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In 2005, Carl’s Jr. launched a provocative commercial featuring Paris Hilton suggestively washing a car while biting into a messy burger. While some viewers saw it as edgy and bold, others recognized it as another instance of exploitative marketing that uses women’s bodies to sell products. The man behind the campaign was Andrew F. Puzder, then-CEO of Carl’s Jr. and Hardee’s under the parent company CKE. Puzder defended his branding strategy, arguing that it successfully attracted “young, hungry guys” and “saved a lot of jobs” (Tiffany Hsu, New York Times). But this approach didn’t just sell burgers—it commodified women. The legacy of that kind of advertising reflects a broader issue in American labor and media: the sexualization and exploitation of women, especially in service and restaurant industries. It also proves that from the beginning, Hardee’s and Carl’s Jr.—like many fast food companies—have promoted harmful portrayals of women. Even the corporate president’s personal views on “sex sells” culture show how internal values at the top shaped the company’s public image. These ads became soft porn under the guise of fast food commercials, excluding the family-centered dining experience once envisioned by early fast food founders.

The Carl’s Jr. campaign is more than just a memory of early 2000s pop culture; it is a window into how capitalism, patriarchy, and advertising collide. The restaurant industry, in particular, has long been a breeding ground for normalized gender-based harassment. According to Harvard Business School research by Stefanie K. Johnson and Juan M. Madera, “More sexual harassment claims in the U.S. are filed in the restaurant industry than in any other, where as many as 90% of women experience some form of sexual harassment.” These numbers are not just shocking—they’re damning. They reflect a culture in which the mistreatment of workers, especially women, is not an accident but a structural feature.

This makes Lupe Guzman’s story even more significant. Guzman, an immigrant woman of Latina descent, worked at a Carl’s Jr. in Las Vegas during Puzder’s leadership and experienced both sexual harassment and wage exploitation. She worked at Carl’s Jr. from 2004 to 2016 and filed her lawsuit in 2017 due to fear of immigration and being deported. In a public statement during a trial 2017 , she bravely told her employer, “You look at people like me as a cost to be cut, not as a mom who wants the best for my family. Puzder supports ideas and policies that will make life harder for my children and me, not better” (Kira Lerner, 2017). Her words shine a light on how Puzder’s Republican, pro-Trump ideology directly impacted women of color like Guzman, reinforcing systems that set them up to fail. Puzder’s idea of who counts as valuable is narrow—centered around the stereotypical white, thin model. But fast food customers aren’t runway models; they’re working-class people who need a quick, affordable meal because they’re overworked, underpaid, and exhausted. Guzman’s statement is iconic because she confronted the man responsible for so much harm and exposed the injustice head-on. Title IX protections and DEI (Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion) efforts are essential for women in the fast food industry—especially when ads like the one with Paris Hilton normalize exploitation.There’s also a class and labor issue embedded in this sexual economy. Most workers in fast food and casual dining earn low wages, with little job security or workplace support. Refusing to play along with sexualized culture can lead to fewer tips, lost hours, or termination. Employers like Puzder claim to “create jobs,” but these jobs often demand emotional and sexual labor without fair compensation or protection. That’s not empowerment—it’s exploitation

The portrayal of women as props or “sexy servers” doesn’t just live on-screen—it becomes a lived reality in the service industry. Diane Avery, a USC professor who researches gender marketing, offers insight into this dynamic. She writes, “The server is not just a gaze object or 'part of the scenery'; she is the embodied brand.” Avery’s work frequently returns to the term “breastaurants”—places like Hooters or Twin Peaks, where women wear revealing clothing and are expected to engage in flirtatious, sexually provocative behavior. These women’s bodies become extensions of the brand. They are expected to perform intimacy without ever crossing boundaries that would disrupt the fantasy, placing them in situations ripe for harassment, which is often ignored or minimized by management.

The Carl’s Jr. advertisement featuring Paris Hilton is a textbook example of how this logic spreads from the dining floor to mass media. Hilton wasn’t just eating a burger—she became one with the product, objectified to please male viewers. This ad didn’t promote food; it sold fantasy. But the cost of that fantasy falls on real women working in restaurants, whose uniforms cater to the male gaze, who must endure lewd comments, fake smiles, and sexualized labor with little protection.

As consumers, we often view these commercials as harmless entertainment. But they normalize a worldview where women’s value is based on appearance and sex appeal. They uphold a power dynamic where men consume and women are consumed—visually, emotionally, and economically. The Carl’s Jr. ad wasn’t just a controversial moment; it was a symbol of a broader, deeply rooted system of gendered labor exploitation.

Ultimately, resisting this kind of hypersexualized branding is about more than taste—it’s a feminist, labor, and human rights issue. No woman should have to trade her dignity for a paycheck. The idea that “sex sells” shouldn’t justify harm. Instead of asking how far an ad can go, we should ask how we can build workplaces—and media—that treat all people with respect and care.

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In the illustration, the audience can observe the separation of the nuclear family: the woman is confined to the kitchen, while the husband comes and goes freely. This visual reflects the gender imbalance that Carol Adams critiques in her article, where she writes, “In a patriarchal culture, women accede to the dietary needs of their husbands” (56). Adams emphasizes how women often sacrifice their own nutritional needs due to gendered oppression that prioritizes men’s needs. The advertisement—produced by Hardee’s, sister company of Carl’s Jr.—reinforces these patriarchal ideals by promoting fast food through the belittlement of women. Key words and phrases such as Bachelor, little miss, and woman’s place stand out. The word Bachelor portrays the single man as helpless without a woman to cook for him, positioning him as a kind of domestic damsel. Meanwhile, little miss implies that women have no meaningful role beyond serving men, reinforcing the outdated idea that women exist only for domestic labor. Woman’s place echoes the harmful belief that a woman belongs in the kitchen and nowhere else.

These ideas align with Adams’ critique of 1950s gender norms, which confined women to the home while men occupied the public and professional spheres. The ad further enforces these stereotypes through its imagery: a thin, blonde woman with a traditionally “ideal” body type gazes lovingly at her husband. There is no body diversity or empowerment—just a reinforcement of gender roles and beauty standards. Additionally, the phrase woman’s place subtly suggests that without a woman’s presence in the kitchen, meals are subpar—a falsehood rooted in gender bias. The historical context strengthens this critique: the ad was produced during World War II, a time when women were entering the workforce in large numbers. Fast food chains like Hardee’s responded by reasserting the idea that a woman's true place was still the kitchen, exposing how women continued to be devalued and domesticated even as they contributed to labor outside the home. This reinforces how women were treated as tools in both the fast food and meat industries.

Laura Anh Williams’ article, Gender, Race, and an Epistemology of the Abattoir in My Year of Meats, expands on these ideas by showing how patriarchy is sustained in both fast food and meat production. Williams discusses how epistemology—our systems of knowledge—often ignore the violence behind meat production and instead privilege those who benefit from it, namely men in power. She writes, “The program’s celebration of meat, ‘climaxing’ in its consumption, suggests both the gastronomic and sexualized consumption of the attractive wife. Woman is rendered as meat, and vice versa” (255). This quote highlights how women are objectified and consumed both metaphorically and literally—treated as commodities for male pleasure. The ad reflects this objectification: the woman, trapped behind a glass window, watches as her family moves freely outside. This visual suggests she is caged, much like cattle in a slaughterhouse, especially if she fails to meet the male standard of beauty or perfection. Williams’ and Adams’ arguments intersect here to show how women’s bodies and labor are commodified in both the kitchen and the meat industry, reinforcing systems of control, consumption, and gendered oppression.

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After an eight-year retreat from sexualized advertising, Carl’s Jr. has returned to its controversial roots with a new campaign featuring TikTok influencer Alix Earle. Premiering during the 2025 Super Bowl, the ad promotes the "Hangover Burger" but does more than sell fast food—it signals a cultural and political shift. In embracing its old “sex sells” strategy, Carl’s Jr. is tapping into a broader reaction against progressive ideals and capitalizing on a growing weariness with corporate virtue signaling.

The ad is not just a creative decision—it’s a calculated political move. Tim Calkins, a marketing professor at Northwestern University’s Kellogg School of Management, emphasizes, “Clearly with the new administration… what is acceptable conduct is changing” (qtd. in Herzlich). Under recent administrations that championed diversity and accountability, this type of commercial would have been seen as out-of-touch or offensive. But in the current political climate, where resistance to so-called “woke” culture is growing, the company sees an opening to return to bold, controversial advertising. As Taylor Herzlich of the New York Post puts it, “major companies have soured on virtue signaling,” and many are now leaning into nostalgia for a time when ads were more about spectacle than social responsibility.

This backlash isn’t happening in isolation. In recent years, many Americans have grown skeptical of corporate activism, especially when it appears performative. Support for causes like LGBTQ+ rights or racial justice, once seen as progressive leadership, is increasingly viewed by some as pandering. This disillusionment has created space for brands to revert to older tactics—strategies once criticized for being exploitative are now rebranded as bold or honest. Carl’s Jr.’s ad represents a broader trend: the reemergence of ads that prioritize shock value and virality over ethical messaging.

The choice of Alix Earle as the face of the campaign reinforces this shift. Known for her party-girl image and a podcast titled Hot Mess, Earle embodies a persona of rebellion, indulgence, and carefree youth. Her presence in the ad isn't accidental—it’s intentional branding. She represents a lifestyle unconcerned with social critique or accountability, making her the perfect face for a campaign rooted in post-party excess and casual sex appeal. Carl’s Jr. isn’t just marketing a burger; it’s marketing an escape from moral scrutiny and identity politics.

Calkins notes that this kind of ad “almost certainly wouldn’t have run several years ago” (Taylor Herzlich, New York Post). During the height of the #MeToo movement, brands were held accountable for objectifying women. Carl’s Jr. even rebranded during that era, trying to move away from the hyper-sexualized image it had cultivated in the 2000s. But with growing discontent around cancel culture and a new political climate, the brand is betting that the public mood now favors the provocative and unapologetic.

Adding to this context is the state of the economy and labor. According to data from the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, “10,027 fast food jobs were lost between September 2023 and April 2024,” and the number swelled to “36,565” by April 2025. In this environment, grabbing consumer attention is more urgent than ever. A flashy ad that garners millions of views—even if it stirs backlash—might be more profitable than playing it safe.

The Super Bowl timing is also significant. The game remains the most-watched television event in the U.S., making it a cultural litmus test for what advertisers believe will resonate nationwide. By choosing this moment to return to its bikinis-and-burgers brand of advertising, Carl’s Jr. is betting that Americans are ready to leave behind moral messaging in favor of entertainment, indulgence, and nostalgia.

This signals a broader transformation in the landscape of advertising and politics. If companies feel emboldened to roll back progress on representation and inclusion, it’s not just a creative decision—it’s a reflection of where the culture is heading. Advertising, after all, doesn’t just sell products; it sells ideas, values, and worldviews. Carl’s Jr.’s campaign suggests a renewed appetite for traditional gender roles and performative masculinity, packaged as fun and rebellion rather than regression.

In conclusion, Carl’s Jr.’s 2025 Super Bowl commercial is far more than a fast food ad. It’s a cultural artifact that mirrors the current political mood: one of frustration with progressive ideals and a yearning for the simpler, flashier marketing of the past. Whether this marks a temporary pivot or a longer-term shift, one thing is certain—Carl’s Jr. believes that sex is back on the menu. Moving away toward all the positive progress the companies Carl’s Jr. and Hardees have made toward gender equality to the gutters.

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Alix Earle - Carl's JR   'Hangover Burger'   (SuperBowl 2025)

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Kira Lerner, “Stolen Paychecks and Unpaid Hours: Carl’s Jr. Workers Speak out against Andy Puzder.” @Thinkprogress, 13 Jan. 2017, https://archive.thinkprogress.org/cke-workers-congress-5c49296022cf/

Hsu, Tiffany. “Carl’s Jr.’S Marketing Plan: Pitch Burgers, Not Sex.” The New York Times, 13 Nov. 2019, www.nytimes.com/2019/11/13/business/media/new-carls-jr-ads.html.

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Herzlich, Taylor. “Carl’s Jr. Super Bowl Ad Brings Back Bikini-Clad Burger Models after Yearslong Clampdown.” New York Post, 6 Feb. 2025, nypost.com/2025/02/06/business/carls-jr-super-bowl-ad-brings-back-bikini-clad-burger-models-after-yearslong-clampdown/.

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Johnson, Stefanie, and Juan Madera. “Sexual Harassment Is Pervasive in the Restaurant Industry. Here’s What Needs to Change.” Harvard Business Review, 18 Jan. 2018, hbr.org/2018/01/sexual-harassment-is-pervasive-in-the-restaurant-industry-heres-what-needs-to-change.

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“New Federal Data Reveals California Has Lost over 36,000 Fast Food Jobs since $20 Minimum Wage Law – California Globe.” Californiaglobe.com, California Globe, 6 June 2025, californiaglobe.com/fr/new-federal-data-reveals-california-has-lost-over-36000-fast-food-jobs-since-20-minimum-wage-law/.

Williams, Laura. (2014). Gender, Race, and an Epistemology of the Abattoir in My Year of Meats. Feminist Studies. 40. 244-272.

Adams, Carol J. The Sexual Politics of Meat : A Feminist-Vegetarian Critical Theory. 1990. New York ; London Bloomsbury, 2019.

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