Tag Archives: Cereal

The Lobster Guy (Five)

Man holding lobster, one in each hand.

Content warning: Adult situations. You’ve been alerted.

Truman Humboldt parked his rental car around the corner from the house that delicious Maggie Barrymore lived in. He admired himself one last time in the rear-view mirror to double check that he still looked like a man fox. He felt he surely did. He retrieved some breath spray from a pocket and filled his mouth with a few sparkly squirts. It was a burning peppermint flavor of fireworks and Truman made a face and flopped his tongue around like it tasted bad.

“I wish they would make some lobster-flavored breath spray,” he said aloud to himself. “Why does the world never do anything right? This stuff is cooky and brutal.”

He was beaming with confidence when he got out of the car and walked toward her house, the bottle of wine cradled in his arm, his triangular chin up, the organic maca working through his bloodstream. The day was beginning to darken and there was an ocean fresh breeze in the air despite the closest ocean being about 1,399 miles away. Truman stopped for a moment to take a deep breath and admire the world around him. “Life is absolutely beautiful,” he exhaled. “And it’s all because of love… And lobsters.”

But once Truman got closer to the house, the needle on the record violently slipped off, the world tilted, and his heartbeat began to bang like a golden gong inside his chest. There was a car that wasn’t hers parked in the driveway, and for some strange reason, it looked vaguely familiar to him.

Truman moved closer and ducked behind a tree in the yard. He creepily peered out from around the rough bark and saw that there were some lights coming on in the house. He snuck up closer, then closer, then closer still, moving like a lobster ninja, until he was crouched down in some bushes beneath a big window at the front of the house. His heart was beating more out of control, and he feared he was having a heart attack right there, and his entire body began to flush with electric warmth, like hot wasp stings. His multiple nervous and emotional conditions were becoming his worst enemy once again. He tried to breathe slowly and calm himself. He muttered a soothing mantra: “Lobster is life, life is lobster, lobster is life, life is lobster…”

Then his momentary meditation was interrupted by noises coming from the house. He strained to hear. Yes, they were noises, people noises. There was some muffled talking, and there was the voice of a man, a strangely familiar voice. Then Truman heard playful giggling, laughing. And then it was quiet. Truman slowly moved up from the cover of the bushes, like a perverted submarine periscope penetrating the surface of the water, and he carefully peeked in the unshaded window.

And what he saw there made his eyes spiral in angry madness like a psychotic clown. He gulped and began to shake as he witnessed his beautiful Maggie Barrymore locked in a passionate kiss with his ex-boss, the man who had treated him so cruelly and just recently fired him from his cashier job at the Neptune Pop-In Shop Food Market. Yes, it was indeed, the distasteful Mr. Guldencock. It was gross Mr. Mustard.

Truman nearly vomited right there as he watched Miss Maggie grip his oily and sweaty head in her luxurious hands as she sloppily ate his face as if it were an ice cream cone. He continued to watch with sickening delight somehow as they began to grope and tug at each other. Clothes were now beginning to come off. Miss Maggie impatiently shed her top and undid her bra. Truman’s eyes widened like a cartoon rabbit as her intelligent breasts spilled forth. Mr. Guldencock reached out and touched them like a grinning pervert. Then he stood, frantically undid his belt, and let his polyester grocery store work pants drop to the floor. He then pulled off his shirt as well, wildly messing up his stringy hair and revealing a bulbous and fuzzy body punctuated with the most nauseating areolas Truman had ever seen on a human being.

“Oh, God,” Truman painfully moaned, and he gritted his teeth to keep from screaming, but his soul was screaming just as loudly from within the shocking cathedrals of his bones. “How can this be? How can she possibly be doing this? He’s so disgusting. Vile. Why would she crush my poor heart like this? And with him of all people. Him! Why Miss Maggie!? Why!?”

And when Mr. Guldencock finally presented her with his oversized tube of spicy, mechanically formed discount bologna, Truman watched in wretched angst as his love princess dropped to her knees and took an open-wide taste of him as if she were hungrily devouring a sandwich at a New York City deli. Mr. Guldencock’s ugly skull flopped back in ecstasy as he palmed the top of her head and thrust forward with his hips.

Truman’s battered existence on Earth could take no more, and he turned away, pressing a hand against his belly to hold back the sickness, tears welling up in his swollen eyes. When he went back up for one final and devastating peek, even though he knew he would forever regret it, there she was, now lying back on the couch and open to him, inviting him to enter. Mr. Guldencock’s blubbery body was hovering over her, ready to haphazardly bounce on her pristine flesh like a bloated white whale in desperate need of salty water.

Boiling tears of deep sadness began to roll down Truman’s cheeks like Indiana Jones boulders as he watched Mr. Guldencock’s face twist in obscene gestures of pleasure as he played plumber and plunged her like a clogged sink — the ol’ in and out, in and out, in and out, Miss Maggie howling away like a she wolf beneath a midnight moon — and Truman could finally take no more, he couldn’t handle the salacious scene of ultimate betrayal and he popped away and ran down the sidewalk, angrily pitching the bottle of wine into someone’s yard.

Truman became truly physically ill and rushed to the curb and threw up in the street, shaking, spitting, dripping. Once he righted his own mutinied ship of emotions, he made his way back to the car and drove off into the newborn night with a reckless and hysterical screaming fury.

The next day was Saturday and Truman stayed in bed, but he didn’t sleep much, he just achingly laid there in a crooked, drooling, and disheveled mess and stared at his lobster-shaped ceiling fan — the blades resembling big lobster claws — and his brain whirled along with them as they hypnotically spun and spun and spun above him. No matter how hard he tried, he could not erase the images of Miss Maggie Barrymore and Mr. Guldencock, together like that in moist, physical love. Mr. Guldencock? Mr. Mustard? How could she? He just couldn’t comprehend it. He tossed and turned in his sweaty sheets until his mind and body finally broke and he dozed off in the darkness for good. 

And then after the hours turned over and over on themselves, the sun finally broke through and it was Sunday morning, and everything was quiet, yet so hurtful. The night had been long and filled with tortured dreams of wayward lust. Truman peeled himself from the crinkled sheets of melancholy and catatonically walked into the kitchen and prepared himself a bowl of delicious Froot Loops. He sat at the kitchen table and stared out the window at the ever-brightening morning as he slowly crunched and munched, the emotional pain reverberating in the fruity rings like bombarded Saturn in space.

“Froot Loops! Froot Loops! Froot Loops!” he screamed out when the turbulent hurt bubbled and boiled over, and he tossed the bowl of cereal against a window, and it made a milky mess as it dripped down the glass. Truman’s head dropped heavily upon the table, and he sobbed uncontrollably for a long time, that is until a red-skinned lobster ghost penetrated the walls, tapped him on the shoulder and whispered something unsettling in his ear, the sound and feel of it being like the cold ocean full of madness.


In case you missed it, you can read the previous part of this story HERE.

Have you heard of a cereal bowl that isn’t the size of an ashtray?

This past weekend, my wife and I took a mini vacation to a nearby college town – just to get away from home and visit her son’s future campus, among other things, like good food and coffee.

I had searched online for a hotel and found one of those “suite” places, thinking it might be a good alternative to an Airbnb that I just couldn’t get my hands on. It was my wife’s birthday and I wanted her to have something nice – even though she’s very appreciative of anything, except Motel 6.

I was pretty disappointed with the hotel from the get-go, considering I paid so damn much for it – $250 a night plus all those damn taxes. They should have been charging $59 a night in my opinion. I guess the room was decent enough, but NOT worth the price of admission. I was hoping it would be much larger than it was, but it was pretty much the size of your run-of-the-mill hotel room – just with a bigger refrigerator and a dishwasher that was falling apart. Whoop-tee-doo.

In my head I was saying “I am pissed!” just like Tourette’s Guy would. If you don’t know who Tourette’s Guy is, look him up on YouTube. Hilarious.

Anyways, another perk to having the suite was having it stocked with dishes and silverware we could use if we wanted to eat in… Or in my case, enjoy a delicious bowl of cereal.

Even before arriving at the hotel, my wife and I stopped at a nice grocery store, and I grabbed myself a box of Corn Pops and a box of Apple Jacks and some milk. I was pumped! To be able to have a bowl of cereal at the hotel – “I was in such bliss, my brothers,” as Alex DeLarge would say. If you don’t know who Alex DeLarge is, Google him.

But upon arriving to the room and inspecting the dishware that was provided, I just about lost my shit. “What the hell is this!?” I cried out to the cereal gods.

The dimensions of the bowls did not exceed the size of my palms.

“Are those ashtrays?” my wife wondered.

“No, they’re cereal bowls the size of ashtrays. How can this be? How in holy hell am I supposed to eat cereal out of these?”

My wife just looked at me like I was crazy, but I was crushed. Another dream had been snuffed from my life like a dirty cigarette – how appropriate, right?

Yellow Corn Pops polished with sweetness tinkled into one of the tiny bowls in the middle of the night. I poured in a little milk. I couldn’t sleep. My mind and soul were restless. I sat down on the uncomfortable couch on the other side of the partition from where my wife was sleeping in the bed. I began to spoon in the delicious late-night snack. It was so good, but due to the size of the bowl, the pleasure didn’t last long. I had to go back for more. And I did. And I did again. Like crack.

Still restless afterwards, I went down to the lobby and out into the hot air of a summer night. Corn Pops tumbled in the tum-tum. Light pollution blotted out the stars. I turned back to look at the lobby through the sliding glass doors. A few annoying weirdos were playing pool. Yeah, they had a pool table in the lobby. There was a lone lady clerk behind the front desk pretending to work. I considered complaining about the size of the bowls. But what good would it do? It wouldn’t matter what I said – nothing would change. The lady clerk didn’t care. She had more important things on her mind… Maybe.

The lobby doors slid open, and my wife appeared. She was fuzzled and bedazzled. “Are you still upset about the size of those cereal bowls?”

“Yes,” I confessed. “No one should be forced to eat cereal from such a small bowl. It’s ridiculous and inhumane.”

“But you could have no cereal at all. Think of that and all the other things you do have and stop being so glum.”

I looked at her, pure beauty radiating in the neon glow of the high hotel. “You’re always the positive end of the battery,” I said. “Cereal trouble may have killed me by now if it weren’t for you.”

I wrapped my arm around her, and we walked back into the hotel. There at the front desk was a man and he was loudly complaining about something to the clerk. We stopped in the shadows as I wanted to eavesdrop.

“How the hell am I supposed to eat cereal out of a bowl like this!” he screamed to her, and he threw it down and it rattled against the counter.

The clerk was shaking and crying because he was being so mean and hateful. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll make a note of it for the manager.”

“Oh yes, a note for the manager. I’m sure you will,” the man grumbled. “You’re nothing but an inept ding-a-ling. I’ll never stay in this hotel ever again! You’ve lost my business!” And he angrily stormed off, tossing a perturbed glance in our direction.

“See,” my wife said to me. “Aren’t you glad you didn’t become an asshole like him?”

“Yes,” I said. “You’re right again.”

“Of course, I am. You should listen to me more often.”

I gave her a squeeze and a sultry smile. “Let’s go upstairs and watch some crappy TV, and maybe later you can give me a reason to have another bowl of cereal.”

Love and Thunder in the Jailhouse (Part 7)

Author’s Note: You can read the previous episodes of this story by going to the Serials on Cereal tab in the menu bar at cerealaftersex.com.

I would have never believed it myself had I not witnessed it in the realm of real life, but there he was.

“Karl! What the fuck are you doing here!?” Roy blurted out loud enough for the whole world of the underground dead to hear.

Creepy Karl from Indiana held up a dirty, empty plastic milk carton. “I tried to stop you, but you just tore off. You all forgot your milk jug back in California. I thought I’d bring it to you.”

“I swear Karl, you’re cuckooier than a bowl of Cocoa Puffs,” Roy said, exhausted in spirit.

“No, no. I’m just trying to be a decent citizen of the world.”

“What kind of shit is this, Karl?!” Roy demanded to know. “You’ve been following us, and not because of some god damn empty milk jug. You’ve got some serious explaining to do or you’re liable to lose even more teeth. You’ll be swallowing them right down with a warm blood chaser after I punch you in the face.”

“No, now, Roy. There’s no need for physical violence here,” Karl said, and he craned his wrinkled neck to get a peek at me in the bed over Roy’s shoulder. “Oh. Looks like I might have interrupted a hot love session.”

“Roy! Get him the hell out of here. Right now!” I screamed out.

“You heard the lady, get the hell out of here before…”

“Before what?” Karl sneered. “Before you call the cops?” He moved up and down on the balls of his feet, snickering. “Now, that might not be in your best interest, Roy. You know, considering everything that’s transpired among you two and the outside world.”

I got up out of the bed, a sheet wrapped tightly around my body, and I went to stand by Roy and looked that son of a bitch Karl right in the face and pointed my pissed off finger at him. “You don’t know shit about us, so quit playing like you do,” I said to him.

“Well, on the contrary young lady, I do know a few things. Things like how you’ve been fornicating with an outlaw.”

“That’s none of your god damn business,” I seethed.

“But it is my business. And it most certainly is the business of those that I represent. It’s a sin. They know it. I know it. Seems like you’re the only one who doesn’t know it, or maybe you just don’t care.”

“I have no god damn idea what you are talking about, mister, and I don’t really care to,” I said to him. “Now, I’m going to go take a shower and when I get out, you better be on the other side of the Rio Grande, Karl.”

As I walked off to the bathroom, Karl called out something that stopped me dead in my tracks. He said: “Royal is wondering why you ran off with this here killer.”

I turned to look back at him. He was smiling some victorious smile like he had beaten me, beaten Roy, too. We were caught in some sort of web I didn’t fully understand yet. “What do you have to do with my husband?”

And just as he was about to speak, a beat-up car came pulling up to the motel with a bad-news rattle. There was a little lighted sign strapped to the roof and it read: Jim’s Clean Pizza. Roy glanced at me and said, “Finally. I’m so damn hungry.”

Roy went out and paid the kid and then came back inside with a plastic 2-liter of lemon-lime soda pop and a big cardboard box, and the room started to smell so good. It was that smell that told you that you were about to indulge in some delicious goodness sliding down your throat and into your hollow belly. Kind of like when Roy lets loose when he’s in my mouth.

I’ll tell you what, though. That damn Karl watched Roy all the way as he carried that box over to a little table and set it down, and I could tell he was going to ask for some damn pizza. Aw, holly hell. I’ve seen this fool drink milk and I sure as shit wasn’t looking forward to seeing him eat pizza. But Roy invited him to stay so we could talk about things. But the weird thing is, he didn’t ask me what I thought about it at all. I think it was a strategy to keep our enemy close as we worked stuff out. But I was already fast-forwarding in my mind to killing this lump of trouble and dumping him deep in the desert so the buzzards could carry him off to the afterlife in pieces.

Roy sat down, rubbed his hands together in anticipation, and opened the lid of the pizza box. “Hell yeah!” he said. “Meatballs, pepperoni, and black olives. Damn that looks good. Well come on you two, pull up your asses and grab a slice before I eat it all myself.”

“Those sure are small meatballs,” Karl said as he curiously peered into the box.

Roy chuckled through a mouthful. “I’m sure you know plenty about small balls, don’t you Karl?”

Karl gave him a stern look of disapproval, reached a spindly hand into the box, and retrieved a piece of pizza. “My balls are big enough, Roy.” Then he slurped the pointy end of his slice into his mouth.

“Well, I sure as hell hope I never find out, Karl,” Roy said to him with another laugh.

“Would you all mind not talking about your balls while I’m trying to eat,” I said to them, and then I filled some motel cups with that lemon-lime soda pop and passed them around.

“Sorry, Sally,” Roy said. Then he cleared his throat and looked around at our humble gathering. “This sure is weird as hell,” he pointed out.

“So, Karl,” I began. “What was this talk about my husband?”

He was tipping his cup back as I said this, and when he got it all down, he smacked his rutted lips and looked at me with a strange grin. Then he turned to Roy and said in an uncharacteristic tone and even with a different voice, “I think it’s time we tell her.”

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I’ll show you my cereal if you show me yours (With Poll)

I’m someone who eats cereal at night. I’ve never much enjoyed cereal as it was intended – a breakfast food to kickstart one’s day. Not for me. I’m not really into kickstarting my day. For me, cereal is much more of a snack food, a bowl of deliciousness cradled in my lap while watching House Hunters or My 600-Pound Life in bed with my wife.

I have to admit that I’m a sweets guy. I like sugary cereal. That’s unfortunate for me because not unlike the late, great Wilford Brimley, I have DIE-A-BEETUS. The Lucky Charms leprechaun is literally killing me, or rather, I’m letting him kill me. But what a way to go. Maybe more on that struggle later. But it’s the weekend and I thought I would just do something short and simple and fun today.

So, choosing what my favorite cereal is not an easy task for me because there are so many I like. But I’ll narrow it down to my Top 10 – in no particular order:

Cap’n Crunch’s Crunch Berries

Lucky Charms

Corn Pops


Sugar Bear’s Golden Crisp

Post Raisin Bran (Has to be Post because IMO it is the best)

Nature’s Path Heritage Flakes


Apple Jacks

Cocoa Pebbles

And there you have it. Now that I have confessed my cereal desires, what about you? What’s your favorite cereal? Check out the poll below and vote for your favorite.

But before that, I guess it’s only fair that I share my worst cereal experience – and that would have to be: Cracklin’ Oat Bran. I’d rather eat avocado smeared atop a piece of tree bark.

A Carnal Knowledge of Cereal

Photo by GEORGE DESIPRIS on Pexels.com

Cereal. It’s the perfect companion to the afterglow of a carnal embrace. First, there’s the reaching into the refrigerator for the milk with an elevated heart rate. Then there’s the gathering of the bowl and spoon with a shaky hand. Next is the gallant tumble of the cereal itself from its slightly upturned box while one bead of love sweat runs down your skin beneath a rumpled shirt. And after that, there’s that reckless cascade of white liquid from the carton or jug as you try to catch your breath. And at last, there is that thrust of the silver tool that will eagerly deliver your very first bite.
I like to sit in a comfortable armchair situated near a big picture window that overlooks the square as I cradle the bowl and eat. I bask in lascivious thoughts as the cold milk and crunch repeatedly crosses the threshold of my mouth. I can hear the chewing in my own head, rhythmically tapping like the silver balls of a desktop Newton’s cradle.
As the dying sun collides with the birth of a new night of stars, the square below glows a faded purple. Car after car after car reverses from its diagonal space and goes off into the void, the people inside trying to find their places in the brutal world. A woman with tousled hair and an ass packed tight in zodiac leggings crosses before me and takes refuge in the other chair. She stares into the glow of her phone, beautiful and sticky and smelling of love.
“What kind of cereal are you having?” she asks without looking at me.
“Corn Pops.”
“Oh. Fancy.” She pauses. “That was hot.”
“What’s that?”
“Earlier. Baby.” She looks over at me and mimics a kiss.
“Yes, it was… Did you know that they used to call them Sugar Corn Pops.”
“Corn Pops. They used to be called Sugar Corn Pops.”
“Your mind drifts to strange places. How do you go from sex to cereal and back again?” she wonders aloud.
“I suppose they figured the word ‘sugar’ had a negative connotation,” I say. “I suppose some marketing dildo who makes $200,000 a year came up with that one.”
“Why do you worry about that?”
“Worry about what?”
“Money, and what other people do and have.”
I think about it, then tilt my cereal bowl to drain the last of the milk and set it aside. “I guess I’m just hung up on perfection. Like a wet winter coat on a mudroom peg.”
“Baby. Perfection isn’t found in things or money. Perfection is found in the simple, meaningful moments.”
I look over at her there in the chair before the big window framing nightglow. “Like our love?”
“Like our beyond beyond love,” she says.
After a brief fissure of silence I ask her what time it is.
“11:02,” she answers with a yawn. “Are you ready for bed?”
“I’ll be there in a little bit.”
She rises from the chair, leans down and kisses me with purpose. Her lips are wet and scented from the grape-flavored water she always drinks.
“I love you,” she affirms. “Believe in that.”
“I love you, too. I really do.”
She looks down at me, smiles and presses her warm lips against my forehead. “I know you do,” she whispers.
I turn to watch her walk away, through the low glow of a long, narrow kitchen and into the darkness of the back bedroom that swallows her up.
I get up out of the chair and take my emptied bowl to the kitchen sink and rinse it out. I walk back over to the big window and look down upon the vacant square. The gray, cold stone of a courthouse reflects fear and loneliness. The empty and silent street reminds me of a dark corner in Heaven. And even with all that, I know if I am careful with her heart, I will never be alone again.