A couple of weeks ago, McDonalds was running a very insidious marketing campaign in old Switzerland. Very insidious.
Photo via OMG Switzerland
Isn't this the trickiest thing you've seen in awhile?
I first saw the poster when I was riding the bus into the Bahnhoff. As I stared at MacDonalds' attempts to get their greasy and trans-fatty hands into the arteries of the Swiss public, I riled with indignation.
I was ruffled with indignation.
I was puffed up with indignation.
"Who would ever look at that poster and fall victim to it's message?" I wondered. "It is clearly a ploy so blatantly obvious that the only logical reaction is to boycott the golden arches and ensure that their One Hundredth Millionth Quadruple-Axel Billionth cheeseburger is not sold to me! I am outraged at how genius their marketing department is. OUTRAGED. Keep your hands off Switzerland, McDonalds! And P.S. Ronald looks like he has a nasty and infectious rash around his mouth; use all your obesity money and send him to the doctor or a new make-up artist!"
I instantly felt better about myself, having gone on this mental tirade.
I tried not to notice all the people on the bus, who were looking at me curiously.
Sometimes when I go on a mental tirade, I shake my head and my ball my hands into fists, and expressively roll my eyes. My fellow passengers were either preparing to see if I would seize, or if they needed to give me a three-seat radius.
So the day I saw this sign I trooped home and told Dan that I was no fool to marketing.
I AM ABOVE THAT.
Stuffed Shirts in tall-rises who brainstorm this stuff obviously didn't consider what a fierce mental gladiator I am. Hear this, Stuffed Shirts: I can block those sneaky 'you should buy this, because the ad told you to' firing neurons in an instant, so don't think you can subliminally sell me stuff I don't want/need!
I know your game, and I will not play it.
I will not pass GO.
(I will however collect $200 if you want to give it to me.)
For the next week, every time I passed one of these signs I rolled my eyes and took comfort in the fact THAT I KNEW.
And I giddily pointed out to Dan THAT I KNEW whenever we passed one of the signs together. He was getting quite sick of me.
One of these signs was in front of our local Migros, and as we walked in to do our shopping I opened my mouth and Dan cut me off with an: I know.
We did our shop, wrangled over our joghurt choices for the week, then stopped in the dairy aisle so I could pick up my milk.
All was going smoothly, until I fell for the mother of all tricks. Into the tiger-pen of traps, if you will.
"Cait, why do you always buy this milk?" Dan asked, holding up the milk bottle.
"Because I like this one."
"But why this one? The generic one tastes the same and costs less, so why do you get this one?"
"Because...because...I like the label," I whispered in concession.
Where are your mental marketing-blocking powers now, foolish one?
All my indignant resolve about insidious McDonalds marketing crumpled to my sandled feet as I realized I buy my milk because the label is pretty, and very...Swiss.
I am nothing but a follower.
Oh the shame.
I had to go to McDonalds and eat my feelings away.