monkeystrokes10

[monkeystrokes10]

We gave birth to the concept in the wee hours in the common area, aka Creative Lounge. Gustaf was sitting cross-legged on the air hockey table, meditating. Ben, doodling body parts, Jaime in headphones, and me Scrabbling With Friends.

It was our third consecutive all-nighter brainstorming next week’s Whole-Heart Brown Rice presentation, and from an idea standpoint, had what we needed. However, Malcolm Bain, agency founder aka work/life balance denier, insisted on these idea-generating marathons. “That's when the genius happens," says the man who considers Wes Anderson films a yawn. "When you are exhausted and spent.”

Bain. Former business-park developer whose favorite pastimes are power-washing his Cessna 172 and guesstimating his net worth with each Dow closing. His favorite director is Oliver Stone.

Whole-Heart Brown Rice tastes like gerbil bedding. Milled just like white rice, nothing whole grain about it. The brown is food coloring.

It took the account team a two-hour powerpoint to convey to us dope-smoking "creatives" that most consumers combine rice with other foods, including the Asian demographic. We pay these people?

Ben came up with "Everything's right on Whole-Heart Brown Rice." Jyoti added the Gwyneth Paltrow lookalike popping out of the box, flashing a shaka. "Right on!”

The account people would eat it up, pun intended. Bain too. “Right on!” over-designed into billboards, TV, digital, email, point-of-purchase, translites, and oh yeah, fidget spinners. Anything to justify the iceberg-sized invoice of billable hours. Right on!

Gustaf opened his eyes like a genie from a lamp. "This is boolshit."

There’s a picture of Gustaf on the agency website. When Diversity and Inclusivity became buzzwords, B(r)ain Power Inc. hired man-bunned Gustaf “who enjoys tai-chi and rock climbing.” Also Jyoti, Head Designer, sporting chartreuse buzz cut and choli top.

"Look at us,” Gustaf said. “We’re pathetic. Selling fake brown rice.” He bounced a nerf basketball off my head. "Locked in a playpen with toys, spinning gold for shysters."

We laughed. Gustaf did not. "We are better than this," he said.

Erika wasn't laughing either. "I have a gay friend who works for Chick-fil-A."

"She's a whore." Gustaf put his foot behind his head. "We all are."

As introvert copywriter dork, I keep my mouth shut unless I have something on paper to read from. But it was 3:30 a.m. and I just cracked an Allabash Truepenny from the pretentious agency beer fridge, my fourth. "Can't argue,” I said. “Those illiterate cows want to kill the Equality Act.”

Boycott posts had been on my newsfeed for years. Fundamentalist chicken-sandwich billionaire isn't open on Sunday and believes in conversion therapy.

Despite the headphones, Jaime could hear everything. “Advertising feeds the monsters,” she said a little too loud.

Ben flipped an Exacto knife into the drop ceiling. "We are better than this. We should do something worth a damn.”

Erika went for more beer and creative genius struck. An hour later we made a run to the 24-hour home-supply box store.

Tomorrow night, we go into production.

***

The billboard was just off the beltway, at Exit 10. A rusted frame of girders and I-beams supporting the weight of two three-dimensional life-sized fiberglass cows.

One cow stood on the back of the other, hoof reaching up to paint the headline, "Eat Mor Chikin.” I hate it. Bos taurus telling you to eat Gallus domesticus. So creepy.

Jyoti thought of the white coveralls to look like a Chick-fil-A work crew, painting them with big black splotches to match the Holsteins.

Gustaf in his harness scaled the thing and rigged a pulley system off the scaffolding, hoisting Jaime, Ben, and Erika behind him onto the narrow work platform. Jyoti waited below with art supplies. I manned the other end of the base in charge of tools, including the crowbar I used to pry open a breaker box and flip-switch the board into darkness.

Jaime and Gustaf switched on their headlamps and crawled under the cows. A bucket lowered on a rope. “Half-inch drive ratchet, three-quarter socket, combo wrench, cutting wheel," Jaime called down. I rummaged her toolbox, took my best guess, and tugged. The bucket ascended.

Erika lowered a bucket from her end of the platform. “Red, white, two angle brushes, nine-inch roller," she stage whispered. Jyoti filled the order.

At 3:00 a.m., traffic was scarce, but my heart was banging away like Sheila E. Gustaf grinding sparks and Jaime in a ratcheting frenzy as Ben performed the sex changes with a handsaw, epoxy, and four Sculpey horns.

Then the three of them grunted the two transgender Holsteins into Verse 37 of the Kama Sutra.

Erika brushed away at copy revisions on her side of the billboard, teetering horrifically on Jyoti’s shoulders, who’d somehow climbed up to get in on the action.

I could hardly watch. If someone got hurt, we'd all be touring emergency rooms, central booking, Dewey, Cheatum, & Howe law offices, and unemployment lines.

On a lighter note, my headlamped co-workers in makeshift cow-coveralls looked like Oompah Loompahs working Willy Wonka's milking machine. I heard nervous giggling, and realized it was mine.

In five minutes, it was a wrap. After everyone rappelled to terra firma, I flipped the power back on so we could admire our work.

As an ad, it put the mess in messaging. A convoluted shitshow. But to overworked, frustrated, guilt-ridden creatives, it was the best thing we'd ever done.

The receiving bull, standing on its hind legs, gazed dreamily into the night while the servicing bull fellated its single modified udder/penis.

An LGBTQ rainbow was art directed over the bovine lovers. Erika had rendered the cow scrawl like a photoshop wizard. Gustaf was right, "Home of the Homophobe Sandwich" would’ve been copy heavy.

However, "Suk More Dik'n" was One Show Pencil gold. Underneath, the tagline in pink script. “It’s Natural!”

Erika took the low-hanging fruit. "The client's going to have a cow."

***

A celebratory IHOP blueberry stack, and we were back in the office. Bain didn't show up until after 11, wearing an Adidas tracksuit and a Tag Heuer.

"It's nuts out there this morning. Exit 10 is backed up like you wouldn't believe," he said.

Jyoti, still in her cow get-up, gave a triumphant moo.

Bain didn't blink. “Well, team, did lightning strike?"

"We're in a good place, Chief," I said.

"Right on," Bain said.

Right on, indeed.