Sweatered Onions, Vol. 1: Savage Mint

In front of you are three items: a box of Chatty Crunch, a copy of Sweatered Onions issue #1, and an anthropomorphic toaster with gelatinous mouths for toast slots that spit rusted machetes whenever he (his name is Clirt!) sings old farm songs. These items in front of you present a four-way fork in the road. Option 1: You could grab the box of Chatty Crunch, coat a bowl in the sugary crisp cereal bits from inside, and soak that in a rich lather of your favorite white liquids. Breakfast is a good idea. Soon, however, you'll discover a knotting pain in your colon followed by a colorful yet dimming effect on your sight. Before you know it, you'll be floating in a forest of nothingness with such a deadening silence that every time you even slightly move, the noise from your joints will sound like a horse performing a heavy metal dry heave directly into your ear. Option 2: Grab Sweatered Onions, read it on the john, chuckle a bit, get a hemorrhoid, realize you ran out of toilet paper last night after your hot sauce and brownie mix mistakes, and proceed to find the secondary purpose for Sweatered Onions. In print form, the gloss of the pages should feel nice, but won't be entirely adequate for your day's journeys. If you decide to use the digital form of Sweatered Onions for these purposes, you are a derelict. Option 3: Turn the toaster (Clirt!) sideways, get down to your skivvies, sit cross legged on the floor, and embrace the musical machete mayhem from some solid old farm beats. Though all these options are great, I would advise the fourth option: EAT THE CEREAL, READ SWEATERED ONIONS, AND LOSE YOURSELF IN THE TETANUS TIDAL WAVE OF RANCHING RIFFS SIMULTANEOUSLY! Just do it all. Life is a construct anyways.