Our agency recently created an interesting campaign for the National Blues Foundation in Memphis (including selling Robert Johnson’s soul on e-Bay– some Frenchman bought it for $80, a bargain). I had little to do with any of the work, except for being smart enough to hire talented people. This stuff is definitely lint worth collecting. To see the full magilla of coolness, catch a ride to http://www.igetblues.com/
Blog
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Our Wacky Biz
If you’re like me, you’re married to my wife and have two sons. You are also earning your daily bread by toiling in the mine shafts of advertising creativity. And if there’s a wilder, more woolly boolly, hurly-burly business, well I’d sure like to know about it!
This ad game is chock full o’ interesting people with fascinating stories. Here are some of the true snapshots of this business known in the industrial waste management industry as “advertising.”
An account guy and a copywriter were on their way to a client meeting in New York. The writer was carrying a portfolio case stuffed with fourteen campaigns; the fruits of six months hard labor. The writer stopped at the entrance to the plane and said, “No, I can’t go! This plane is going to crash unexpectedly and everyone in it is going to die, die, die, I tells ya–– die ’til they’re dead!”
The account supervisor tried to reason with him. “Come on, this flight’ll be perfectly safe, and the little bag of nuts will be fresh and delicious.”

You're not going to believe this story… “No,” said the trembling writer, “I have a premonition of impending doom! Feel my spine, it’s chilly! And look, my goosebumps are breaking out in hives. Let’s take a later flight.”
“Don’t be preposterous,” the account man said as he wrestled the portfolio from the writer’s hands, “We have exit row seats.” He dashed on board as the writer nervously watched the plane back away from the gate. The writer had tears streaming down his face as he shouted, “Does anyone have a Kleenex?! I’m drowning here! Kleenex, please!”
As you probably guessed, the flight did not crash. In fact, the plane arrived twenty minutes early (tragically, the little bag of nuts were stale). The writer who had the premonition was fired for insubordination, and stealing computers. Thus, his vision of impending doom had indeed come true!
There was a happy side to this story, however. The client hated all fourteen campaigns in the portfolio case, but he and the account guy came up with some ads and had a pool of art directors “jiffy-them-up!” The account man was promoted and well-moneyed for his efforts.
There’s the famous story of the movie theatre owner who spliced subliminal ads for soft drinks and popcorn into a feature film. The audience watched the entire film and felt the subliminal scenes added little to the plot, although they considered popcorn a good character and wished the soft drink could have had an action scene.
Oh, and what about the tale of the writer who had writer’s block for 31 years– he didn’t produce one single good idea for over three decades! He invested well, however, and eventually retired to a small mansion in the south of France. Talk about embarrassment…
What about the short lived campaign featuring “Harry the Happy Hemorrhoid”? Maybe he wasn’t the best spokes-creation for Ritz crackers, but he was a spunky little fellow!
There’s the legendary story of the agency that tried to buy the rights to the Beatles’ classic song “Yesterday” and change the lyrics for a Pick ‘n Pay Shoes campaign. “Pick ‘n Pay… all the shoes I want and where my socks will stay/ how I love that place in a podiatry sort of way/ oh, I believe in Pick ‘n Pay… why, she paid re-tail/ I don’t know/ she wouldn’t say/ I said, ‘save-on-a-terrific-selection-of-the-latest-styles-and-colors- in-quality-footwear-including-sensible-yet-fashionable-pumps’/ oh, how I believe in Pick ‘n Pa-a-a-a-a-y!/ Pick ‘n Pay…”
At the eleventh hour, the negotiation for the song rights were called off when it was discovered the entire production budget was $4,100.
Then there’s the famous story about the art director who worked simultaneously at two large Chicago ad agencies, without either knowing about the other. The wiseacre was discovered eventually, however, after 39 years. It seems both his retirement parties were scheduled for the same night.
Finally, there’s the incredible story of the creative director interviewing a young writer and discovering samples of his (the CD’s) work in the guy’s book! “Hey,” said the irate creative director, “this is my resume… these are my ads… and this bottle appears to contain my urine samples!”
The embarrassed writer quickly gathered his materials, stuffed them into his portfolio, produced a trombone and blasted “Wah Wah Wahhhhhh!” as he dashed out the office.
It’s a wacky business, this ad game, but it’s safer than catching knives dropped from buildings.
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Buying The Car

Is that your absolute best offer? Three guys from Detroit go into a Washington showroom. They check out the goods, like what they see and make an offer.
$25 billion.
They get rejected. “No can-do,” says the salesman.
The guys go home, re-group and come back a couple weeks later and make another offer.
$34 billion.
“Whoa-boy,” says the salesman. “I’m not so sure my manager will go for that. I’ll try, but I don’t know if I can get that kind of financing. I’m going to have to go see if my manager will go for this sweet offer. But I make no promises.”
He leaves. The three guys wait nervously.
Buying an industry is a pain.
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Fate Thou Art Ironic (Pt. 4)

I read the news today, oh boy… 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.
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Mr. Precious Organs (Pt. 3)
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.
Is the pancreas precious?

