Monday, April 18, 2005

Surely I can proffer some kind of excuse for dumping you unceremoniously on Friday, dear reader, and in fact I do have a serviceable explanation: a Bentley hit me squarely in the jaw, promptly setting my hair on fire and encouraging me to extinguish my follicles in the nearest lake, which was nowhere near the Internet, except it turned out to be a lake of squirrels.

Our incisive discussion on food mascots comes to a close tonight. The goal is to showcase our new characters and, since you probably couldn’t be bothered to take notes, I’ll remind you that deviant mascots are memorable mascots. You remember Captain Crunch not because of his nautical qualifications or his blue hat, but because he encouraged you to taste his crunchberries. Last I checked, you don’t exactly classify crunchberries as fruits.

Let’s begin.

Crackhead Jack
Who knew adding a few letters could make a boring sailor edgy? Much of my childhood is hazy at this point, though I seem to recall my parents purchasing me a single Cracker Jack, maybe two at the most, and I appreciate their wisdom. Have you ever coveted any of the trinkets hidden inside the box? Ever? I mean, not counting the ones you swallowed. No? That’s what I thought.

What if you replaced this:

With this?

To answer your burning question, no, the little baggie will not be included.

Burger Slut
There was this recent cult, right, and its followers ate meat and meat alone, growling and baring their teeth and latching onto cows and small dogs. Amid flagons of blood and platters of ostrich heads, they would turn to their leader–the Burger King–and raise a toast. I ask you, where is their king now? You’ve seen the new commercials, I’m sure, and perhaps you’ll agree the new King is, at best, creepy.

There was a time when people would salivate at the very mention of royalty. Well, no longer. We need someone new to turn heads, and the Burger Slut is that someone. Say it. Burger Slut. The name rolls right off the tongue, doesn’t it? I’m thinking diseased burgers. Fishnet stockings. Hell, kid’s meals sold inside fishnet stockings.

And, of course, the tagline. Burger Slut–the best kept buns in town.

Mac Daddy
Name the spokesperson for macaroni. Can’t think of a single one, right? Kraft, Velveeta, and burbling rivers of cheese leap into my mind when I think of macaroni, and that’s just not effective. It’s circular, you know? It’s like telling you to think about chicken fingers, only to have you envision a plucked hen running around in a coop.

There is a void, a big-pimpin’ void, where the Mac Daddy could roll into town. Since I possess neither Photoshop nor the capacity to use it, you will have to imagine the Mac. I’m thinking the Stinky Cheese Man with a gold chain that could kill a man simply with its shine. Here, a picture and a quote to get you started.

“Woman, you back that gouda up.”

Now that you’ve been visually stimulated, allow me to float some inspirational ‘hoodisms your way. You got the bling, you pick the fling. The low rider is a ho’ hider. Also, synergy.