Heavy guilt had gripped me for days. Sleep was awfully scarce and not terribly restful. Dance was impossible because guilty feet have got no rhythm.
I was having a horrible time wrestling with my conscience over whether I should go through with the request made by a relatively new acquaintance who sold me some life insurance. All this guy was asking from me was a kidney, my spleen and my liver in case he ever needed any of them.
Yes, I thought it kind of weird a perfectly healthy guy would want ‘back-up organs’, but being in insurance I’m sure he just looked at it as a safeguard. I had to admire that sort of foresight.
I also thought it odd he’d ask me, a man he barely knew, to donate my organs on his behalf. He only knew me well enough to sell me a pricey insurance policy, for crying out loud! But, I did admire the fact he was persistent in pursuit of my innerds. That kind of moxie shows a winner, and who doesn’t like a winner?!
The more I thought about it, the more flattered I became. He wanted MY organs in case he ever needed some. Pieces of me could complete him. I would be the winner he is. That’s a pretty high compliment when you think about it, and I thought about it a lot.
So I made up my mind: I’d do it. I’d go ahead and get my organs cut out and put on ice for this guy who must have been an angel or something sent to test me. I mean, things happen for a reason, right?
The morning I was scheduled to see my doctor and make the request to have him perform the procedures, I walked out to the driveway in my bathrobe and picked up the newspaper. I opened the paper, glanced at the headlines and slowly started walking back up the drive. The following words stopped me cold in my tracks: “Man Dies In Freak Accident”. Below the headline was a picture of my man, the guy who sold me insurance and wanted my organs for his life-extending insurance.
I stood on the driveway transfixed as I read the tragic tale. The man, who shall remain nameless– no, strike that, let’s call him Mr. John Doe Anonymous NoNamer, Jr., was walking down the street when a flatbed truck carrying an antique trolley car to a museum in Birmingham, Alabama, was hit at an intersection by a garbage truck. The trolley car broke loose, toppled off the truck and crushed poor Mr. John Doe Anonymous NoNamer, Jr., killing him instantly. Dead men need no organs. I was saved.
A cool breeze brought me back to reality. I was standing on my driveway reading a newspaper and a breeze had blown my bathrobe open. An elderly woman walking her terrier stood staring at me. I looked down, I was naked beneath my open robe. Clutching the bathrobe quickly, I tied the belt, shot her a cold stare and spoke sharply, “Good day, madame!” I pivoted and ran quickly into our house as her dog barked.
I wonder if Mr. John Doe Anonymous NoNamer, Jr. had insurance.
Got out of my car in the supermarket parking lot and there HE was. THAT guy. The one who wants one of my kidneys and my spleen.
THAT guy I’ve only met a couple times in passing at parties. The one who sells insurance. The one who sold me my ironclad policy that’ll pay my wife a cool $6,000,000 should I die as a result of a runaway trolley car accident on an odd numbered Thursday in July (it pays double if at the time of the accident the Dow Jones Industrial average is above 19,000 and Grand Funk Railroad has a #1 song).
”Well, well, well,” he said, “if it isn’t Mr. Precious Organs.”
”What? Where?” I asked looking around for the guy with the weird name.
”You, man–– you’re Mr. Precious Organs! Don’t you get sarcasm?”
”Oh, yeah, sarcasm. Nice. I love sarcasm.”
I'm no doctor, but I think I need this one.
”So, you ready to give me the kidney and spleen?” he asked leering at me as if he had X-ray eyes and was scoping other spare parts he might like on me.
”Well,” I said slowly looking at my shoes to make sure they weren’t running, “I haven’t officially decided yet but I’m thinking I may just keep my kidney and spleen…”
”Aw, great! Thanks a bunch, Mr. Precious Organs wants to keep everything for himself, because his organs are so precious and priceless that he can’t help out a pal who might need some back-up down the road…”
”That’s sarcasm again, right?” I asked softly.
”YES! Yes, it’s freakin’ sarcasm and here’s anger. I want your liver, too!!! See, I like to drink lots and lots of booze, and someday I might need a spare liver, so I want yours. You happy now? You keep procrastinating and it’s going to cost you. Kidney, spleen, liver. Pay up, man! You owe me! Pay up!”
”Um, look,” I said, “I, uh… I don’t think I’m under any obligation to give you my organs. I mean, I bought an insurance policy from you and I think paying the premiums on it is the only obligation I’m under.”
”Oh, man, I’m bummed. I thought we were buds, man. Thought we were bros, dude. Now I see we’re just a couple strangers– and that is truly tragic because you’d have been me, man. Together we’d have stared down the Grim Reaper and kicked death’s ass.”
With that he slowly turned and began walking away. I felt like crap– I’d never thought about my donating organs to him in a ’we’re cheating death’ way. He had a big idea. All I had was my ‘precious organs’, including one heavy heart.
”Hey, let me think on it some more,” I shouted to him.
”Don’t make me ask for the pancreas, too” he shouted back without turning. He flipped me a bird.
”Well, you coming through for me, or what, jerkface?” a male voice asked sharply.
”Who is this?”
”Don’t play dumb, you know damn well who this is. Are you forking over a kidney or are you going to bogart them both for your greedy little self?”
”Oh, it’s you,” I said realizing it was the guy I met recently who requested I donate one of my healthy kidneys to him in case he ever needs a back-up. ”I’m still thinking about it and haven’t decided yet.”
”Who is it?” my wife asked groggily.
”No one, honey, go back to sleep,” I said to her.
”No one! So I’m no one, am I?” the guy shouted into the phone. “You’ve got some nerve calling me a no one. Un-fricken-believa-bloo-kowski!”
”I wasn’t calling you a ‘no one’,” I said calmly, “I was just talking to my wife who woke up from her sleep. It’s almost four o’clock, you know. I don’t want her to worry, that’s all.”
”Yeah, right. Well listen up, kidney-hog… since you’re taking so long making up your stupid little indecisive mind, I want your spleen, too.”
Is it the body's cigarette lighter, or what?
”My spleen?”
”Yeah, your spleen and one of your lousy kidneys. You don’t even need a spleen, it’s standard equipment that’s optional– like the cigarette lighter you get with your car if you don’t smoke.”
I thought about what he said and became confused.
”Cigarette lighter?” I repeated somewhat perplexed.
”Never mind. Just give me a kidney and your spleen. No big deal, you’ll be none the worse for wear.”
”But I hardly even know you…”
”Oh, great, so now we’re strangers so you don’t have to care about me and you can just let me die because I’m ‘no one’.”
”Wait, what do you mean ‘let you die’– I thought you were healthy.”
”I am– now. But who knows what might happen? And if I should need a kidney or spleen, well, I’m out of luck because you’re so selfish. Yeah, great. Thanks a lot. Kill me. Thanks a whole bunch.”
”All right, look, let me just think some more about this, O.K.? It’s late, I’m tired, I need to sort this out and get back to you. I mean, this is a big decision, you know, we’re talking organs here…”
”Yeah, big friggin’-palooza decision– a little minor surgery for you– a few stinking scars that could be potentially life saving for no one. Thanks for nothing, man, thanks a bunch for two fistfuls of nadinski. I thought you were a friend, dude, but I guess I was wrong. Maybe dead wrong, thanks to you…”
”Hey, don’t be like that,” I said to a sharp click and a dial tone.
”Who was that?” my wife asked.
”Someone,” I said. “Someone I know. Never mind. Go to sleep.”
I spent the rest of the night tossing and turning and wondering if a spleen really was like a cigarette lighter. What to do?
This may sound kind of weird, but I feel like I’ve got to air it out… much as one might air out his/her favorite kimono that’s acquired a musty smell from too much must.
This guy I met a couple weeks ago called me up out of the blue and asked if he could have one of my kidneys. I told him I was very sorry to hear he needed a kidney transplant and he got really agitated at me.
“Look, Dr. Know-It-All, don’t jump to conclusions when you don’t know crap about nothing. My kidneys are fine.”
I politely asked him why he was requesting one of my kidneys then, if his were fine.
“I’d like to have one in the bank,” he said, “just in case.” “So, are you going to be a pal, a stingy prick, or what?!”
I told him I’d need a little time to think it through. I’m just not sure this is a good idea…
A first-- ad characters get a 'Playboy' cover and pictorial
Sixteen years ago, five scantily-clad women rode into the American consciousness and became lightning rods for political correctness. I am proud to say I had a hand in creating these advertising icons; the famous, the infamous Old Milwaukee Beer Swedish Bikini Team.
What began as a joke ended as a joke. The SBT died in peace. I regret we never got the chance to properly bury these vixens of beerdom. This is the story of what could have been.
In 1991, I was a group creative director at Hal Riney & Partners/San Francisco working on the Old Milwaukee account. The clients said they wanted a new campaign to appeal toyoung beer drinkers. They were open to fresh ideas for changing their long-running campaign as long as we kept the equities of said campaign:
l. Appeal to blue collar men
2. Feature outdoor activities
3. Maintain high energy
5. Keep the slogan “It doesn’t get any better than this…”
6. Be fun
Exhaustive research was conducted indicating young men like women, rock ‘n roll and partying/drinking lots and lots of beer. Thank goodness for research.
The premise of the Swedish Bikini Team campaign was to pick-up the action where the previous Old Milwaukee spots ended: a gathering of guys toasting the moment, saying, “It doesn’t get any better than this…” but then we’d show how it did indeed get better.
It got better with the tried and true trappings one found in any dumb beer commercial at that time: with the addition of rock ‘n roll, sexy women who have an aversion to fabric, food, and fun, fun, fun.Your basic youth fantasy.
Here’s a taste of the SBT:
The campaign was a spoof of all beer advertising, even Old Milwaukee’s. The Swedish Bikini Team was a Monty Pythonesque notion: five women who magically appear in beer spots. They were a send-up of beer commercial babes. They were a running joke, the only constant in the campaign.
The campaign was a blockbuster from the moment it hit the airwaves. It was written up in TV Guide as “this year’s Energizer Bunny.” The phrase ‘Swedish Bikini Team’ was used by Leno and Letterman in monologues, the Team appeared on “Married With Children”–– twice, and wonder of wonder, the women who played the Team agreed to do a pictorial for Playboy appearing sans uniforms. Imagine seeing a figment of your imagination on the cover of Playboy. It was surreal.
But fame soon turned to infamy. The Stroh Brewing Company was hit with a sexual harassment suit. The female attorney made the case the SBT advertising promoted an ‘atmosphere that encouraged sexual harassment.’ It was the year of the Kennedy rape trial and the Clarence Thomas Supreme Court Justice hearing, with randy action accusations made by Anita Hill. The media had a sexy new story to turn its spotlights on.
Soon the SBT came to represent the evil that lurks in all men’s loins. Maury Povich and other talk show pundits jumped on the bandwagon and took the moral high road against the SBT. These five women now represented Satan and all that is evil in the world. Other brewersvowed no more sex (in new spots, men would ogle beautiful women in slinky dresses that rode high on thighs–– but no sexist swimwear!).
In the thick of the controversy, I even got a call from a woman in Michigan upset because the Bikini Team members were from Sweden. “What’s wrong with American women?” she asked. “There’s plenty of beautiful women in this country!”
Now we were getting knocked for being unpatriotic.
Of course, the clients became concerned. While it was great to have buzz, it was awful to have notoriety. We proposed a final spot to make lemonade of the lemons we’d been pelted with.
This last spot would be a :60 opus on the Super Bowl to properly bury the Swedish Bikini Team while fanning the flames of publicity. It would have guys gathered around a campfire by a stream. One man would raise his can of Old Milwaukee and say, “Guys, it doesn’t get any better than this.” Then, an announcer would tell us how it could get better. A trout jumps from the stream into a frying pan over the campfire. Then the announcer would say, “And when the Swedish Bikini Team bungee corded into camp… “ but nothing would happen. Suddenly, the commercial director would barge into the scene demanding to know where the Team was. A production assistant appears holding bikinis and blonde wigs and shrugs. The director slumps down and sobs into a wig saying, “They’ll never work in this town again!”
The announcer speaks again: “And so, the Swedish Bikini Team, America’s favorite import, was never heard from again.” Cut to a scene of a frozen tundra at dusk. A super reads Somewhere in Sweden. The camera rolls across the tundra toward a cabin in the horizon. Rock music plays louder and louder the closer the camera gets to the cabin. The announcer says, Although legend has it on cold nights out on the Swedish tundra, you can still hear the call of the wild.” The camera zooms in on a window where a shade is drawn and a silhouette of the SBT dancing appears. The spot ends with an Old Milwaukee logo and “It doesn’t get any better than this.”
It would have been big. We even envisioned a promotional campaign themed “Whatever happened to the Swedish Bikini Team?”
But none of it came to pass. The client was nervous and pulled the plug. Instead, a new campaign was rolled out and the Swedish Bikini Team joined Mr. Whipple and Josephine the Plumber in the unemployment line for advertising icons. Boo hoo.
A few years back, Ad Age ran a survey on the most popular beer campaigns of all time. Amazingly, the Swedish Bikini Team came in second place, behind the first place Jocks campaign for Miller Lite in the 70’s and 80’s. Jocks ran for ten years and used a variety of celebrities and sports heroes. The SBT ran for seven months and used a bunch of unknown women who wore bad wigs and fairly conservative bikinis.
I suspect the campaign will eventually be immortalized as an answer in Trivial Pursuit, if it isn’t already.And for creating an ad campaign, I suppose it doesn’t get any better than that.
If you’re the CMO of a beer account, I’d love another at bat. Swimwear optional.
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Patrick Scullin