By Carter Jefferson
In the boardroom, faces were long, tempers short, and hope nowhere in sight.
"Okay, guys, we've got to make a move." Albert R. Ramsey, chief
executive officer, veteran porn producer, advertising genius, and King
of Spam, spoke gently, but his words belied his manner. "For five
years, we've been selling bigger boobs to the stupidest women on earth.
Every bimbo in Dubuque has already got tits the size of blimps. Our spam
has stopped producing. If you don't come up with a new product that'll
sell, I'll fire the lot of you and hire somebody with ideas." He
leaned back in his oversized leather chair and drew largely on a cigar
that Castro would have envied.
Silence fell for a moment.
"Maybe fireworks?" John N. Pilsudski III looked hopefully at his colleagues, his jowls shivering, the bags under his eyes testifying to his life of constant attention to detail, preferably in the bottoms of bottles.
"How about wind-powered vibrators?" Suddenly the room was full of shouts. "Dildos with personality!" "Free websites for escort services!" "Writing courses for erotica!" "Inflatable hunks!"
Ramsey remained silent, his face wooden. Then, ostentatiously, he looked at his six-pound, pearl-encrusted wristwatch. "One minute. Give me something to run with."
When no one spoke, Ramsey finally frowned in disgust, but before he could say a word, a head poked through the open door.
"You guys are a bunch of weenies!" Gertie McGillicuddy, holding a dust rag in one hand and a smouldering cigarette in the other, waddled into the room, her smooth gray hair and considerable girth for the first time ceasing to be invisible to the captains of industry.
"Try sellin' somethin' to men for a change! They're at least as stupid as women, and they have more money." She puffed on her fag and waved her hand in the air. "Sell the bastards somethin' to make their dicks bigger. You think size don't matter or somethin'?"
Ten sets of bleary eyes focused on Gertie, then turned, in unison, to Ramsey's throne.
"Yeah. Maybe you got something." Ramsey stared into space for a moment. "Penis enhancement. It might work."
"Might, hell," said Gertie. "It'll work. If you assholes don't get on the stick this whole outfit is goin' to crumble, and I need my seven dollars an hour."
Ramsey stared at her. "What's your name, lady?"
"McGillicuddy, Gertrude. What's it to you?"
Ramsey looked down the long table.
"You guys write the ads, and get 'em online tonight." He stopped for moment. "Oh, yeah. Jones, find me a package--a drug, a bent doctor, doesn't matter--something that looks legit. And one more thing." He gestured at Gertie. "Gentlemen, meet Ms. McGillicuddy, our new creative director."