An Advertising Guide to American Fast Food Restaurants, Part One:


McDonalds: King Fuck of Shit Mountain, so ubiquitously associated with the American culinary experience that it could probably thrive for decades if it cut out its advertising altogether. Such as it is, the advertising column looks good on the ledgers, so in recent years the largely unnecessary marketing department has bitterly endorsed such advertising memes as celebrating the poverty of its consumers and pimping a cheeseburger for loveless sex. Seems to work for 'em.

Have you ever been in line someone at McDonald's and you see them look at the menu contemplatively and say to the cashier "Um, give me just one second ..." Fuck those people. The McDonald's menu is essentially burned into the hard drive memory of every living American brain. Still, the McDonald's corporation will occasionally add something new to the menu, invariably labeling it a "Mc-" something, despite the fact that the "Mc" prefix has effectively become a pop cultural shorthand for "fucking awful." Basically, they can get away with anything.


Burger King: Sort of McDonald's slouching, too-skinny younger cousin from out-of-state who lies way too much about how often he's getting laid. Forever coming in number two to McDonald's has given Burger King sort of an advertising-oriented identity crisis, bringing us such gems as "Herb," "Let's buy Hitler a Burger King burger" and the latest campaign wherein they provide video evidence of the inevitable revolution spear-headed by shirtless retards should they ever be denied their Whoppers. That last one sounds like the results of a years-long study by a well-respected thinktank, and seems to imply that the government needs step in at some point. Also, I made up that one about Hitler.

Burger King is, as far as I'm aware, the only fast food joint to offer their own corporate-branded credit card. You can earn points towards discounts on Burger King food as you spend money on Burger King food. That there sounds like really responsible spending AND eating, congratulations.


Carls' Jr: For the record, Carl's Sr ran away when Carl's Jr. was just a baby, so that's why they never mention him.

As a corporation, donates heavily to the Republican Party, the Christian Right, assorted fundamentalist religious organizations AND once gave Paris Hilton a ton of cash to make soapy love with a hamburger. Say what you will about Carl's Jr, but they are simply not afraid to give loads of money to rich people. They also combine America's twin fascinations with contemptuous hypocrisy and thousand-calorie afternoon snacks. Neat.

The ads for their burgers invariably end with the hefty sandwich being dropped onto a table with an accompanying sound effect of a book falling on an oak plank, and likewise they've got some guy breaking straw hats apart every time someone gets caught on film biting into a Carl's Jr burger. Single-handedly, Carl's Jr is keeping employed the old foley artists from the Abbot & Costello show.


Long John Silver's: One of the few American fast-food chains to be named after an amputee (Wendy lost a leg in Viet Nam and the McDonald's brothers are former conjoined twins). Promotes the idea that batter is seafood. A a child, I had always been of the impression that they served parrot. Which is to say, served it as a meal, rather than had little parrot-sized tables and a special parrot-oriented menu. "Battered Crackers" and what-have-you.

Long John Silver’s mascots are few and far between, but if you ever have an opportunity to fetch yourself a big steamy gawk at one of its assorted cartoon mascots over the years, please do. To the man-jack of them, they all look like PCP addicts at a Renaissance Festival. Some advertising exec somewhere once told the CEO of Long John Silver’s “The message you want to connect to your dining experience is … savage blood-red buccaneers ripped out of their fucking gourds, twitching muscles aching for rape.” And then the CEO went “Cool.”


Taco Bell: The inspiration to visit Taco Bell typically strikes around three in the morning following a long night spent smoking enormous quantities of meth. The Taco Bell lobby after midnight looks like a carnival midway in the middle of Chernobyl. Not savory.

This is in direct contrast to their customer base as portrayed in their advertising. Taco Bell apparently figured out a few years back that everybody in America hates Mexicans, so they have been undergoing a concerted commercial effort to promote the idea that tacos, enchiladas and burritos were invented by a diverse mix of blandly hip college students, all of whom are roommates or wear jackets over unbuttoned shirts when they go out barhopping at night. Taco Bell is so scared of being considered any more Mexican than, say, the little guys in sombreros on the “It’s A Small World” ride that they would, if they thought they could get away with it, change the name of their restaurant to just “Bell.”

Once had a taco-craving dog as a spokes-mascot, which I always feel is a bad marketing decision. Dogs will, after all, eat anything. However much that little chihuahua wanted a chalupa, he’d eat beetle shit and a hot used urinal cake if it was dropped on the kitchen floor in front of him.