Apparently, I have been taken over by the Consumption Cough of 1902 so I didn't do a damn thing today but cough and rest and cough. Well, that's not completely true. I briefly wobbled my way downstairs to the kitchen, thinking I should maybe eat something. I opened the pantry doors. Meh. I'm not hungry. But I should eat something. Just a little something.

Hmm. OK, maybe some cereal. That will do. I spy the box of Kix to the right. Inoffensive enough, I think. I open the top, reach in way down and take about a half a handful out of the box, which is nearly empty, and pop the Kix in my mouth. Immediately, I frown. Stale. Bleah. I start chewing them up anyway. But then the stale Kix start to mutate into some kind of barnacle/Krazy Glue substance. They begin to attach themselves to all the surfaces of my mouth, sucking up all the saliva, becoming a kind of horrifying gritty stale paste that refuses to shift. It's the driest, stickiest thing ever. I am making bad faces, attempting to rally some meager spit to finish this stuff off with.

A fleck of Kix makes its way to my throat, setting off a minuscule itch which builds in intensity. Oh CRAP.


My well-honed and oversensitive cough reflex activates suddenly, violently spewing the gluey Kix out of my mouth. The projectile glop lands on the pantry door. It hangs there, unmoving and resolute, as I stare at it in embarrassed disgust and wonder. Despite its commercial potential as the finest binding agent ever, I get a paper towel and some 409 and clean it off, and return to bed.

I guess that's something.

Kix Commercial, 1953

Bobby Troup, "Route 66"