He had a back office in his older brother’s <br />advertising agency and understood the human asshole. <br />He turned his father’s small inheritance over and over <br />on hemorrhoid ads between three-hour lunches <br />at the Plaza every day and cocktails at five-thirty <br />with different dressy women waiting in our front office. <br />We joked that he fucked them up the ass to make more customers <br />and were nauseated by him because he picked his ears <br />with the lead end of his lead pencil as he argued and argued <br />hemorrhoid copy with us on nauseating Mad. Ave. mornings. <br />Why argue? It must have been for executive power-feelings <br />because the copy never changed. Every week, the poor <br />bleeding assholes bought the shit. When my mind <br />began to get fucked and go as black as his inner ears <br />I quit as broke as I began, remembering his prophecy: <br />that the last working television set in the world <br />would be showing a hemorrhoid ad for ANUSALL <br />at Armageddon, that it would have been written <br />by him, that he would be watching it at 6:00 P.M. <br />in the bomb-cellar lounge of the Park Plaza Hotel <br />with a blonde’s ass in one hand and a scotch in the other, <br />and that he would die happy, with his old man’s <br />money intact and his asshole too, unlike us prat-boys.<br /><br />Alan Dugan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/remembering-an-account-executive/
