A Future We'd Like To See 1.22 - New and Improved
By Twoflower (Copyright 1993)

     "Alright," the company executive said to the us.  "We've
taken all 100 ideas for the new cologne's advertising, and
narrowed it down to you five artists.  Keeping in mind that the
winning design and ad idea will receive a multimillion dollar
contract, we've decided we'll need to hear your ideas one last
time to finalize.  You have five minutes to prepare."

     "This is IT!" I whispered to the Murfle standing next to me. 
"My big chance to make it in advertising.  Excited?"

     The Murfle stared at me as if I was from another planet
(which techically I was, as I had flown all the way to Tiberius 6
from Terra to make this audition).  "Why bother getting excited? 
I'm gonna win, after all.  No reason to get all gooey at the
knees about it."

     "Excuise me," the girl next to me with the inverse mowhawk
interjected.  "But I must say that I think *I* have the best
chance of winning out of all of us.  Y'see, I'm like an art major
and got a 4.0 every year, and the rest of you are just amateurs. 
Like, no offense, 'kay?"

     "Some taken," the Murfle grumbled, sitting back down.  The
other two, one being some sort of stuffed shirt business suit and
the other a somewhat quiet Ytt with a nervous twitch, didn't
contribute to the conversation.

     Actually, I stood a snowball's chance in hell at getting the
account.  I had just graduated from a correspondence course in
advertising since I was sick of working as a Burger Inverting
Technician at the local McSpackle's, whereas these guys had full
educations.  I guess it was just a matter of not embarassing
myself too much when my turn came.

     "Alright," the lead executive said, as the other two flipped
to a new page on their clipboards.  I scrutinized the suits. 
Let's see... middle one is the powergamer, probably sucking up
for a job; play on his desire for a promotion... one of the left
looks like a radical feminist, so I'll have to watch the
terminology... third looks like a yes man.  Best worry about the
other two.

     "Mr. Kilby Jones?" the leader called.  The stuffed shirt got
up, and shuffled to the center of the room, setting up an archaic
tripod and 2-D graph setup.

     "My thesis is as follows," he begun in a tone similar to my
fifth grade science teacher.  "According to recent demographics
surveys, people dislike colognes or perfumes with too many vowels
in them.  I propose a radical change from the norm, in that we
name it without any vowels.  As you can see by these graphs, the
name Wrrrpq is approved of by senior citizens, but our younger
student age buyers prefer something with more f's in it, which
are clearly a freudian link to the word 'fuck'.  However, with
female audiences--"

     "Um, Mr. Jones," the leader interrupted, "We really would
rather have one name and ad concept only.  Can you narrow it
down?"

     "Well, there is the fact that our older business class Adult
Contemporary listening buyers would prefer more b's, and that the
mid-to-old-to-young aged group--"

     "Just answer the question."

     "No.  Unless given another four months for research."

     "I'm sorry, Mr. Jones, but we did ask for one only.  I'm
afraid you won't be getting the account.  Can we see Mr...
umm..."

     "Suffering," the lethargic Ytt replied, letting his head
fall to one side.

     "Mr. Suffering, it seems.  Let's hear your idea."

     The Ytt stood up and plodded to the center of the room.  "I
propose that we call the formula 'The Smell of Death', and engage
in heavy visuals of carnage, pain, lacerations and dungeon
torture sequences, arranged in montage with a red filter along
with the screams of tourmented souls."

     "I'm not sure our audience would enjoy the, shall we say,
grisly aspect of the ads," the female executive said.  "Wouldn't
you agree, Norm?"

     "Yes ma'am," the yes man affirmed.

     "Also, there is the possibility of offending any potential
buyers who engage in sado-masocism by using actors and simulated
tortures, as we won't have the budget to actually kill anyone
while producing the ads.  I must say, I like the concept.  It's
very first rate and dynamic, but we just don't have the money. 
Sorry."

     "None taken," Suffering said.  "Where do you live?"

     "Umm... Third and Main, why?"

     "No reason," Suffering said, dragging his heels back to his
seat.  He promptly pricked a finger with a pin and began
scratching out a TO DO: list in blood.

     "Mrs. Shawny?" the female executive read off, after
scratching the previous disaster off her list.

     "Umm, that's Shaw'NEE.  Capital ess, little eych, little
aye, little double-yoo, apostrophe, capital enn, capital ea,
capital ea.  Although it's pronounced Jacobsen," the bad hairdo
artist replied.

     "Alright Miss... Jacobsen.  I understand you have a
holographic demonstration for us?"

     "Yes I do, and I have the projector here... if someone would
just get the lights?" she said, loading up a disc into the
player.  The room went dark, and images flickered by...

.yadot htiw evil tsum ew hcihw esruc a si yrutnec htneethgie eht
fo flah rettal eht ni ytilaer htiw epoc ot sisirc s'nam esuaceB
     .egdilooC nivlaC yb nem rof engoloc wen A  .dooG sllemS sihT

.ylnialp setats nam ",kniF taR em llac dna
     yllis em pals neht ,nis a si rodo ydob tuohtiw gnivil fI"

.rae sih ni namow a smaercs "!ytliuG"

,ecnad eviterpretni egagne skay suoiraV  .sredisnoc nam
     "?evres eh seod esoprup tahw ,doog llems ot ton si nam fI"

.slous tsol ynam os
ekil llewriats eht nwod delttar selttob engoloc eht sa ,ecnetsixe
     sih gnirednop ,etaf of sffilc eht revo dekool nam ehT

     The disc ended, and the lights flipped back on.  Jacobsen
bowed, expecting thunderous waves of applause.  She didn't get
any.

     "Umm... am I right in guessing that the commercial was
filmed backwards?" the female executive said.

     "Yeah.  It's all symbolic about time and the way, like, man
looks at time, and how it's all just so weird and cool and y'know
NEAT!" she said, bouncing enthusiastically.

     "Next?" the man said.  Jacobsen blinked, grunted, and
muttered something about people who had no sense of beauty.

     The Murfle got up and stomped over to the center of the
room, loading up his holodisc presentation.

     The room went dark again, as various images of monster land
rovers and screaming, hairy men with beer dripping down thier
shirts coated the walls, with various grunts and yells of
approval filling the air.

     "TESTOSTERONE!  THE ODOR FOR THE MANLY MAN.  NONE OF THAT
WUSSY FAG-PERFUME CRAP, THIS IS A SCENT FOR THE MAN THAT IS SO
MANLY HE BLEEDS SEMEN!  GO GET A BOTTLE *NOW* -- IF YOU THINK
YOU'VE GOT THE *BALLS!*"

     "I hate it," the female executive concluded.  "Next?"

     "Chicks," grumbled the Murfle, taking his prized disc out of
the drive as I assumed the position in the center of the room.

     Well, it was looking good.  They had rejected all the ones
so far.  Was I a cinch to get it, or would they go for one of the
others, just to avoid mine?

     "And your name is?"

     "Umm.  Smith.  John Smith."

     "And your concept?"

     "Well, we call it - Cologne for Men, and our slogan is that
it'll make you smell good."

     "Simple," the leader commented.

     "Efficent."

     "Cheap to produce!" the yes man added.

     "I think it has merit," the female executive said,
retracting the point on her pen.

     "Well, John, we're going to give it a shot.  You do
understand that we'll be paying you fifty million credits for use
of the idea; is that a problem?  You seem to be gagging."

     "Urk.  No.  Not a problem at all," I said.

     I'm not one for stories with deep, meaningful, Aesopesque
morals, so I'll just say... go figure.