that narrow grocery aisle. Everything about you made my head spin: your sweetly elfen ears, that splattering of marigold bangs, the red-and-white sleeping cap perfect for gagging me and muffling my screams of ecstasy.
Snap and Pop have their charms, sure, but they’re too much like the cereal they advertise—bland, forgettable, and painfully unsensual. Crackle was right there with me as I was discovering my pubescent body, and though my feelings for him have diminished with age, I still feel a tremor betwixt my thighs whenever I hear skim milk poured over a big bowl of Rice Krispies.
Of course, an elf is nearly human, so Father McGillicuddy was only mildly perturbed when I admitted this attraction during my weekly confession.
Father McGillicuddy had a much harder time wrapping his brain around this one. Froot Loops’ Toucan Sam is about as dreamy as tropical birds get. His brilliant plumage spoke to the child in me, but his intense eyes and untamed eroticism beckoned to the adult I was becoming. That his azure wings transition so seamlessly into dexterous fingers—fingers that caress, fingers that penetrate—is proof enough that God meant for me to feel this way.
Father McGillicuddy vehemently disagreed, but he eventually shrugged it off and chalked up my perversions to the “War on Christmas.”
Perhaps it was my own misunderstood feelings that enamored me to such a similarly misunderstood creature. Frankberry is half-man, half-machine, and all beefcake. As the taste of artificial strawberry coated my tongue, I could feel his strong pink hands all over me, the devilish glint in his huge mechanized eyes making his carnal intentions crystal clear. That he only appears in stores seasonally just added to his mystique and intensified my full-body yearning.
“But he’s a cartoon, a decidedly grotesque one at that,” Father McGillicuddy reasoned during one of our private counseling sessions. “Most importantly, he isn’t real.” Real or not, I wager I ruined an entire drawer’s worth of Joe Boxers that summer.
I can’t help but concede this one to Father McGillicuddy: there is absolutely nothing redeeming about the depraved, legally dubious things I long to do to Dig’em Frog. For the chance to live out just one of my sick fantasies about that delicious amphibian dynamo, I would forfeit the very soul Father McGillicuddy is desperately striving to save.
Sunny the Sun
What I wanted was a healthful, high-fiber breakfast. What I got was an amorous obsession so consuming it got me suspended from school, fired from my job, and banned from every WalMart, gas station, and food pantry in southeastern Ohio. Sunny might not call much attention to himself, but this emblem of Raisin Bran’s commitment to nutrition set my loins ablaze the instant I saw him beaming from that bright purple box. I was convinced his trademark “Two Scoops!” guarantee was made to me and only me—a coded promise that we’d be together one day and spend every waking minute absolutely brutalizing one another.
Needless to say, Father McGillicuddy was deeply disturbed by this wicked infatuation. Having successfully petitioned for power of attorney, he had me committed for psychiatric observation for three weeks while leading round-the-clock prayer vigils in hopes of exorcising my unholy proclivities. However, all it took was one careless nurse and a single-serving box of bran on my breakfast tray to undo all of poor Father McGillicuddy’s work.
The Corn Flakes Rooster
What can I say? I really, really want to fuck that rooster.