The Future Of Advertising. 1,600 (standard:humor, 1545 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 19 2020	Views/Reads: 1345/993	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
In the future, everyone will have communication chips inserted at birth, allowing a steady stream of targeted subliminal advertising.

“Time to wake up and buy those Flatso shoes, Thelma.  The most
comfortable footwear on Earth.”  I wake to the sound of the Flatso shoe 
commercial in my inner ears.  I've come to like the jingle.  All it 
takes is to give the company a call the day before, telling them what 
time I want up.  It beats that old-fashioned alarm clock. 

Humming the catchy tune, I start my coffeemaker.  While it heats, the
Shanka coffee commercial fills my mind, a snappy tune that helps me 
wake up. 

As I dress for work, I hear a cacophony of whispers as my clothing tries
to impress their own merits onto my brain.  I'm used to it, hearing 
them all day long.  On the way to work, my Flourd automobile reminds me 
that it needs an oil change.  In a few months, when the car is 
two-years-old, it'll begin reminding me to upgrade.  The music and 
message will become louder and more urgent until I comply.  A great 
safety feature. 

I admit, I'm biased.  I work at the “Pretty Damned Good” advertising
agency.  When the final surge of court cases were settled a few years 
ago, we went into high gear. 

We collect information from our customer's minds -- unobtrusively and
anonymously, of course.  Then send them only the commercials for 
products they prefer.  Why do they ever complain?  I wonder, as I 
recognize one of our own ads, for Pretty Patty Pantyhose.  We keep our 
customers informed about the latest products and services, saving them 
the effort of looking for themselves. 

Since they don't have to spend time comparing products, we're doing them
a favor.  Our firm employs hundreds of experts, in many fields, to 
compare products and pass along only the best as ascertained by our own 
and independent laboratories partially owned by us. 

*** 

“You want to look over these complaints that came in last night,
Thelma?”  My boss gives me a short list.  It used to be almost a book a 
day. 

“Sure. Give me time to organize myself,” I tell her. 

I close myself up into a damper cubicle.  Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but I
prefer to cut out the commercials while I'm thinking.  I wish all our 
complaining clients could afford a booth.  It would make my job a lot 
simpler.  We sell the booths for $50,000 apiece.  If they don't choose 
to spend the money, well ... they continue to receive our wonderful 
ads. 

“Let's see now.” I read the first email on the list.  It's from a man
who doesn't like the latest music.  He likes oldies from three years 
ago, for Christ's sake. Doesn't he know music changes?  We have only 
the latest hits, updated every hour.  Think of all the good musicians 
that would be out of work if people listened to the old stuff.  These 
days musical groups become rich, burn out, and make way for new ones in 
a week or two.  Sighing, I reach for stock reply 76-A. 

I read a complaint from a man that tells me he browsed an Internet porno
site for a few minutes, by mistake.  Oh, sure he did.  Now he gets all 
these erotic messages going through his head.  “So, he's 97-years-old?  
Hell, he should be flattered.” I laugh, sending him stock answer 34-C. 

Another is from a woman who lost her child to cancer last month.  She
says he's dead and buried, why does she still receive mortuary ads?  
Why indeed?  I call up the "Brain Works" and cancel her subscription to 
that ad.  Some of these complaints are legitimate. 

Not like the next, where a man says he's thinking about buying a Chleavy
auto next time.  He wants the Flourd ad canceled in his head.   
Something must be wrong with the ad.  It's not coming through too well 
in his case.  We might have to send a technician to check out his 
cranial chip.  The  Chleavy corporation uses a rival advertising 
agency. 

I'm still engrossed in answering complaints when I hear cursing from


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