While many of you point to a hot slice of pizza, or perhaps scalding spaghetti sauce, as the perfect food villain for destroying the roof of your mouth, I thinks it’s time, here and now in 2017, that we shed a little culinary light on another subject that causes just as much destruction…just as much pain and annoyance.

I’m looking at you, granola clusters.

Your days of fooling the masses while disguised as edible health, as something to make with the kids, are over! No more, “Oh yes, yes indeed, we made that stuff as a family. It goes down smoothly and cleans you out like it’s Bernie Madoff and your colon is made of money and stock options.”

Yeah, none of that…it ends, here and now!

Because evil doesn’t need to be fancily manicured in such light, always near the the goods haphazardly labeled as “As Seen on Oprah and recommended by Dr. Oz” or near the checkout aisles with the magazines that tell us tales of Puffy and Tom, of Julia and Brad, of the Aliens that just flew coach with John Travolta as the pilot…yes, no item that is a harbinger for so much consistent irking should be placed on the same pedestal as all of those heavy ledes.

Ever.

But why, you ask? Why all this disdain and hate like I’m Sam Jackson in a Tarantino film? Well, this revelation began around 7:30 this morning, Pacific Coast Time. That’s when I found out that granola clusters, consumed without diligent precision—like threading a needle, gang—can be as lethal as a mullet-ted Mel Gibson from the 1980s. And, of course, I realized this connection the hard way.

Things started out swimmingly, at first, which is why the early stages of this dilemma were as unseen as snow in the Bahamas. I awoke, which is always a plus. The wood floors weren’t too cold on my feet. Nothing was ablaze and all the furniture was still there. The television sets? Check. California? Still hasn’t slid into the ocean, all good. So I made my way to the kitchen area for a feeding sesh, it was nothing special, really. I mean, how often do you base your breakfast plan around what will NOT damage the roof of your mouth?

Now, I’m no Dutch heiress or anything, but let’s just say that my options for breakfast were not limited—multiple Jimmy Dean frozen sausage biscuits aside, there were fresh eggs, breakfast meats, a plethora of fruits and different breads, you name it. But, for some reason, on this particular morning, the only thing that I felt would satisfy the taste buds was some granola…mixed with a bunch of other ingredients, of course, so I wouldn’t totally think I was just eating granola like a depressed horse.

(This was my morning decision. No shit.)

So, I grabbed a bowl and a spoon and got to creating this hodgepodge of yogurt, of this and that, stirring and folding until I had the perfect consistency—which I call: pretty damn close to Elmer’s.

The interesting thing, mind you, is that as I made my way to the office to eat the aforementioned Elmer’s-like hodgepodge, my main objective was to consume this fuel while I was writing a 500o-word manifesto on the Lack of Blinker Usage in Southern California—I had GIFs, Vimeos, two Driver’s Ed instructors, and, like, nine Snapchat characters. It was glorious. It was to be published this afternoon, and, with absolute certainty, would stand as a grand #ChangesOf2017 discussion.

One bite of a granola cluster, however, and I was on the ground in agony (like I pissed off Tanya Harding or something).

And things only worsened, yes, shit got real…fuzzy.

The thick sweat that formed on my brow turned cold and heavy, the beads dripping down my face, mixing with the tears. (Those who say that real men cry must have formulated that bumper sticker while eating granola.) Paralyzed with shock and fear, I could do little to change my situation, too. I was confused. For the first time, I think I understood the anguish that Ralphie felt when he shot his eye out…only my eye was the roof of my mouth and my pajamas didn’t have a “comes with grandma’s couch print” option.

I had to do something, though, but what? Yelling would have only made things worse…more painful, actually, as what felt like a second esophagus dangling near my incisors—that was actually the granola’s carnage, it’s wake—made verbal communication damn near impossible, a mission that even Tom Cruise would have said “fuck no” to.

Never mind Tom Cruise, though. The severity called for some form of action. For this story was not going to end in such dire straits. No way! Heroics were called for, and I am a hero. A champion who is quick on his feet, no matter the situation. Not thinking clearly, however, I grabbed my glass of freshly squeezed orange juice AND OH MY GOD WHAT THE HELL HAVE I DONE?!?!

(This part of the story takes place 15 minutes later—the amount of time that elapsed while I lay motionless and in the fetal position.)

My mistake resonated through my loins and teeth like salty vibrations in an open wound of reality. My trust in the FDA had long since vanished and I wanted nothing to do with Florida—does anyone? My mind shifted and re-shifted with the morning’s choices: I should have gone with the Jimmy Dean biscuit. Maybe an un-clustered version of granola? Hell, even crushed glass might have been a better choice. Anything.

No matter, though. Moot point.

With the strength I had left, deep within my genetics, I managed to pull myself up onto my chair and I gingerly rolled over to the desk—yes, the chair has wheels. It was there that I sat for what seemed like 20, maybe 30 minutes, without thought. Silence…

Then, I opened my laptop and began to write my manifesto. But, unfortunately, there was no returning to simplistic blogs and opinions—not after what I had been through. So, I decided to write a different entry, and it started out something like this:

Looking back, well, I guess I was too wrapped up in the fact it was Thursday and so close to Friday. That happens, sometimes. The mind wanders. I remember certain things about the morning, the realization that most commercials don’t use real people like Chevy does, with their imperfect features and solid flannel shirt-to-undershirt ratios. The bad skirts. The hair. I remember thinking, “That’s not how it’s supposed to go. Nope, most ad agencies and product developers rely on a faux world, where the dream skews the outcome of everything. In that realm, things are so damn exquisite it reflects nothing but an endless fire-hose stream of pleasantries. In that world, the granola clusters are soft and chewy, like oatmeal.”

Then, I remembered the second esophagus. Although this was not Shawshank, redemption was had…my mouth’s roof payed for its sins, learned its lesson—yes, it was rehabilitated. Because, in reality…well, those granola clusters are a real drag.

Never again, granola clusters. Never again.

And guys, use your fucking blinkers.