Karl Marx walks into the main office of Taft & Hartley. He’s surprisingly short, but the striking appearance of his bushy gray beard makes up for that. He looks confused.
A lanky man crosses to him, and puts his arm around his shoulder. “Karl,” says Mr. Taft, leading him towards the big mahogany desk. “Can I call you Karl? Karl, how was your trip? Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? Cocaine? Please, have a seat.”
Karl sits in a leather chair in front of the desk. A stout older man with a pronounced bald spot stares at him from the other side. After a moment, Karl awkwardly offers his hand, and says, “Hello.”
“Listen, Karl,” Mr. Hartley says aggressively. “We’re gonna cut the crap. I bet you’re wondering why we called you in. “
“I mean…”
“We make it our business to know what’s hot.”
Mr. Taft cheerfully interjects, “What’s happening. What’s cool. What’s all that and a bag of chips.”
“And I’m gonna be blunt,” continues Mr. Hartley, “you’re hot.”
“You’re fire. You’re a volcano. You’re the petrified ruins of Pompeii.”
“The kids are into everything about you. Your ideas, your writing…”
“Your in-your-face Santa Claus look.”
“And we would like to make you a business proposition.”
Mr. Taft dramatically leans in. “How would you, Karl Marx: father of modern socialism, like to get into… advertising.”
Karl looks at the two men with a shocked expression, and says, “Advertising?”
“Advertising,” repeats Mr. Taft.
“Well, I think…”
“Karl,” says Hartley, “we here at Taft & Hartley have several lucrative clients lined up that we think you would be perfect for. Have you ever heard of Chuck’s Baked Beans?”
“Baked beans?” says Karl
“Picture this,” says Mr. Taft. “a factory shot in dreary black and white. We cut to the break room. Big bearded men in overalls sit at a broken table. They pull out their lunches. They look at the sorry excuse for slop they’re about to shovel into their big dumb faces. A single tear crawls down one of their faces. It is a tear powered by the weight of the world.”
He pauses for effect. “That’s when you kick down the door holding two Gatling guns under each arm, and you spray a volley of sweet delicious baked beans over the hungry masses! As you massacre them with flavor the film turns to color! Then you turn directly to the camera, and hit them with the tagline!”
“Chuck’s Baked Beans,” says Mr. Hartley proudly, “Seize The Beans Of Production!”
Karl looks horrified.
“Maybe beans aren’t your thing,” says Mr. Taft.
“Maybe you’re more of a potato man,” adds Mr. Hartley.
“A street corner. Two Dickensian orphans sit on the sidewalk shoving ugly French fries into their dirty little faces. One of them says ‘I wish we had something better than these chips…’ Cause they call them chips in Charles Dickens land, ‘but I am but a poor waif who can’t afford nothing better, governor.’ Then the other one says ‘we truly are pity incarnate.’” Mr. Taft pauses for effect again. “That’s when you come running down the street dragging a giant trebuchet behind you! You look at the kids! They look back at you! You look at the kids! They look back at you! Then you use the trebuchet to rain a giant load of golden brown Sammy’s Brand Tater Tots upon them! They are both horribly maimed by your cunning snack attack, but are still happy! That’s when you turn to the camera, and say…”
“Sammy’s Brand Tater Tots: The Dictator Tot Of The Proletariat!”
Karl looks even more horrified.
“But what about the great unwashed with dietary restrictions?” asks Mr. Taft.
“Well, we have a commercial for that too,” says Mr. Hartley with a grin.
“An arcade. Two punk rockers are walking around doing edgy things. Like chewing gum, and listening to the Carpenters. One says to the other, ‘Bro, I’m so hungry, but I can’t eat scrumptious cheeseburgers on account of my celiacs disease, whatever that is.’ Then the other one says, ‘Oh no. What are we to do!?’” Mr. Taft pauses for a third time. “That’s when you burst out of the vintage 1966 Batman pinball machine holding a hydrogen bomb! Before anyone knows what’s happening you detonate the warhead! The entire tri state area is engulfed in a giant mushroom cloud! There are no survivors! Except for you, holding Gloria’s Glorious Gluten Free Burger Buns. That’s when you say…”
Mr. Hartley passionately stands up. “Burgers of the world unite! The only thing you have to lose is your grains!”
“Gentlemen!” Karl yells. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
The ad men shoot Karl a surprised look, and then break down in laughter.
“Karl, let me tell you something you might not know,” says Mr. Hartley “We’re advertising executives.”
“I mean, that was pretty clear,” says Karl.
“And as advertising executives,” says Mr. Taft, “we know two things: necromancy, and how to sell bullshit.”
“And you, sir, is the best way to sell bullshit.”
“But selling bullshit goes against everything I believe in,” says Karl.
“Sure, sure, sure,” says Mr. Hartley. “We understand that, But what if we were prepared to offer you… money?”
“And a lot of it.”
“How does fifty dollars a commercial sound?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t,” says Karl. “Advertising is the backbone of capitalist oppression. A reactionary force that helps drive down wages by promising consumers useless goods for low prices. You two are a boil on the face of humanity, and if I join you, I would be selling out the entire proletariat struggle. That I can not do.”
Mr. Taft pauses for a moment, and then says, “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Marx. How about fifty one dollars?”
Karl becomes incredibly giddy, and blurts out, “deal!”
“You’re fire. You’re a volcano. You’re the petrified ruins of Pompeii.”
Rod Taft, Taft & Hartley
The kids are into everything about you. Your ideas, your writing…
Tod Hartley, Taft & Hartley
And you, sir, is the best way to sell bullshit.
Tod Hartley, Taft & Hartley