It had been a terribly long day. As he made his way home on the long drive from the office, Desmond desperately  hoped that Molly would have forgiven him for his outburst that morning. The argument seemed so silly now. He chuckled softly and a crooked smile found his lips. Sure, they argued sometimes about real stuff, such as finances or family matters (“My mother really wants us to spend Christmas in East Liverpool this year!”). But this morning’s argument, as heated as it was, really was unnecessary. He said to himself, almost out loud, “I mean, seriously, who really cares whether Count Chocula would beat Frankenberry in a Beyond Thunderdome-style match?”

Molly had vehemently defended Count Chocula’s intellectual prowess and insisted that this feature alone would stave off the clearly superior physical attack of the much-larger and more brutish Frankenberry. But Desmond had always felt drawn to his beloved albeit dementedly brutish cereal-box icon. The more he mulled it over, the more he found himself rekindling the angst from that morning’s fight. He was a Frankenberry Man, dammit. He’d always been a Frankenberry Man. And Molly really didn’t even care that much about Count Chocula to begin with. Why couldn’t she just admit that the Count was an inferior match?