♪ ♪ “Buy all our play sets and tooooyyys!” ♫
For those without this very specific genetic disposition to oddly specific early Internet web cartoon references, Cheat Commandos…O’s are a cheap cash-in on an already merchandized-by-design franchise. And to this day, I can’t figure out which cereal they used to model it—perhaps it’s actually dried macaroni and cheese, or perhaps the petrified remains of a shredded Bronco Trolley.
Much like Cheat Commandos, Shopkins is a line of toys, apparel, and by this point (probably) orthodox faiths. In short: it consists largely of blind bag toys shaped like sentient grocery items. In long: yo dog we heard you like shopping so we put consumer goods in your consumer good so you can spend food money on fake food that implicitly costs fake money, too.
Granted, I’m not judging the ouroboric commercialism that Shopkins embodies—heck, I think the adjacently themed ’80s Food Fighters are some of the best-looking action figures in history. Though it is a shame they never made a grizzled bowl of cereal armed with a tactical bootspork.
Shopkins is just something I’m far too old for, admittedly, but I’m nevertheless hesitant any time a beloved brand of non-cereal ends up emblazoned on the front of a dubiously flavored hot pink rectangular prism. Licensed cereals are usually hit or miss or impermissibly lame. Even those remembered fondly, like Pokémon Cereal, are almost always retrospectively delicious because they’re acceptably executed bootleg Lucky Charms—with prettier marbits than the heretical excuses for freeze-dried sugar they put in such licensed cereals nowadays.
At least Shopkins’ new Cutie O’s Cereal has a relatively original flavor. Outside of one juicy box of Raisin Bran, apple and strawberry make for a rare pairing—though we are starting off on the wrong plastic footlong, as my lifelong penchant for strawberry kiwi has me Pavlovianly drooling venomous vitriol at the sight of a green-fruited competitor to my mental “Best Capri-Sun” throne. But alright, Kawaii Granny Smith: I’ll sheathe my ceremonial paring knife while you state your case.
Unfortunately, it’s difficult to physically taste test Cutie O’s, because the very act of pouring a bowl requires wading through an aroma so oppressive and permeating it could be deemed Chernobylian. Anyone who listened to the latest Empty Bowl episode no-doubt remembers my only vaguely mammalian live reaction to smelling Cutie O’s, and since that very moment, said unsealed box of Shopkins Cereal has become an ambient flameless candle, radiating an odious odor throughout my apartment that can only be described as “biohazardous Juicy Drop Pop industrial run-off, injected nasally.” It’s potent and slimily candied like cheap lipgloss.
In fact, the smell of Cutie O’s is so uncanny that it brings to mind any number of forbidden foodstuffs from childhood, whether that be the come-hither look of a hundred gummy Fred Flintstones or the supple mouthfeel of a computer mouse’s roller ball. This is the sort of plasticky polyur-gonna-regret-this scent that practically forces me to try eating Cutie O’s through its sheer power of strange faux fruit magnetism.
Alas, the apple strawberry taste of Shopkins Cutie O’s isn’t nearly as atomic as its inauspicious aroma might indicate. Instead, we have another boxful of lackadaisically flavor glazed corn rings—though I’ll already say they’re better than the bulk of Kellogg’s other less-than-a-maize-in’ Cropkins. In fact, Shopkins Cutie O’s actually remind me most vividly of General Mills’ latest mega-flop of a chemically candied crap heap. Both Shopkins and Jolly Rancher cereals are extremely “green apple forward.” But where Jolly Rancher Cereal’s green apple was tart, tangy, and entirely unrestrained to the point of agape angst, the synthetic, distinctly Laffy Taffian green apple in Cutie O’s is restrained, at least in part, by a mellower strawberry sweetness.
Granted, this faintly jellied strawberry sensation is about as effective in wrangling these hard-core sour pops as Mario is at walking a Chain Chomp. Ultimately, it becomes hard to suss out said shortcake stuff in any given mouthful, as the strawberry flavoring’s entire “palate impact” is absorbed by the slightly tempered tempest of green apple, as if it were in a physics problem: barreling forward through ignored air resistance.
Though Cutie O’s may beat Jolly Rancher Cereal in a head-to-heady-scent battle of the green apples, that’s not saying much. This cereal still has to fight an uphill battle to make itself memorable. Milk doesn’t do it many favors, since sour cereals rarely fare well under the Damoclean mental image of fruity buttermilk. Even worse, milk erases what little strawberry joy there was to be had when dry, leaving behind loops that are little more than half-baked Apple Jack’s imitators—the kind even Great Value’s Apple Blasts wouldn’t associate with.
And with that last gasp of critique, I must say goodbye to Shopkins Cutie O’s Cereal forever. It may be more creative than Kellogg’s typical loosely licensed barrel-bottom scrapings, but there’s no way I’m gonna remember eating this a few months from now—unless I punch a hole in the drywall and chuck the unfinished box somewhere near my ventilation system. I could save tens of dollars in annual Yankee Candle costs! The only way I can recommend Cutie O’s to the everyday cereal fan is if they have a particular hankering for aggressively green-appled breakfasts, or if their child needs to be distracted from trying to eat their actual Shopkins.
Because if Cutie O’s are innovative in any aspect, it’s the back of the box, which unfolds into a Shopkins play set. At this point, I feel like this cereal could only get more meta if it starts anthropomorphizing and merchandizing my internal organs. I hear there’s a BOGO deal on kidneys!
The Bowl: Shopkins Cutie O’s Cereal
The Breakdown: Sweetish green apple, enough smell power to incense a Claire’s, and not much else. Cutie O’s are in the upper echelon of recent licensed cereals, but that doesn’t mean much when its competition could be better used as hamster bedding.
The Bottom Line: 4.5 puckered-up grandmas out of 10