Read this column. It's GRRRREAT!

Bob Dumas

I have seen video clips of some preachers and a few politicians who say they would like to see the restoration of a patriarchal society.

They believe that women must stay home and have lots of babies, do chores, not vote, have no credit cards or be allowed bank loans. But apparently it goes way beyond that. Because if you take a closer look at breakfast cereal mascots, you might start to get a little nervous.

If you spend enough time in the cereal aisle, it will hit you. Every cereal mascot with any real authority is a male. This is not an accident. This is not a coincidence. This is the cereal patriarchy.

Consider the leadership positions. At the top of the food chain—pun very much intended—we have Tony the Tiger. Not Toni. Not Antonia. Tony. He is jacked. He has visible biceps. He shouts encouragement at children in a voice that suggests he could bench-press a Honda Civic. His message is clear: greatness is male, striped, and very audibly confident.

Below Tony, in middle management, we find Snap, Crackle, and Pop. All men. No diversity. Just three male elves who apparently run an entire rice-based economy while giggling incessantly like someone on gummies for the first time. You will note that Snap, Crackle, and Pop do not actually cook the cereal. They supervise it. Somewhere off-screen, someone else is doing the real labor. Probably a woman. Probably underpaid.

Then there’s Toucan Sam, who has the magical ability to smell fruit-flavored cereal from outer space. Again, a male. Also, an explorer. Also wearing clothes, which suggests he is civilized, while other birds are apparently naked and feral. He leads his nephews on dangerous journeys through jungles and temples, reinforcing the idea that men navigate, while women can only demand they stop and ask for directions.

Don’t even get me started on that Coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs bird-thing. The cereal cartels will apparently hire a male creature that is clearly struggling with mental health issues before even considering a woman.

And of course, there’s the Lucky Charms leprechaun. A tiny man, yes, but still a man. He hoards marshmallows—sorry, “magically delicious charms”—while children chase him, never once questioning why he has exclusive control over stars, clovers, horseshoes, balloons, hearts, rainbows, and blue moons. I really question his motives.

You will search the cereal aisle in vain for female counterparts. There is no Sheila the Tiger. No Madame Toucan. No Metamucil Margaret. Oh, sure, there is Fruity Pebbles. But Pebbles was not created for a cereal. She already existed on “The Flinstones.” She is not a mascot, but rather a spokeswoman.

Some will argue, “What about the Honey Nut Cheerios bee?” To which I say: have you seen that bee lately?

Once upon a time, the bee was clearly male. Deep voice. Confident swagger. Wore a tie. Probably had opinions about mixed martial arts. But recently, things have gotten… um, complicated. The bee’s voice has softened. The design has become more ambiguous. The tie disappeared. The bee now seems to exist in a state of corporate-approved uncertainty.

Is the bee transitioning? Evolving? Focus-grouped into neutrality? I don’t know. But I do know this: when the cereal industrial complex is forced to confront gender, it does so very carefully, with lawyers present.

Meanwhile, female representation in TV ads remains limited to background roles. They appear as smiling mothers pouring cereal for children who are somehow already fully dressed for school. These women do not speak. They do not endorse. They do not get catchphrases. They pour, they smile, and they vanish, presumably off to eat dry toast in the dark recesses of the laundry room.

The message to young girls is subtle but powerful: you may consume cereal, but you may not personify it.

I have pitched ideas. I have yelled them in the cereal aisle, which security does not appreciate. “Where the hell is Wanda the Wheat Shark?! I need to know!”

Where is Captain Oatley, a grizzled female sea captain who lectures kids about fiber? Because Cap’n Crunch has apparently dropped the ball.

Where is a powerful, no-nonsense granola matriarch who looks directly into the camera and says, “Eat this. It will help. Trust me. I know.”

Instead, we get cartoon men telling us breakfast is an adventure, a quest, a challenge to be conquered before noon.

This is how the patriarchy survives. Not through laws or boardrooms, but through marshmallows shaped like planet-ending asteroids.

The next time you pour yourself a bowl of cereal, notice who’s staring back at you from the box. Notice his grin. Notice his confidence. Notice how he seems certain that this is his cereal, and you’re just renting it.

And remember: while the revolution may not be televised, it will be heavily sweetened and fortified with iron.

Bob Dumas is editor-at-large for Halston Media. He loves Honey Nut Cheerios. Reach him at dumas@halstonmedia.com.