Bittersweet Poems About Mini-Wheats

Now before we open this can of worms any further let me state that I love Frosted Mini-Wheats. While my love for this amazing cereal is pure and undying, there underlies some ugliness in our relationship...

Imagine me walking into the grocery store. Do it... Ok, usually when I am there I kinda wander around and when I see something I want I walk up to it and take it, pretty straight forward. This means I rarely go there with any intention of purchasing anything, except for one thing. I home in on the cereal isle and go directly to that sexy orange box of amazing mouthgasms and I take it and I hug it and kiss it and undue it's bra and... well you can see where this is going. Upon return to my house post being at the grocery store, I put all my food stuffs away EXCEPT for the orange box. The thought of waiting till an appropriate time to have a bowl of cereal is just insane, unless an appropriate time to have a bowl of cereal is circa right-the-fuck-now. I rip that box open and pour it's guts into a bowl, Jackson Pollock some milk on it (imagine milk being thrown at it in a abstract pretentious way), and dive in. Yum sex food yums.

This amazingness continues for the rest of the box until the last god damn bowl. You see the thing about Frosted Mini-Wheats is that it is kind of flaky in nature. This means that while you have this great unique texture to interact with in your mouth (or where ever you enjoy putting the cereal in/on/around your body), the cereal is constantly shedding parts of its body. Due to our lovely planet and its gravity, these shredded pieces gradually collect on the bottom of the bag. When you go to pour that last bowl of cereal, all of these shredding fall into your bowl. Now even though my love for the cereal burns with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns, this pisses me off. These shreds, these LIES are not the cereal I want. They are so tiny there is no sense of frosting on them, and they instantly soggify (yes that is a word don't look it up). This is a problem, for one of my biggest attractions to said cereal is it's crunch. So I am left with a bowl of gold turned to shit.

There is one solution to this problem and that is to stick your hand in the bag and pull out all the intact mini-wheats and place them in your bowl. This presents a problem though, for as human nature dictates: One's love of cereal must never compromise one's sense of laziness. So I eat the bowl of shit and then I hate it. Life is so hard sometimes... sigh

In other more music and less cereal related news, everyone here NEEDS to listen to Ugly Casanova (being Isaac Brock's (the lead singer of Modest Mouse) side project). Imagine a heavily sedated Modest Mouse where Brock actually sings and doesn't do his Isaac Brock thing. While I love his Issac Brock thing, Ugly Casanova is a really nice relaxing way to get that kick ass feeling of listening to Modest Mouse.

Here is a link to download the whole album:



Ugly Casanova - Sharpen Your Teeth

Here are some links to some of my favorites off of the album:

Hotcha Girls - Ugly Casanova
Barnacles - Ugly Casanova

Lyrics:

Hotcha Girls

smells like autumn, smells like leaves
you don't know that you'll rust and not belong so much
and then get left alone
suck it up, take a ride and take a walk
and don't you know that old folks' homes smell so much like my own.
the hotcha girls at the palisades
dime store keets, pretty birds, pretty mouths.
mama's little truck stop rose, her dancy feet her happy laugh.
we were dropping dimes on the ponies in the cul-de-sac,
casting shadows throwing sparks.
we left our teeth marks on the barrel of the gun,
the clipper ship across your chest.
turns out the pony only had one trick, a wink for the truck stop boys.
they learned it all from the polaroids.
smells like autumn smells like leaves,
you don't know that you'll rust and not belong so much
and then get left alone.
suck it up, take a ride and take a walk
and don't you know that old folks' homes smell so much like my own.
time blends light, paint's all peeling, wait outside, take four rights.
the hotcha girls in the palisades
dime store keets, pretty birds, pretty mouths.
glass eyes and the wooden teeth,
the engine's rusting in deep deep sleep, it waits.
the mail came from miles away, the postal man is always late,
and we wait and we wait.
tight lipped with a big ol mouth,
the government workers all headed south while it rained.
glassy eyes and wooden teeth, the engine rusted in deep deep sleep
it waits, and it waits, to awake.

Barnacles

i don't really need to see
so i don't need to see so i'll paint
i don't know, i'll paint it black
i don't need to see
i don't see how you see out of your window
i don't need to see, i'll paint mine black
i don't need to see
i don't see how you see out of your window
i don't need to see i'll paint mine black

i don't know me and you don't know you
so we fit so good together
'cause i knew you like i knew myself
we clung on like barnacles on a boat
even though the ship sinks you know you can't let go
i was talking like two hands knocking
yelling 'let me in, let me in, please come out.'

black glass, dirt-based soap,
tell yourself what you know.
my friends, oh my friends,
bury your head i'll help you bury your hands.
hard hit, hard to miss, problems are what a problem is.

my light it came up quick, call it your asterisk,
buried in a boys and boys first book of the stars
saw it a satellite
constant unblinking eyes
buried in the bottom in the bottom of a brackish lake