Thursday, April 14, 2005

The Kool-Aid Man comes to mind at the strangest times, you know, and each of his visits heralds a marketing victory sown decades ago. I need only mention those three syllables–Kool-Aid Man–and key phrases instantly pop into your head. Red. Refreshing. Explosion. Cool. What will not stretch itself across your mental canvas is the sinister subtext, a plot so labyrinthine and cunning it makes Stratego look like a short bus lodged in quicksand.

I’ll say it again: Kool-Aid Man. Quick, which one best describes what you imagined?

Exhibit A

“I have so much to give.”

If you chose Exhibit A, please banish yourself from my sight forthwith. I don’t know you.

Here’s another example for your consideration.

Exhibit B

“Drink my juice. Drink it.”

Select the exhibit above and they might even let you eat at White Castle without too much red tape.

I mean, can you honestly recall a single image of the Man that doesn’t involve the wholesale destruction of walls? There is great violence here, a qualified middle finger from the beverage industry to its bricklaying counterpart, and notice the takeaway point: an anthropomorphic pitcher is imploring you to sample his juice. Wow. Just wow. Talk about horror. Specialists could examine my brain. “Scar tissue,” they would whisper and sagely nod.

Now think of another food mascot. The memorable ones are twisted, what people used to call “subversive” and “Communist” or, in today’s parlance, “edgy.” The Trix rabbit is a pathological liar. Tony, a Bengal tiger who can only extol the virtues of sugar. Lucky, an unrepentant gold digger. The Quaker Oats guy–that hat. And don’t get me started on Mama Celeste, who leverages her wrinkles to eclipse the Pillsbury Doughboy, bless his molested heart. Bitch, we know your game.

Really, do lies, greed, hyperactivity, and wholesome Quaker morals make people gasp anymore? Absolutely not. Tomorrow we unveil our own characters. Edge of your seat? No? Then it’s time to relocate your ass.