They decided to use the voice of Vicky Hummer to start the intro into the five-minute spot that they had bought from all the nation's major networks.
They chose her because Miss Hummer had a sweet, sexy voice that sounded as if it were bathed in the sweet and sexy juices of a cock spearing a cunt. It had taken Vicky Hummer years of cocksucking and prick-blowing and dick-gobbling to acquire the low-throated warble that advertising executives loved. Of course, ad executives, rats that they are, also loved her voice when it was just humming on their cocks, acquiring more experience for her broadcasting career.
At first, Haskell Baskins objected to actually showing Miss Hummer on the screen, point being that her titties and thighs were not artistically what he had in mind. What he saw for the Okay Oil spot was a simple, seductive voice simply asking questions of typical fellow Americans.
But his objection was overruled by Cooper Morton, the idea man, because he had an idea that Miss Hummer's thighs and tits were definite assets.
Thus, it was left to Wally Bendix to make sure that Miss Hummer's thighs and tits were adequately displayed for all of America to see. He brought in Victoria Header, Hollywood's best clothes designer, to come up with something casual for Miss Hummer.
Now, Miss Hummer was bedecked in a flaming orange crepe halter top that had a four-inch padding of false foam rubber to make her tits look bigger than her actual thirty-eight-inch chest. Beneath her crepe halter was a belly button that looked very green and shiny because her navel held a green emerald. And beneath the emeralded belly button was a short, crepe wrap-around miniskirt. Cooper had objected to hot-pants because they lacked the earthy sensuality that he wanted; so Miss Header had designed a wraparound skirt, very much like those quick-fuck whores wear.
And beneath the crepe, wrap-around miniskirt was plenty of thigh. God, there was so much thigh showing that the miniskirt looked more like a band-aid instead of apparel worn by quick-fuck whores.
For cameramen, they hired the nation's best – shit, with the budget they had for this rat-fuck job they could have brought in men like Ezekial Ricco, winner of four Academy awards for the best animated cartoons in the field of erotic animation.
But they got the best by hiring them away from all the nation's major networks.
Everything was all set. Vicky Hummer was dazzlingly casual. Haskell Baskins had his horsehair paintbrush in hand instead of behind his ear. Cooper Morton was fucking ashes from the fiftieth cigarette of the day. Wally Bendix was off somewhere executing Cooper's imaginative, brilliant idea for the Okay Oil spot.
God, the five-minute spot was so simple that even a high school dummy could have conceived it – but that was where they all received feathers in their caps. Ms. Virginia Fowler had been exuberant, why she had even called them "creative little cocksuckers" for their stupendous ad campaign.
But as simple as it may have been conceived, there had been lots of work.
Haskell Baskins had never painted so many houses, had never trimmed so many lawns, had never pasted green leaves on so many dead trees before – well, Haskell did have a little bit of help. Ms. Fowler had bussed in fifty-four oil men, mostly niggers and spics, to do most of the work, and Haskell was really pleased that everything on Sophocles Street looked so American, so rustic, so middle class.
Cooper Morton was the one responsible for most of the hubbub that was going on Sophocles Street. He had come up with a brilliant idea of going straight to the grass-roots people and let them tell how America's the greatest country to live in. With the whole nation watching, TV viewers would ace people like themselves praising their own virtuous lives. God, it would be a reflection of our times, a mirror of the way America lived and thought, and loved and felt Yessirrrr! What a sweat fucking idea.
And Wally Bendix had executed the plan to the 9th degree. First, he chose a section of America that was typical Pollyanna – which meant he closed his eyes and thrust his finger at the map of the good old USA and chose the city. Waco, Texas, was where his middle finger landed.
Then it had taken two hours to have a city map of Waco, Texas, flown in. Then, using the same nondiscriminatory process, Wally had closed his eyes and stabbed out Sophocles Street, Waco, Texas, United States of America.
Now the cameras were ready to roll. Now the people of Sophocles Street were all out on their doorsteps waving as the camera truck drove by, showing millions of TV viewers typical American trees, American pre-fab houses that quartered typical American neighbor drinking Hawaiian punch and eating Oreo cookies.
Then the action stopped. Wally waved everybody into the middle of Sophocles Street.
"Now, listen closely, folks. We want to see lots of good smiles – big happy faces. Try not to look at the camera when it comes to your turn to be interviewed. Act natural, don't scratch your bodies, try not to sweat too much, and pretend that the cameras don't exist and that Miss Hummer, the interviewer, doesn't exist. But most of all, act yourselves! Be true to thy self – remember it. All right, everybody ready?"
Everybody put an happy smiling faces and waved and cheered and said in one unanimous voice: "We're ready, Mr. Bendix."
"Oh, yeah, one more thing," Wally said. "Did all of you memorize your lines?"
"Yeah!"
"Yes, we did!"
"Sure!"
"Yep!"
"Wow!"
"Good," Wally beamed. Then he nodded to the camera crew and Miss Hummer. "That's it, let's roll em."
The camera moved in. Miss Hummer moved into the happy, smiling faces of the typical Americans who lived on Sophocles Street.
The camera panned the crowd, then moved in for a close up of Miss Hummer's tits before opening up and taking in her breathtaking, dazzling, but casual stance.
Miss Hummer winked at millions of American boob-tubers. "Hi, y'all. This is Vicky Hummer, and I'm here in Waco, Texas to show you how some good old-fashioned Americans feel about America."
Miss Hummer spun around and beckoned a thin-looking man out of the crowd.
"Howdy. What's your name, sir?"
"Herbert Marcuse."
"Herbert, are you married?"
Herbert gulped he still didn't know who owned a big enough cock to fill a Trojan Extra Large rubber, but he suspected somebody in the crowd. "Yes, and happily so."
"And, Herbert," Vicky said, in rich, mellow tones, "where is the missus?"
Marcie Marcuse stood by Herbie's side, putting her arm around him and smiling at the camera.
"Ah, I take it you're the happy missus. And what's your name?"
"Marcie Marcuse, and I love America. Wouldn't leave it for the world."
Herbie tried to remember if he was supposed to say something now. Oh yeah, the script said that he was to say the following: "Yeah, me too. I love America – all of it."
After he said it, Miss Hummer thanked them, then beckoned forth Rachel Lindsay.
The camera zoomed in on Rachel's cleavage, then zoomed back because they didn't want any close up of Rachel's face.
"Now, folks, we have here a beautiful, typical single girl who also lives on Sophocles Street here in bright and beautiful Waco, Texas. Hi, there. And what's your name?"
"I'm, Rachel, Rachel Lindsay!"
"Rachel, being single, I bet you have a hard time saying no to all those beautiful beaus you have."
Rachel nodded her head. "Yes, but you know how American men are."
"I sure do," Vicky Hummer said in a twirpy, sugary voice, winking at the camera again. "Thank you Rachel for being so cooperative… and don't do anything I wouldn't do."
Rachel laughed – like the script told her to do.
"And here's another happy looking couple. Your names please?"
As Orson Marple got ready to answer, he was cut off by that nightingale voice again: "Please, sir, you know the good old American custom – ladies first. Hi, sweet gal. What's your name?"
"I'm Ethel Orson, and this is my husband Orson. We love each other very much."
Orson gave Ethel a peck on the check, then Ethel returned the peck.
"And what do you two loving persons do for a living?" Vicky asked, smiling bigger than life.
Orson gulped. "I'm a… a meteorologist for ICY." Gulp.
Ethel grimaced. "I'm a… a fashion coordinator." Grimace.
Vicky stepped between them to hide their expressions and looked directly into the camera. "Yessirreeee, Sophocles Street, here in bright and beautiful Waco, Texas, has all kinds and all types of Americans. Why, just look at this elderly gentleman here. I bet you're a poet, sir… am I right?"
Professor Ivan Wellington got very close to Vicky Hummer, almost tripping over the microphone cord. "Well, not exactly, Miss Hummer. I'm a professor of poetry at Waco State."
"Well, good for you, Professor. And three cheers for Waco State, one of America's finest educational institutions. And are you married?"
"Yes, I am."
"Is your missus around anywhere?" Professor Ivan Wellington knew Betty Ann wasn't around because Cooper Morton had told her to get lost – he didn't want any young pussy married to an elderly gentleman. Shit, that rang of perversity, the dirty old man image. So he had rewritten the script as follows: "No, Miss Hummer. My wife's at the hospital. She's having a baby."
"Why, congratulations! Don't forget to buy lots of cigars in case it's twins. Ha, ha, ha."
Professor Wellington couldn't say ha, ha, ha, because the birth of twins would give him two sets – which is still one set mote than most American couples have.
"And here," Vicky Hummer said, spinning to her right, "we have a pretty American wife who certainly has a lot of sex appeal. And what's your name, pretty darling?"
"Connie… Mrs. Connie Balakian."
"Well, Mrs. Balakian, your husband must be a very lucky man to be married to someone like you – you're just absolutely gorgeous. By the way, where is your husband?"
"Oh, he's busy watching the football game." Which was a lie – the truth being that Cooper Morton wouldn't anyone like an Armenian ruin his All-American show. Haskell had said that he could make him look more white – but Cooper had nixed that because Marvin Balakian definitely had a Mediterranean type nose, crooked and too big.
Vicky placed her hand on Connie Balakian, gave her a friendly pat. "Stay beautiful, Connie. Boy, your husband sure is a lucky guy. And speaking of being lucky, look what we have here."
What they had there was Alma Figger blushing before the cameras with her husband Emory, clad in bowling shirt, hugging her hips.
"Your lucky names, please."
Emory spoke. "The Figgers. Emory and Alma Figger. I'm Emory and that's Alma. Ha, ha, ha."
Vicky said: "H-ha, ha, ha," too. Then she smiled at Alma. "My but you look so squeaky clean and neat. I bet you keep a swell house, Mrs. Figger."
Alma was going to answer, but Emory cut in.
"Well, she sure tries her best, but sometimes it can get pretty darn sloppy. Ha, ha, ha."
"The both of you look like you're very happily married."
"Always been," Emory said confidentially. "Always will." Then he kissed the blushing Alma on her red cheek.
"Well, thank you very much, Mr. and Mrs. Figger." Then to the camera: "Just another typical American couple on a typical American street. Isn't America a great place to live. All these people that I've just talked to are no different than yourselves. Where would America be without people like the Marples, the Lindsays, the Marcuses? There is no bigotry here, there aren't any mucous scandals, hatreds, dope or prostitution. We here at Okay Oil Company are proud of the people who live on Sophocles Street. And we are doubly proud that we can show all of you, out there in television land, a true reflection of your own happiness, your own loves, your own homes. This is Vicky Hummer saying good-bye from Sophocles Street and from the people who produce more oil than all of Arabia – the Okay Oil Company."