Last night for dinner I ate Frosted Flakes.
I didn’t have a bowl of Frosted Flakes, mind you, I just ate them straight out of the box while watching a Seinfeld rerun. It was the episode where Kramer’s first name is revealed and George thinks he’s dating a bulimic model. But there I was, enjoying my box of Frosted Flakes, thinking to myself, “Now this is eating,” when I looked down and saw my shirt covered in Frosted Flake crumbs. Crumbs and sugar covered me like I’d been sunbathing in a sandstorm. “Now that’s an attractive look,” I thought to myself.
Of course, I was joking. There’s nothing attractive about that. But it occurred to me that short of a bib, I needed some sort of device to prevent this sort of mess from happening. Perhaps a tool to transfer the Frosted Flakes from the box to my mouth.
I wasn’t eating the Frosted Flakes from a bowl, so a spoon wouldn’t work for me. I thought about using a larger serving spoon, but that seemed too impractical as well. Perhaps I could fashion some sort of funnel device. Then I could pour the Frosted Flakes directly into my mouth. That seemed to have possibilities. However, it was clear that an undertaking like that would require an awful lot of work and would sort of defeat the purpose of lazily eating the Frosted Flakes right out of the box in the first place.
As I ate, the mess upon my shirt became greater and greater, but the ideas for solving this problem didn’t increase with the same proportion. In fact, I sort of stopped thinking about it as I suddenly faced a new problem: my Frosted Flakes were gone.
Rather than solve the problem of the Frosted Flake transfer, I was now faced with the dilemma of transporting myself from my couch without creating a landslide of Frosted Flakes, Frosted Flakes crumbs, and Frosted Flakes frost from my shirt to the floor below. Thinking quickly, I peeled the shirt from my body, careful to do so in a manner that would trap the Frosted Flake shrapnel within the shirt.
My options at this point were to either throw the shirt away, or shake out the Frosted Flakes and its crumb-y byproduct and save the shirt. I opted for the latter, as I’m not made of either money or shirt-growing trees. So I shook out the shirt on the back porch, replaced the shirt on my body, and opened the fridge to find some dessert.