There'll be a day

"NUM, NUM, NUM," eats Henry. The thin coarse fibers of his mouth mash down over and over, grinding the small circles of grain even smaller, pieces coming loose from the main whole masses as brown sugar syrup bonds are broken down and the canola and/or rice bran oil fails to keep it all together. His button eyes look around, not seeing as the pieces fall from his mouth, the absence of fleshy lips and an esophogus uninabling him from swallowing the mashed bits and all of it excapes him, just like the cookie monster and his precious chocolate chip delights.