Try as I might, search as thoroughly as I may, I can’t seem to describe a reality where leasing agencies abstain from screwing you. Sure, one buddy told me his rent actually decreased this year, a claim I quickly declared pure malarkey, but then again he lives in a mythical place called “downtown Chicago.” Here in the suburbs, well, things work differently, and agencies can’t help but intersect with shysterism all too regularly.
Every year around April I receive a lease renewal form, which basically reads like some eggnog-stained wish list.
“We’d like to raise your monthly rent by 100 dollars.”
“By the way, please add an additional 50 bucks to your security deposit.”
“Should you leave your apartment early, you will pay for every month until we find a subletter.”
“Unless, of course, you find a subletter first, in which case you only need to pay us 100 extra dollars.”
Why don’t I make it easy for y’all, lay my head on the curb, and simply invite you to walk over me? And for crying out loud, if you’re going to send the same desperate missive detailing the economic curveballs thrown at you over the past 12 months, don’t use the same fucking letter from last year.
I told you about a pony I once wanted fervently, dear reader, and in the interest of enumerating the key features of my mythical animal I’ll tell you this: I wanted a proud beast made of pepperjack cheese and shattered hopes, but did I get what I wanted? My pony melted under the hot, sad sun, never to gallop again.
Apparently my current leasing agency is also in league with my first love. Oh, le horror!
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.
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.