Sitting at the "nook" table with the lights on, because I had to wake up before the sun to catch the bus to the city where the nuns were waiting to detail my inevitable damnation, I would crunch cereal and glare at my sister who would scowl at me, bags under our eyes, freezing, both knowing that the future would be one of endless maintenance, humiliation and disappointment. Cereal boxes were the only line of defense. We arranged them like bunkers--not only to protect us from each other, but from existence, such as it was. I would read every bit of my box, confirming every detail, wondering if my life would change in six to eight weeks if I convinced my parents to order the mail-away prize (which should have been in the box in the first damn place)
     The Sugar Smacks frog, judging by the way he was dressed, did not attend parochial school. He seemed old enough to drive, have his own place, and pursue a casual, non-denominational lifestyle. This was useful mythology, critical, as a possible alternative to the current and after-life, to keeping me from walking right past the bus-stop, into the storm drain and ultimately out to sea. It was important to know that, in the cereal universe, the sun was shining and the bus driver waved to the raccoons who never really went to school, but remained on the single green hill, jumping around and talking about pirate ships or magic beans or whatever.
     In the event that we ate legitimate cereal, like Special K or Raisin Bran, the box seemed to have academic value-- It was like reading a book from a higher grade level. The Raisin Bran sunshine character was doing the right thing with the two scoops, teaching you a little something about weights and measures and intelligent living. The corn flakes rooster challenged you to consider agriculture and combines, Tom Sawyer and the gang cutting little triangles out of the cuffs of their pants. 
     I am thankful that Kashi Good Friends cereal was never a part of my childhood mornings. I think I would have worriedly turned the box down onto the table and endured my sister's open mouth chewing, or just carried it back to the cupboard to make sure it was completely out of sight. Otherwise, there would have been nothing in the world to hold on to, (like if your ship sank and the only floatation device was an inflatable Dick Cavet.) The most dire portions of my day would be haunted by the look on that guy's face. The Good Friend's universe would have been one in which those two people, attached by a shared cheekbone and always coming at you no matter which way you turned, tripped over end-tables and got their feet caught in paint buckets.