“I’ve been thinking.”
Oh no.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“I said I’ve been thinking.” C.W. was in the form of Reggie
the Young Conservative. (Picture Sean Spicer without the disarming
personality). Any wariness developed from a memory of the last time he admitted
to thinking. This time, we were driving around looking for ideas for a column
on urban planning due in a week. It was no use resisting. When he gets in this shape,
he is like a bulldog.
“Okay. Share.”
“I still think I could make it in the advertising business,”
he said. With that, he produced a notepad and began to study it.
“We’ve been through this already.”
“I know. We’ve had some rough times before.”
“Correction. You’ve had some rough times before.”
“Oh?”
“Remember the time you wanted my wife to become the model
for ‘The White Aunt Jemima,’ and what happened?”
“Like I explained to Mrs. Big Dope, it was a brilliant plan
to take racism out of an otherwise successful ad campaign. It would have
worked, too.”
“Do you still have the bruise from the iron skillet?”
He pressed on. “I’ve done the research, this time,” he said.
“I plan to capture and utilize the three major elements of the current mood in
your country.”
“Which are?”
He consulted his pad. “Braggadocio, brevity, and bullsh… .”
“Stop there. That’s enough.”
“So, what do you think?”
“Try me." I had turned the car and was headed home.”
“Okay.” He looked and read. “Our light bulbs last a whole
two weeks.”
“Oh, that it were so. What else?”
“Our print cartridges will print 20 sheets, guaranteed.”
“If they could do that, you’d have a winner.”
“We don’t have to win,” he said. “We just have to sell.”
“Ah.” A minute passed. “Have any more?”
He looked and read. “Our clothes even look good on fat
people.”
“Hmm.”
He was on a roll now. “Be thin, win, never exercise again,
no matter how big you’ve been.” He stopped. “We’ll have to have a spokesperson
from the South, so all those words will rhyme.”
“Of course. Do you see any applications in political
campaigns?”
“Oh,” he said. “That where we will excel without a doubt.
Here … ,” he turned a page in a notebook and read, “Feel trapped? We tell the
truth, and it will set you free.”
“Oh please.”
“We fear no woman alive.”
“Barf.”
“We love everybody and everybody loves us.”
“Stop. Stop.”
“Win with us and stop the fuss.”
“You’re getting worse.” We had completed our touring by then
and were back home in the living room. He had gone nonstop and was still going.
I was having a beer, and he was on fire. “Here’s a great one,” he said. “Our
vision of America is so simple a public-school teacher could understand it.”
“Suggest you don’t try that one out around the mistress.”
“Oh,” he said, “here’s one I did just for her. He flipped a
page. “We promise to round immigrants up like a bunch of stray dogs and … ,”
A voice from the kitchen interrupted him. “As soon as I find
my skillet,” it said, “I’m going to round somebody up.”
I had turned toward the sound. When I looked back, Reggie,
C.W., whoever, was gone. Since then, I’ve heard no more about this
advertising business.
See also:
Delta DreamingAll Hat No Cattle
Order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers.

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