Is this the end of the Cap'n Crunch story? Is there more dirty laundry to run up the mainmast?

As the world knows by now, Cap'n Crunch's claim to be a captain is belied (or is that belayed?) by the number of stripes on his sleeve. The cereal sailin' man has three on his sleeve. A real naval captain has four, making Crunch a commander at best.

Somebody spotted this error by scrutinizing the Cap'n Crunch box. Now, there's a guy I'd like to hit with a solid left hook.

What else are we going to find out about Crunch? Did we forget to ask while he forgot to tell? Was he lying about his time on a swift boat in Vietnam? Like George Bush deuce, did he do all his uniform time at considerable distance from the fighting? Is that white powder REALLY sugar?

What did Crunch know about Benghazi, and when did he know it? Was he a little too fond of the cabin boys? The cabin girls?

I knew Cap'n Crunch, and you, sir, are no Crunch.

I remember being aboard ship with the Crunch in a fierce snowstorm. A three-decker tenement house in New England is very like a ship, especially when it snows. I was a 6-year-old midshipman, scared but brave.

There was no school that day, and our ship bounced in the troughs and peaks of the waves, tossed about like the word "hero" in a Memorial Day speech.

You think it was easy? It wasn't easy.

It was cold. That old house/ship was poorly heated and creaky, and the old wooden windows fit poorly.

And I, clad in flannel pajamas, was wolfing my second bowl of Cap'n Crunch, my loyal dog's head on my knee, the wind howling outdoors.

The Crunch was out on the quarterdeck/front porch, one eye closed, the other fixed on a gray horizon that was rapidly vanishing into a screaming New England nor'easter. The rigging creaked. The sails snapped in the wind. Outside, a snowplow rumbled down the street. My grandmother made applesauce in the kitchen. Childhood is the last time you can be in two places at once.

Did we make it through?

We made it through. That's the thing about Cap'n Crunch. He always brings you through.

I got older. The storms got bigger, stronger. I snapped my rudder and drifted for a couple years.

The great captains died. John F. Kennedy. Harry Truman. Martin Luther King. My father.

I learned to steer my own ship, to run aground on neither liberal nor conservative rocks. I found the deep water, some long channel of peaceful sailing, some way home.

I never grow tired of saying I had a happy childhood. As I've gotten older, I've realized it's quite a brag to say you were happy as a kid because many people have terrible childhoods.

I owe my mother for the happy childhood. And Pop. And some nuns, a boxer dog, Twinkies.

And Cap'n Crunch.

So, you see, it makes no difference how many stripes he wears on his cartoon sleeve.

To me, the Crunch will always be a Cap'n.

To find out more about Marc Munroe Dion and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com.