This morning I was lying in bed watching a movie on TBS (Invincible with Mark Wahlberg, if you are interested). A Miracle Whip commercial played about, oh, I don’t know, maybe a MILLION times.
Now, I am no great fan of Miracle Whip, or really mayonnaise or mayonnaise-type condiment (I am a more of a mustard girl). My personal preferences aside, I don’t think it was the best advertising campaign. Perhaps it’s just me, but seeing someone end up with a glob of mayonnaise (or Miracle Whip – equal opportunity hater here) in the corner of their mouth after a big ol’ bite of turkey sandwich doesn’t do much for me. Kind of grosses me out; but again, I’m not a mayonnaise girl, so obviously I’m not the target market for this ad.
So aside from the obligatory mayonnaise facial shot, the commercial also had some ‘declarations’ written in white text superimposed over pictures of young hipsters having fun and consuming mayonnaise. Sounds harmless? Well it wasn’t, because each phrase (“We refuse to play second fiddle”) was wiped off the screen, leaving a white greasy smear. Gross, I know.
But the part that got Steve and I talking was the first phrase, which was something like “we refuse to blend in,” which was displayed over someone making potato salad. Really, Miracle Whip? You refuse to blend in? Isn’t that the point of using Miracle Whip/mayonnaise in a potato salad? To blend in and bind the other ingredients together? I’ve always imagined mayo blending purposefully into the background, getting us all to forget it’s in there among the celery and mustard, waiting for a favorable increase in temperature to turn rancid the ruin picnic.
We were still talking about blending in on our walk back from a delicious breakfast at our favorite greasy spoon (french toast for me, hamburger steak [barf] for him). I broke the news to Steve that he does and most likely will continue to have a hard time blending in, which led to this comeback:
“I blend in perfectly in my hometown of France!”
I started to say that France isn’t a town, but I had to catch myself because I’m sure there is some small town in the south named France. Georgia, perhaps?