How Green M&M Got Sassy

Posted on September 23, 2008

It sounds straight out of Mad Men. Some enterprising creative director billed the Mars Company thousands to ogle old Playboy videos, and then, and this is the best part, itemized it as research. Where could I apply? I imagined a latter-day Don Draper equating a customer’s lust for milk chocolate with far more fundamental yearnings. Candy as porn, that was the concept, and all of the proper aesthetics were assembled: the backlit windows, glossy floors, the temptress in virginal white spiked heels strutting full-frontal toward the camera.

The temptress was a giant green candy with legs. But wait, it gets better.

Soon, she’s draped across a chaise, long leg dangling from the side as rose petals rain down. While bouncing on a satin bed, the accompanying music is best described as synthesizer porn. It ends with Green splayed on the floor, chocolate bosom heaving out, legs stretching up towards heaven.

“Are we good?” she asks a leering crew. Only after we cut away does she reach for a bleezy and shot of Jack Daniels. All of which begs the question: How did Miss Green M&M become a candy porn star?

In the 1980’s, M&M’s were a wholesome brand. They were the candy who took you on sleigh rides at Christmas. They melted in your mouth, not in your hand. In other words, not even eating them was dirty. Their jingle was sung by a children’s choir.

But things changed in 1984, when Jesus’ chocolate rainbow of goodness became an arrow in sin’s arsenal. The devil came dressed as a little league commercial, two boys playing candy baseball: Brown is a single, yellow is a double, orange is a triple, and green, you guessed it, is a homerun.

Eat green M&M’s and score, that was the lesson being imparted to boys approaching junior high. The thought of our carnal destiny realized thanks to the mojo of little green capsules filled us with anticipation. It was like we had discovered Viagra! The rules of the schoolyard were quietly known. Give green M&M’s to a girl if you wanted to hook up with her. If she ate them, she got horny.

Mars, eventually, grew wise to our dealings. Gone were ads of boys in bow ties thanking the Easter bunny, replaced by a sly and sexy interrogative, “Is it true what they say about the green ones?” Miss Green became a femme fatale, a Smurfette for the twenty-first century. She publicly kicked it with Eva Longoria, bared her shell for Playcandy, and—I’m really not making this up—handcuffed herself to a sequoia while grinding it like a stripper pole.

“Working the Polls,” the caption reads. I think they did this for the election.

Borne on playgrounds and little league fields, Miss Green’s exhibitionist streak has now gone international. Sexy campaigns are grinding full throttle in Asia and the Middle East. A Premium candy just debuted, promising to tantalize and tickle our taste buds. Sex sells, and while children and bunnies are fine and dandy, they’re no match for the sluttiness of candy! Behold the infinite possibilities: Twins hawking Kit Kats. Rolos for swingers. The true meaning behind Almond Joy.

But beware, Miss Green, of sexy’s pitfalls, for a siren’s life is rarely sweet. Ask the girls on Hollywood Boulevard, dancing nights to make the rent, no good boyfriends long gone, left with a case of Hep C. If you’re lucky, you’ll write a well-received memoir with Neil Strauss and describe the book as a “cautionary tale.”

You’ll see, you’ll see.

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