Chapter 8: Boobs

Another summons. Another heel-and-toe up the back stairs to see Ms. Sloane.

Being well versed in the art of social conviviality, I shortstopped the impending business discussion with what, in the higher corporate circles, is called an ice breaker.

“Ms. Sloane, I’m thinking of having my shirts monogramed. Spiffy, no?”

“No.”

“Huh?”

What’s wrong with Bertram Owen Osgood Brewster?

She handed me a pen, “Write the monogram out, Birdie.”

Done. I gave it the double-o, and it took but a mo, “Oh.”

“Birdie, Ms. Lane asked me to bring you up to speed on Gibraltar Soup.”

Huh? I’d been Assistant Account Exec on Gibraltar far longer than Ms. Sloane had even been at BB.

“What’s the primary goal of our Gibraltar Soup campaign?”

“Sell more soup!” Easy one.

Ms. Sloane seemed to sigh and settle down inside herself. If you know what I mean.

“Birdie.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You do know that soup represents less than five percent of Gibraltar’s net revenue.”

“Huh?”

Why call it Gibraltar Soup?

“I’m sure you realize that once they bought a fleet of delivery trucks in 1996, they created a transportation arm that grew to almost 68 percent of their business.”

I felt dizzy. “Oh sure. Transport. Yes, quite. Big help with the price of petrol drooping down.”

Ms. Sloane looked out the window, then back at me. “Of course you’re also aware that Meg Gibraltar developed the Harvey line of mattresses — ‘soft as a bunny rabbit’.”

Wait! I’d seen the TV storyboards in Creative. Tall rabbit, looks sort of like a man. There’s a word for that, humanizing an animal. Anthro ... anthro ... something. Anthroapology, that’s it.

Never associated ole Harv with Gibraltar Soup though. Huh, live and learn.

Days of yore. Well, nights. Probably both, now that I apply the old bean to the analytical of it.

I didn’t panic the first time it occurred because Trish had pre-schooled Froggy and me on the premise. Several times.

Background. When The McGovern played with herself in Show & Tell, she was able to reach some sort of ... plateau of ... pleasure, for want of a better phrase.

Myself, and I sensed Froggy was similarly, I felt a nice ... um, tingle. But not the moving scene enacted, and I must admit, greatly enjoyed, by the distaff side of the Mouseketeers.

So when I woke up one Saturday morning to discover what the clinicians call a ‘nocturnal commission’ I wasn’t shocked. In fact, I was rather pleased, rite of passage-wise.

Immediately I called The McGovern who was greatly invested in the breaking news of the day. “Yea Brewster! Birdie, Birdie, he’s our man! If he can’t cum, nobody can!”