Half Past The Cow’s Ass: A Marketing Analysis

November 16, 2010
Half Past The Cow's Ass

T-Bone, America's favorite meat-eating mascot wants you to feel comfortable with the fact that most of his life was spent in a small wooden stall with no other purpose than to please his white abusive masters.

Ah! The creative engine at work. I stand in awe before the man who first placed a cow statue in front of a Steakhouse and said, Bon Appetit! After all, whose appetite wouldn’t be whetted by the appearance of a filthy farm animal swatting flies off its ass with its own tail? The logical extension of this would be to film a commercial where a bull yanks his balls, burps and says “Eat Me.” I can’t even imagine how much money would change hooves for that ad campaign. It’s udderly ridiculous.

As a restaurant entrepreneur, I would consider it imperative to disassociate the served entree from its animal source. This is particularly true, when the source has been known to eat its own feces out of sheer boredom. I mean, I’ve had many a boring day in my life but only occasionally considered such a thing as a means of entertainment. Certainly never more than 2 or 3 times a month, tops.

When I eat prime rib, I simply want to savor the flavor. I don’t want to visualize a lumbering beast dragging his ball bag behind him picking up splinters off the barn floor. Sure, that might add a hickory chip smoked flavor to the meat, but I could still do without the mental imagery. So please, promo guys, don’t try to entertain me with cartoon animals and life-size sculptures representing my dinner. It’s too close to reality for my taste. If I had my way, sirloin and chicken breasts would be punched with a cookie cutter to resemble hearts, clubs, spades and diamonds. I’d take a royal flush of protein over chicken clits and donkey dicks, any day.

Thankfully, most American food is mulched and processed beyond recognition, anyway. Pork pudding and chicken paste is just fine with me. I just don’t want to sit down for a feast and see anything as natural as an eyeball staring back up at me or a foot that wasn’t quite quick enough. So please, call it secret sauce if you want to but don’t tell us you had to squeeze the nut sack to get it. Bon Appetit!

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