As I was pouring my Froot Loops -- a cereal that not only has the sense to deliberately misspell a word in its name for trademark purposes but which also has a rockin' guitar solo on its home page -- this morning, I had reason to ponder two things:
First, why don't cereal manufacturers deliberately market that powder that gets left at the end of the box, because that is awesome. You know what I'm talking about: the cereal powder that's the result of shipping and handling, chipped and crushed off, so that if you get the last of a bowl of cereal, you get that powder on top of the cereal, adding more concentrated flavor to your morning breakfast. It's like sprinkling ground-up Cap'n Crunch on your bowl of Cap'n Crunch; it's like that because that's exactly what you're doing. If they sold that separately, I would buy it and then I could really mix cereals -- I could have a bowl of Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch with Froot Loops powder sprinkled on it. Or, think about this, Big Cereal: Sell that and have people sprinkle it on their healthy cereals! So you could have a bowl of Wheaties with some "Apple Jacks" powder sprinkled on top.
That's right: before I even had my breakfast, I had revolutionized an entire industry.
My second pondering, before I sat down to read the comics section and despair about how they're just ... not... funny... was to wonder why cereals don't have spokesmen anymore.
[Don't, please, get all gender-bashing on me for using "spokesmen." The history of cereals is that men speak for the cereal. Women might be able to sell other things, like ponies whose hair you can brush and fix up, but they can't sell cereal. As I sit here, I can't think of a single female cereal spokesman ever.]
[I should also take this moment to explain that by "Spokesman" I meant the birds or tigers or elves that promote the cereal. Not the Wilford Brimleys that badger you into eating it the way your grandfather would yell at you about haircuts these days.]
Of the top ten cereals for sale in the past decade or so -- and I found the top 10 by going to a site that is an obvious authority on the matter, obvious because he has links not just to breakfast cereals but to Godzilla, -- only four have a spokesman -- and I'm being generous counting that little Sun with the Scoops as a spokesman for Raisin Bran. The rest just rely on people eating breakfast in an annoying and disturbing way that makes me tense, like the latest cereal commercial for (I think) "Multi-Grain Cheerios" in which a husband and wife pretty much end up heading for divorce lawyers because of breakfast; or they rely on the general image of oats to lure you in.
It wasn't always that way. In the past, according to my memory, cereals had all kinds of comical characters that would tell us how great the cereals were, and sell us on them by associating the virtues of the cereal with the virtues of the spokesman.
So we could imagine how crazy our breakfasts would be because they were brought to us by a silly rabbit?
First, why don't cereal manufacturers deliberately market that powder that gets left at the end of the box, because that is awesome. You know what I'm talking about: the cereal powder that's the result of shipping and handling, chipped and crushed off, so that if you get the last of a bowl of cereal, you get that powder on top of the cereal, adding more concentrated flavor to your morning breakfast. It's like sprinkling ground-up Cap'n Crunch on your bowl of Cap'n Crunch; it's like that because that's exactly what you're doing. If they sold that separately, I would buy it and then I could really mix cereals -- I could have a bowl of Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch with Froot Loops powder sprinkled on it. Or, think about this, Big Cereal: Sell that and have people sprinkle it on their healthy cereals! So you could have a bowl of Wheaties with some "Apple Jacks" powder sprinkled on top.
That's right: before I even had my breakfast, I had revolutionized an entire industry.
My second pondering, before I sat down to read the comics section and despair about how they're just ... not... funny... was to wonder why cereals don't have spokesmen anymore.
[Don't, please, get all gender-bashing on me for using "spokesmen." The history of cereals is that men speak for the cereal. Women might be able to sell other things, like ponies whose hair you can brush and fix up, but they can't sell cereal. As I sit here, I can't think of a single female cereal spokesman ever.]
[I should also take this moment to explain that by "Spokesman" I meant the birds or tigers or elves that promote the cereal. Not the Wilford Brimleys that badger you into eating it the way your grandfather would yell at you about haircuts these days.]
Of the top ten cereals for sale in the past decade or so -- and I found the top 10 by going to a site that is an obvious authority on the matter, obvious because he has links not just to breakfast cereals but to Godzilla, -- only four have a spokesman -- and I'm being generous counting that little Sun with the Scoops as a spokesman for Raisin Bran. The rest just rely on people eating breakfast in an annoying and disturbing way that makes me tense, like the latest cereal commercial for (I think) "Multi-Grain Cheerios" in which a husband and wife pretty much end up heading for divorce lawyers because of breakfast; or they rely on the general image of oats to lure you in.
It wasn't always that way. In the past, according to my memory, cereals had all kinds of comical characters that would tell us how great the cereals were, and sell us on them by associating the virtues of the cereal with the virtues of the spokesman.
So we could imagine how crazy our breakfasts would be because they were brought to us by a silly rabbit?
Or we could take on the day like a tiger, or tackle our plans the way we would a naval expedition:
Or our breakfasts would be exotic:
Or, um, they would be kind of scary:
Or perhaps they would be filled with animals that might sting us
or tiny people: 
But you get the point. Cereals were not sold, back then, by pointing out that they were healthy or had grains or dried fruit or that by eating them you could goad your husband into a divorce so you could finally move to Austin, Texas and try to get a job as a record promoter, the way you planned to in college but you got sidetracked by having a kid and now you're 41 and feeling unfulfilled. (That's the backstory I made up for that commercial I dislike.) Cereals were sold back then by having a cartoon tell us they were Great.
Sure, sure, they made a little bit of noise about "part of a healthy breakfast" and all, but think about this: First of all, that "healthy breakfast" they were part of had about 17 courses including eggs, bacon, a couple carrots, three glasses of milk, and, offscreen, a jar of vitamins and a surgeon. Cereals -- any cereal worth eating-- was so unhealthy that you had to do all that just to get back to your pre-cereal level.
Second of all, how healthy can any cereal be if it makes you act like this:
That cereal, at least, told parents how we'd be acting after eating it.
Around about the time that "Cinnamon Toast Crunch" came out is when mascots started being phased out in favor of 'ordinary' kids who came in a multiethnic mixture that would make Angelina Jolie green with envy, or, worse yet, simple commercials featuring regular people. Regular people can't be spokespeople for cereal. Not even when they're as great as Mikey was:
I really would like to award this to Mikey, but I can't because he's a real person and real people don't stick in your imagination. If you saw Mikey walking down the street, would you think Hey, I should go buy some Life Cereal? No. You'd think Why hasn't that kid aged?
But if you saw Frankenberry walking down the street, you'd immediately associate it with cereal. Or with "Cloverfield," since [SPOILER ALERT] I'm led to understand that Frankenberry is the monster attacking New York City in that movie. (Note: I still have not seen "Cloverfield." But my versions of it are more fun.)
That was the beauty and wonder of cereal spokesmen, a beauty and wonder that has faded over time as people become less likely to buy something just because a cartoon bee said to do so. And no spokesperson was more beautiful and wondrous than: Quisp.
For a change, I have some reliable information on one of my topics here: The Quisp home page. According to that impeccable reference, Quisp is a six-toed Alpha Centaurian with a Jewish Girlfriend. No, I'm not kidding. Quisp also presumably engages in a little illegal nookie with said girlfriend, since he himself admits he's underage.
Quisp, as a spokesman, is incredibly interesting and his backstory needs to be told. For example, Quisp is responsible for leveling a lot of Siberia -- he tried to bring cereal to Earth, only to have it backfire horribly and result in the Tunguska fireball -- unleashing more energy than a nuclear bomb (or, in layman's terms, slightly less energy than you get from one bowl of Quisp.)
Quisp also demonstrates Einstein's theory of relativity. Ever heard someone say "Everything's relative?" That person is talking about Einstein's theory of relativity, which is this:
Everything = relative.
Quisp proved that theory by leaving his home planet, "Planet Q," in 1951 (our time) and arriving here, and I quote:
"70 billion light years later," in 1965. Which means that Quisp traveled an average of 5 billion light years for each of our years, meaning he was moving five billion times faster than light. The only other things that have moved that fast in human history? Husbands when there's housework to be done.*
*That joke brought to you by 1950's comedians.
Moving 5 billion times faster than the speed of light means that you are moving, according to Einstein's theory, really fast. (I hope I'm not leaving you behind with all this technical jargon.)
In 1996 and 1997, Quisp, having traveled back to Planet Q to get more cereal, returned to Earth again and began being sighted in Western New York state cornfields. And you know what that means, don't you?
It means that M. Night Shymalan stole the idea for "Signs" from a cereal mascot. Let me share with you the plot summary of "Signs" from IMDB:
In Bucks County, Pennsylvania, a five-hundred-foot crop circle is found on the farm of Graham Hess (Gibson), the town's reverend. The circles cause a media frenzy and test Hess's faith as he journeys to find out the truth behind the crop circles.
Now, let me share with you the plot summary of Quisp's return to Earth, from Quisp.com:
1996 Long range Quisp probes land on Earth with small quantities of Quisp cereal. Quisp sightings reported beginning in western New York state.
1997 Quisp sightings increase. He is seen in cornfields, constellations, movie houses, everywhere!
Eerily similar, aren't they? That's the second most disappointing thing M. Night has ever done. (The first most disappointing thing was in The Village [SPOIILER ALERT INVOLVING BRYCE HOWARD MOVIES] when he didn't have real monsters in those woods. There should have been real monsters, M. Next time, check with me.)
Let me also share with you the top five "Plot key words" on IMDB. This is what IMDB users think "Signs" is about:
Contaminated Water Power Paranormal Finger Cut Off Satan
Can I just ask: where is "aliens" in that list? What's wrong with you people?
So there you have it: Quisp: prover of Einstein's theories, inspiration for great movies, and Best Cereal Spokesman.
Click here to see all the other topics I’ve ever discussed!
Want a free t-shirt? Of course you do. Click there to find out how you can get one courtesy of The Best of Everything: Our Opinions Are Righter Than Yours.
Like horror stories? AfterDark has the best scary stories around.
But you get the point. Cereals were not sold, back then, by pointing out that they were healthy or had grains or dried fruit or that by eating them you could goad your husband into a divorce so you could finally move to Austin, Texas and try to get a job as a record promoter, the way you planned to in college but you got sidetracked by having a kid and now you're 41 and feeling unfulfilled. (That's the backstory I made up for that commercial I dislike.) Cereals were sold back then by having a cartoon tell us they were Great.
Sure, sure, they made a little bit of noise about "part of a healthy breakfast" and all, but think about this: First of all, that "healthy breakfast" they were part of had about 17 courses including eggs, bacon, a couple carrots, three glasses of milk, and, offscreen, a jar of vitamins and a surgeon. Cereals -- any cereal worth eating-- was so unhealthy that you had to do all that just to get back to your pre-cereal level.
Second of all, how healthy can any cereal be if it makes you act like this:
That cereal, at least, told parents how we'd be acting after eating it.
Around about the time that "Cinnamon Toast Crunch" came out is when mascots started being phased out in favor of 'ordinary' kids who came in a multiethnic mixture that would make Angelina Jolie green with envy, or, worse yet, simple commercials featuring regular people. Regular people can't be spokespeople for cereal. Not even when they're as great as Mikey was:
I really would like to award this to Mikey, but I can't because he's a real person and real people don't stick in your imagination. If you saw Mikey walking down the street, would you think Hey, I should go buy some Life Cereal? No. You'd think Why hasn't that kid aged?
But if you saw Frankenberry walking down the street, you'd immediately associate it with cereal. Or with "Cloverfield," since [SPOILER ALERT] I'm led to understand that Frankenberry is the monster attacking New York City in that movie. (Note: I still have not seen "Cloverfield." But my versions of it are more fun.)
That was the beauty and wonder of cereal spokesmen, a beauty and wonder that has faded over time as people become less likely to buy something just because a cartoon bee said to do so. And no spokesperson was more beautiful and wondrous than: Quisp.
For a change, I have some reliable information on one of my topics here: The Quisp home page. According to that impeccable reference, Quisp is a six-toed Alpha Centaurian with a Jewish Girlfriend. No, I'm not kidding. Quisp also presumably engages in a little illegal nookie with said girlfriend, since he himself admits he's underage.
Quisp, as a spokesman, is incredibly interesting and his backstory needs to be told. For example, Quisp is responsible for leveling a lot of Siberia -- he tried to bring cereal to Earth, only to have it backfire horribly and result in the Tunguska fireball -- unleashing more energy than a nuclear bomb (or, in layman's terms, slightly less energy than you get from one bowl of Quisp.)
Quisp also demonstrates Einstein's theory of relativity. Ever heard someone say "Everything's relative?" That person is talking about Einstein's theory of relativity, which is this:
Everything = relative.
Quisp proved that theory by leaving his home planet, "Planet Q," in 1951 (our time) and arriving here, and I quote:
"70 billion light years later," in 1965. Which means that Quisp traveled an average of 5 billion light years for each of our years, meaning he was moving five billion times faster than light. The only other things that have moved that fast in human history? Husbands when there's housework to be done.*
*That joke brought to you by 1950's comedians.
Moving 5 billion times faster than the speed of light means that you are moving, according to Einstein's theory, really fast. (I hope I'm not leaving you behind with all this technical jargon.)
In 1996 and 1997, Quisp, having traveled back to Planet Q to get more cereal, returned to Earth again and began being sighted in Western New York state cornfields. And you know what that means, don't you?
It means that M. Night Shymalan stole the idea for "Signs" from a cereal mascot. Let me share with you the plot summary of "Signs" from IMDB:
In Bucks County, Pennsylvania, a five-hundred-foot crop circle is found on the farm of Graham Hess (Gibson), the town's reverend. The circles cause a media frenzy and test Hess's faith as he journeys to find out the truth behind the crop circles.
Now, let me share with you the plot summary of Quisp's return to Earth, from Quisp.com:
1996 Long range Quisp probes land on Earth with small quantities of Quisp cereal. Quisp sightings reported beginning in western New York state.
1997 Quisp sightings increase. He is seen in cornfields, constellations, movie houses, everywhere!
Eerily similar, aren't they? That's the second most disappointing thing M. Night has ever done. (The first most disappointing thing was in The Village [SPOIILER ALERT INVOLVING BRYCE HOWARD MOVIES] when he didn't have real monsters in those woods. There should have been real monsters, M. Next time, check with me.)
Let me also share with you the top five "Plot key words" on IMDB. This is what IMDB users think "Signs" is about:
Contaminated Water Power Paranormal Finger Cut Off Satan
Can I just ask: where is "aliens" in that list? What's wrong with you people?
So there you have it: Quisp: prover of Einstein's theories, inspiration for great movies, and Best Cereal Spokesman.
Click here to see all the other topics I’ve ever discussed!
Want a free t-shirt? Of course you do. Click there to find out how you can get one courtesy of The Best of Everything: Our Opinions Are Righter Than Yours.
Like horror stories? AfterDark has the best scary stories around.
1 comments:
lamest cereal spokesman? king vitamin. for sure.
anyway, love the blog. so much so, that i added a link to my own (www.diaryoffools.com) so that my TENS of readers may stumble across this gem.
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