Corporate Mascots that Shouldn't Be

Corporate mascots are a powerful way of bolstering a company's brand awareness. They're a marketing tool for superimposing a friendly face or endearing character over what is otherwise just another cold, anonymous, unlikeable, money-grubbing corporation. The corporate mascot is intended to be a singular image that embodies and simultaneously conjures the business name, its wares, and its portrayed values. Little more than a personified logo, the corporate mascot still manages to transcend a mere word or symbol by being something more relatable in the mind of consumers.

Considering the ease with which corporate mascots ingrain themselves in the consumer subconscious, and their relative permanence in a world filled with ever-changing ad campaigns, corporate mascot designers must be sure to convey the right image. It's easy to make the case that the corporate mascots addressed below are, by many measures, successful. They are long-lasting, instantly recognizable, and associated with generally consistent, trustworthy products.

I still say these corporate mascots are utter failures. Why? You really want to know? Because this is what these corporate mascots make me think:

The Quaker Oats Guy (visual aid here)
Three words: ped-o-phile!

This corporate mascot's slightly raised eyebrows and skeevy smile just scream "I'm thinking naughty, naughty thoughts about pre-pubescent boys." Shudder. "Thomebody thpank me!" I suspect this guy's far more interested in sowing his wild oats - in all the wrong places - than selling them. And my god, those cheeks are flushed. Quakers are only supposed to drink in moderation, if at all... but this pudgy bastard's clearly been nipping jiggers of brandy all morning long. Just when you thought it was safe to encourage the kids to eat oatmeal, here's this QOQ (Quaker Oats Queen) to lure the boys into a bed sprinkled with oats like they were rose petals.

I'm not inclined to eat oatmeal, regardless of the corporate mascot advertising it, but just the thought of this sacrilegious pedophile sot offering to add the cream is enough to put me off the stuff for the next 75 lifetimes.

The Michelin Man, aka Bibendum (visual aid here)
I don't know if the Pillsbury Doughboy's older brother has been working out too much in the garage, or if someone ate the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man and shit him out, but what I do know is this work boot-clad, noseless, earless, hairless corpulent freak ought not exist.

It's not so much the Michelin Man's appearance that bothers me as it is his conception. He's the result of imagining a man made of tires. Why would you imagine a man made of tires? What good could possibly come of it?

I ask you this: in the search for a corporate mascot, should a company simply envision a hybrid man-beast constructed of the very product it sells? Is that the best we can do?

Count Chocula (visual aid here)
Corporate mascots are a medium calling for some imaginative fun. Nobody's denying that. But surely we must hold marketers accountable to some rudimentary standard of reality, no?

A vampire? For a breakfast food? When the sun's coming up? Really? Come on... don't you General Mills assholes know anything? What's next? Count Garlicula Garlic Powder? Count Crucifixula's Christian denomination? Count Wooden Stakula's Lumber Emporium and Whittling Services? Maybe Coors needs to jump on Count Silver Bulletula.

Mr. Peanut (visual aid here)
As friendly a fop as he may appear to be, Mr. Peanut completely misses the mark as a corporate mascot. He's the anti-mascot, really. As I said earlier, a corporate mascot is supposed to put a likeable, relatable character in the forefront of consumers' minds to overshadow the nasty, greedy, evil corporation behind it.

So what did Planters do? They dressed a peanut up in a top hat, monocle, white gloves, spats, and dress shoes, and gave him a cane. A classic image of a capitalist fat cat from the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that Mr. Peanut spends his evenings chomping on a cigar and sipping single-malt scotch in an enormous leather chair surrounded by a bunch of plump bankers, philandering CEOs, and hollow-eyed Illuminati.

But the real victim here is Mrs. Peanut. Sitting alone in that big, cold, empty house with a glass of wine, wistfully recalling the charming young legume she fell in love with.

The Energizer Bunny (visual aid here)
Target practice. I bet my shotgun can put an end to the corporate mascot that keeps going and going and going. My first shot will pulverize those two drumsticks to splinters and destroy that damn drum. My second shot will open gaping wounds through both fuzzy ears. My third shot will blow that pink head to smithereens. In a furry flurry of stuffing, a single sunglass lens will fly through the air and shatter on the ground forty feet away.

We begged you to stop, bunny. You left us no other recourse.

The Burger King (visual aid here)
Just look at him. No, no, don't. It's disturbing. I really don't even want to talk about The King, but felt obligated to include him. If you've ever seen one of his commercials, you understand. He's relatively new on the corporate mascot scene, but already long overdue to be flame broiled. Oh, the smell of melting plastic would never be so sweet as when we watch his demonic visage slowly contort and ooze-morph into a puddle of consumer justice.

The Jolly Green Giant (visual aid here)
A decidedly childlike, elfin face on a giant, well-toned man is an incongruous juxtaposition that translates into sheer creepiness. But this is by no means the worst offense of this corporate mascot.

The Jolly Green Giant wears some sort of leafy toga. For unfathomable reasons, his creators decided the garment should be just a tad too short for even the most liberal sensibilities. Now, I'm not in the habit of reflecting on the genitalia of corporate mascots, but our friend's design - particularly that you can see where his legs meet - does draw attention to the matter. Of course, there are no, uh, pea pod and niblets there to behold, but being forced to realize that our canned produce-pushing pal is definitely not anatomically correct is enough to give me a major case of brand aversion.

Hopefully the right people have seen this and taken the right lessons away from it about corporate mascots. When used correctly, a corporate mascot can be a formidable tool in the ongoing battle for your company's brand awareness. But as they say, with formidable tools comes great responsibility. If your corporate mascot inadvertently conveys the wrong message, it can do irreparable damage to your company. For surely if I can experience such unsettling, visceral reactions from casual exposure to corporate mascots, there's no telling what goes on in the countless troubled minds with too much time on their hands afloat in this crazy, mixed-up, brand-mad world.