So here I am — on a perfectly normal Saturday — trying to fish a rogue LEGO out from under a decrepit shelf (and yes, I still step on them). I looked over and there was this thing in the dusty shadows. Lumpy. Sticky-looking. Kinda… crunchy? My initial thought: Nice, a dead mouse. But to my surprise, it was Old Floam.
Because that is just what you want to deal with before coffee.
I prodded it with the end of a pencil (standard procedure) and it didn’t budge. Thank God. But it also didn’t really resemble something living. It was this strange, lumpy mass with what looked like tiny seeds or beads pasted all over it. Part moldy, part mystery. I half-expected to see a note from a raccoon that read, “Thanks for the snack storage.”
But no — after about 30 seconds of bewilderment and one sniff of something sort of plasticky, I knew.
I was finding old Floam.
Wait—Remember Floam?
If you’re reading this and you’re under the age of 25, you may be asking yourself what the hell is Floam. Here’s the lowdown: in the ’90s and early 2000s, Nickelodeon pretty much pioneered a way for kids to cause a ruckus and label it creative genius. Floam was this weird, mushy, malleable, neon cheese that was full of miniature foam spheres. Weeds with funny gel-like bodies, like slime gave birth to packing peanuts.
It was malleable, stretchable, formable into whatever wild shape you wanted … or you could just smush it into the carpet and drive your parents bonkers. Which, you know, is what most of us did.
I vividly recall asking my mom for it after every commercial break when I was watching Saturday morning cartoons. And when I got my hands on it at last? I used it to build a “custom saddle” for my plastic dinosaur. Kids are weird, I know.
Time Travel, But Gross
Finding old Floam in 2025 is like opening a time capsule you never intended to bury, anyway. That once-vibrant neon pink? Well, now it’s a lovely shade called “rotting apricot.” The texture? Soggy, somewhere between crouton and chewed gum. Pixie foam beads were still clinging on, however. Loyal little guys.
I raised it aloft like an ancient artifact. “Lo and behold, the holy Floam, 1999.” My kid was clueless about what I was saying. He just stared at it and said, “Why is it crunchy?” Valid question.
A Wave Of Nostalgia Hits Me Like A Brick Of Gak
Here’s the thing. So gross, but I had this strange little twinge of happiness. I mean, discovering long-buried Floam isn’t exactly life-altering. But it reminded me of those long summer afternoons sprawled on the living room floor, covered in glitter glue and mystery goo, cartoons blasting in the background. No phones. No to-do list. Just me, my imagination, and a ridiculous amount of slime-themed toys.
Remember Gak? That got you fart sounds if you squeezed the container just right. And we thought that was the pinnacle of comedy.
A Brief Moment of Panic
I’d like to say I immediately identified it as Floam, but I did not. I was about two whole minutes from calling pest control. There was even a small mound of brick dust next door, which certainly didn’t help. I was sure something had burrowed in and laid, like, a bead-covered egg or something.
And yeah, if you had seen it, you’d have thought the same. If I hadn’t owned half the Floam supply at 10, I might not have recognized what I was looking at, either.
Should You Keep It? (Spoiler: No)
If you’re wondering what to do if you discover a desiccated blob of Floam under your shelf: throw it away. I don’t care how nostalgic it may be. That stuff is, like, 50 percent dust, 40 percent mold and 10 percent childhood dreams by now.
I did hold onto it for like an hour though. I showed it to my partner. He blinked at me and said, “You’re not going to put that in the display case, are you?” (I wasn’t. Probably.)
Honestly? That little gross-out surprise reminded me of all the joy we crammed into the strangest things when we were kids. Floam. Stretch Armstrong. That tuna-flavored jelly hand that adheres to the wall for five seconds before it becomes permanently hair-covered.
Those toys were simple. Messy. Often annoying to adults. But they were ours. They were about play for play’s sake — not for likes or livestreams.
And for a brief, squishy moment, I remembers what that felt like.
