Jim Tyler was a good kid.
He had been a communications major and did well in school. He interned for two summers at the M.J. Salisbury advertising agency and then landed a job there as a writer when he graduated. His first assignment was to come up with a TV spot for “E-Z-Kleany!” brand dishwashing soap.
E-Z-Kleany! had been around since the late 60s and its sales had plateaued about thirty years ago. The Art Department had come up with a new label; the client had deep-sixed all the good looking labels and went for the joke sample that Dan Crocker had slipped in for a gag. The type used was over-the-top industrial looking and clashed with the cartoon basket of white kittens at the bottom of the label but the client didn’t see anything wrong with it at all—he liked it and threatened to pull the account if they changed it.
The television ads for E-Z-Kleany! had gone through a myriad of styles over the years—neither “Klancy, the Kleaning Leprechaun” nor “Granny Kleany” had ever caught on and the client expected M.J. Salisbury to come up with something new that would work. After reviewing decades of mediocre campaigns, Jim came up with a relatively straight-forward approach, concentrating on the virtues of the product instead of relying on the allure of a another lame, gimmicky character. He handed-in a script before lunch and an outline for subsequent spots based on the same characters, a typical Middle American family. At two o’clock he was summoned to Jessica Spanger’s office, the account executive for E-Z-Kleany!
No one looked at Jim as he made his way through Creative and on to Spanger’s office, Jim walked in and took a seat across from Jessica who was just finishing a phone call.
“Have a seat, Jim” Jessica gestured and Jim sat. “I just read your E-Z-Kleany! script,” Jessica said, and then paused for a long time.
“Oh, good. You read it,” Jim interjected, trying to fill the pause with something.
“I just said I did,” Jessica snapped. It was the first clear sign that Jessica didn’t like the script. “Tell me, Jim, were you born in this country?”
Jim was surprised. What kind of question was that? “Yes, I was,” he replied.
“Okay,” Jessica allowed, “were you raised in this country?”
“Yes—of course. I’m sorry, Ms. Spanger, I don’t know what you’re getting at,”
“Let me ask you this, Jim, did your parents let you watch TV when you were growing up?” Jessica posed.
“Sure. I watched a lot of TV growing up,”
“Okay,” Jessica continued, “then tell me why you submitted a script for an American television audience that we couldn’t air in a million years?”
Jim was floored. “I’m sorry,” he began, “I’m not following you, what’s wro…”
“What’s wrong?” Jessica interrupted, ”You really don’t know,
do you?”
“No, I don’t,” Jim admitted.
Jessica closed her eyes and shook her head. “Alright, I’ll tell you, and you’d better listen good,” she was really angry and she glared at the young writer.
After another awkward pause Jim suggested, “I’m listening,”
“First of all, it’s wall-to-wall talk! From this script you’d think that nobody understood how to wash a dish! You go on and on about how great E-Z-Kleany! is and when used correctly it can save the customer money while having medicinal benefits for their hands!” Jessica was livid.
“Yes, that’s right,” Jim admitted.
“And you have all this great advice being spoken by…” Jessica paused and turned her head, as if the next word was so insidious it might actually cause pain to speak aloud, “a man!”
“Yes,” Jim responded, “I thought it would be more effective coming from a man,”
“But you even have him demonstrating to his wife, a woman, how a dish should be washed!” Jessica was trembling.
“Well, sometimes men do take a more logical approach to tasks—once again, I thought it would get some attention,”
“Attention?” Jessica spat, “Oh, this would get plenty of attention! We’d be the laughing stock of the advertising world!”
“I‘m sorry but I guess I’m still not seeing your point,” Jim pleaded.
Jessica waited a beat and then screamed, “Men are stupid! In advertising, they are the stupidest people allowed to live in a house! All men are stupid, but white men are the stupidest! A black man is the stupidest person in his house, but is smarter than the white man that lives next door. A child of three is smarter than a white man. The family dog is smarter than a white man!” She looked at Jim and asked, “Is this getting through?”
“Loud and clear,” Jim responded.
“The only time a white man can appear to have any brains at all is when he appears on screen alone. With no one to compare to, he can be allowed to appear intelligent, although I still have reservations,” she took a breath, “this usually only occurs when we need to sell a “man” product like beer, toilets, and erectile dysfunction remedies. In the general scheme of things, here is the rundown on who should speak with authority in a television commercial,” she topped talking and handed Jim a sheet of paper with the following list:
- Michelle Obama
- White women
- Black women
- Any lesbian
- Girls age three and up
- Black gay men
- Any teenager
- Asian women
- Cats
- Boys age seven and up
- Non-black gay men
- Hispanic women
- Muslim women (in burkas)
- Any other woman
- Dogs
- Black men
- Other family pets
- Asian men
- Nancy Reagan
- Hispanic men
- Muslim men
- English men
- Scandinavian men
- Greek men
- Hamsters
- White American men
Jim read the list and was angry. “Wow, this must have taken some time to compile! You’re sure you didn’t miss anybody? I don’t see any Irish people here,” he scoffed.
Jessica opened a drawer and pulled out another copy of the list and studied. After a minute she said, “You’re right. Let’s squeeze Irish Men in right after the Greeks—number 25,”
“Are we talkin’ Boston-Irish, or does it only apply to right off the boat Irish?” Jim questioned, “And what if you hire a third generation Norwegian-American actor to merely portray an Irish Man—what do you do with that?”
“Don’t be sarcastic!” she screeched, “this isn’t a joke! It would only apply to what would appear to be an Irish Man from Ireland—he’d have to speak with a brogue. If you can find a Norwegian who can pull it off—go for it.”
“Oh,” Jim feigned surprise, “I thought maybe you were just foolin’—hey, you forgot the French!”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Jessica hissed with pure malice, “The French are only used to sell wine and garlic! My God! Did they teach you nothing in college?” Her eyes were nothing more than thin slits; she bared her teeth in contempt.
Jim could see that he had just committed a mortal sin and that he had no future at M.J. Salisbury, unless he murdered Jessica right then and there. He decided to get out of the advertising business while he was still a young man—he could always come back in a few years and murder Jessica.
©2010 Tom Roy
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