Let me start by saying I wasn’t always like this. I used to see product mascots as harmless little guys—fun, weird, sometimes vaguely unsettling (I’m looking at you, original Burger King). But one night, while standing in my kitchen at 2:43 AM eating dry cereal straight from the box, I locked eyes with Tony the Tiger. And something changed.

It wasn’t just a logo anymore. It was a gaze. A knowing gaze. I swear he blinked. I swear he whispered, “You’re grrrreat,” but not in a fun, promotional way — in a conspiratorial, cult-recruitment kind of way. Since then, I can’t unsee it. Mr. Peanut? Ageless soul trapped in a monocle. The M&M’s? Emotionally complex beings stuck in a capitalist performance loop.

It gets worse. I started seeing patterns. They never age. They don’t change clothes. They never explain where they live. The Kool-Aid Man just smashes into buildings, yells “OH YEAH!” and leaves. Is no one asking why? Where does he go after? Who’s fixing those walls?

Some mascots are clearly ancient beings hiding in plain sight. Count Chocula? Probably drinks the blood of his competitors in cereal aisle turf wars. The Pillsbury Doughboy? He never ages and lets people poke his belly—like some sort of squishy time lord.

I tried to talk to my coworkers about it. They told me to drink more water. One suggested meditation. Another blocked me on Slack. But I know what I saw. I’ve started a spreadsheet. I’m making connections. There’s something going on and I won’t be silenced.

So if I disappear, just know this: I loved you, I believed the truth was out there, and I absolutely think Snap, Crackle & Pop are plotting something big.