New movie review is on the way, but as long as I’ve got you here, today’s piece is totes about oats.

I’m not old enough to have witnessed the Fifties’ infatuation with Sugar first hand, but I’ve seen the artifacts. Back then, sugar was more of a god than an ingredient, a magical “Energy Food!” that helped Mom stay slim by giving her the pep and zing she needed to keep house (yes, sugar was a diet aid back then), and helped Junior stay alert in school. Each commercial jingle was a hymn to crystalline carbohydrates:

🎶Oh, the pops are sweeter and the taste is new; they’re shot with sugar, through and through. Sugar Pops are tops!🎶

By the time I came around, however, cereal manufacturers were hedging their pitch a bit. Sugar Pops became Corn Pops, Super Sugar Crisp had its epaulettes ripped off like Chuck Connors in the opening credits to Branded, and was demoted to the vague and unconvincing moniker Golden Crisp, while Sugar Smacks (“a sweetened puffed wheat breakfast cereal made by Kellogg’s, noted for its high sugar content”) suffered the greatest indignity of all—reduced in rank to Honey Smacks (when Honey served as the “healthy” fig leaf for pre-sweetened cereals), and then eventually to just the word “Smacks”, which sounds less like a children’s breakfast food and more like a snack item made from puffed rice and toasted heroin.

But it wasn’t always so. Let us begin in the Before Times, around the turn of the 20th Century, when mildly deformed urchins would accost you on the high street, demanding oats.

“The love of oatmeal signifies youth and activity.” Which probably explains why, as a child, I was a sedentary old soul, eating fistfuls of Froot Loops right out of the box while making curmudgeonly remarks about the theme for Junior Prom.

“The old and inactive may like oats, but not crave them.” Oh, MAY we? Gee, thanks, Judge Danforth, but here’s a tip: if you ever hear me say, “I’m craving oats,” then immediately give me that cognitive test Trump keeps taking and failing, or—and this is the option I’m actually hoping for, because I do care about maintaining my Cool Factor—get me to rehab, because “0atz” has gotta be the hot new street drug and I’m obviously a hopeless addict. At no point will actual oats—rolled, steel-cut, or instant—need to be administered, because I wouldn’t even stuff a My Pillow with that shit.

Anyway, the message is clear. While old farts may covet oats, they are the exclusive and rightful property of Flaming Youth. Okay, got it. So how did that sales strategy ultimately work out?

“Good day, fellow kids. Let’s all lower our cholesterol, then take a big nap!”

Okay, so speaking as a demographic of one, I was caught somewhere between these two extremes, and witnessed how, as the old oatmeal paradigm collapsed, the message grew increasingly surreal:

I have a theory that when advertising copy screams at you, it betrays a lack of confidence in its message. This headline, for instance, declares “Syrup! On Quaker Oatmeal! Children like it!” in the same tone you’d use when seeing someone about to heave water on a kitchen blaze, “No! It’s a grease fire! Use baking soda!”

Now I’m no stranger to corporate desperation. I wager we’ve all seen lots of dying brands strive to renew their lease on life by concocting off-label uses for themselves (“Don’t forget, Del Monte Canned Mint Peas are also an effective Breath Mint!”), but in this case the headline is playing a game of Two Truths and an Obvious Lie.

Okay, so drowning their flavorless grains in tree sap didn’t sweep the nation like the they’d hoped. But what if the Quakers increased the sugar content but decreased the price, giving you diabetes and a coupon??

Also, this is the second time they’ve told us that Quick Quaker Oats and Quick Mother’s Oats are exactly the same, which raises the question of why they both exist. Are there oat-eaters out there who trust Quakers but not Mothers, and vice versa? Because frankly, after seeing this next ad, I’m going full Fox Mulder. I trust no one.

Turns out Quaker’s new idea is the same old idea—“Profane our Porridge with Jellies, Jams, and Compotes!”—but this time dressed up with that weird yellow fruit that ruins pizzas. Now, I know certain people will instantly rise to refute, debunk, and upbraid me—I’m looking at you, Carl—but I don’t deny that pineapple has its uses, in cuisine and elsewhere. It is, after all, Nature’s Solvent, and an entire tub of pineapple juice will eventually dissolve a human body. Do with that information as you think best.

But I’m afraid we’ve reached an impasse. All the Oats, the Quakers, the Mother’s, they’re quickly running out of sugar delivery systems to make their chaff palatable to finicky tots. Even the Special Offer on Mother-Daughter Dresses failed to move the needle, and if high fashion ensembles made from petroleum by-products and designed by a cereal manufacturer don’t make people want to buy oatmeal, what will?

As it turns out, nothing. Which is good news, because the Quakers have finally given up. They’ve realized their customers are too stupid and incompetent to apply a condiment, so we’ve just shoved the sugar right into their formerly “healthy” breakfast food. (I mean that was the pitch, right? The healthfulness of Quaker Oats? They certainly weren’t selling you on the taste, while the texture always seemed like what you’d get if someone put a gun to your head and forced you to eat Cotton Mather’s oldest periwig.

Yes, we know.1
If you’re a kid, you just said “Wow!” If you’re a mama, you said “What!”

Well, if you’re my mama, you probably managed a saltier ejaculation than “What!” But even if she kept it clean, you’d have to replace that exclamation point with an interrobang, because she’s going to have to questions.

Personally, I’m more worried that the Quaker Oats Guy is clearly coming on to me.

“Nothing is better for thee than me!!”

Tee-Hee!

Great, I feel like I just got cruised by a pilgrim at Plato’s Retreat.

But as we conclude our look at the Society of Friends and their efforts to promote tasteless gruel, I don’t want people to think I’m picking on the Quakers (feel free to shake my family tree; you’ll get quite a crop of ‘em). So let’s go for a wow finish, with the most We Fucking Give Up ad in the entire genre:

Plop! Yep, that would’ve been a surprise at the breakfast table all right. And while it might have made the meal go down easier, it also would’ve made me late for the bus, because I’d have to go change my Hang Ten shirt for one that wasn’t spattered with grits and Good Humor.

It takes ideas to keep kids interested in breakfast.

Well, starvation also plays a role, but sure, as I sat at the table in my Batman p.j.s, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and spooning mush into my mouth, I was all about the life of the mind.