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Wed Mar 09, 2011 12:42 pm

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William Wobbles McGreet measured 3.4 feet, and yet he felt strong and tall and not at all small, his confidence you could not beat. Young William McGreet would every day eat ten bowlfuls of shredded, dry wheat and he felt that this habit was the reason, dangnabit, for his confident view of himself.



At breakfast the table, with Will very able, three bowls of the wheat were expertly arranged. Though clearly deranged, his father would muse, Will ate fast with his hands, no spoon would he use, till the bowls were as clean as shined shoes. His sister Rebecca, who lived in Tribeca, would visit from school every now and again and she’d watch all agape like a shocked and stunned ape at her dear younger brother consume one bowl then another of dry-as-a-bone, tasty-as-Styrofoam grated, minced, chopped, destroyed shredded wheat.



“I love this!” Will cried, very most satisfied, as he wiped his mouth clean with his sleeve. “I can’t wait till lunch when I’ll stuff me a bunch of this joyous wheat stuff down my throat,” Will did gloat. “And for dinner,” he said with a tilt of his head, “I’ll have three more big bowls of it, and I’ll sleep through the night ‘cause my tummy’s just right and I’ll wake the next day oh-so-ready to say, “Mommie, I’ll have me some yum-yum good wheat!”



Mrs. Greta McGreet turned white as a sheet as she went through the grocery bills. “Four hundred dollars just on shredded wheat?! For the love of Sweet Pete, what are we to do with this Will wackadoo?” she asked of her husband, whose name was Ballou.



“What harm can it do?” asked kind sir Ballou. “It’s healthy, and though we’re not wealthy, we can afford to keep the wheat business in business ‘cause he doesn’t like truffles or potato-chip ruffles, he hates filet mignon and detests Grey Poupon, New England clam chowder and milk chocolate powder he turns up his nose to it all; so let him have this, yes, it goes on for days but it’s surely a faze, these silly displays are just part of plain growing up.”



But this went on for months, this consistent exhibit till one day it all stopped at once. William’s Mommie had read in Mommie Magazine that abnormal behavior that goes on too long should be looked at and poked at and thought of and taught of and stifled and stopped, if you please, then and there.



So, in the midst of his play, his Mommie one day decided to say, “Now Willy McGreet, I don’t think it’s sweet to eat shredded wheat ten times every day without one drop of milk.” She threw all the wheat out and, boy, did he pout and he stomped his feet hard on the ground.



“Fine, be that way,” was all Will could say, “if milk’s what you think I should drink then I’ll drink ten bowls of that like a cat till I’m fittingly fat and my skin turns as white as a bunny. Laugh, I don’t care if you think that it’s funny, I’ll drink nothing but milk from now on!”



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