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Yeah, bland as a Tufton Tuesday, except that the cereal was inexplicably called SHOVE THAT COCK INSIDE ME. The little elfin creatures were back, dancing around the bowl like demented....well, elves. EIGHT ESSENTIAL NUTRIENTS! one shouted in a cartoon balloon. YUM YUM YUMMY! yelled the other. I ran to the nearest pay phone, shrieking at the top of my lungs.
"Profit Pusher General Product Corporation, this is Helen," answered a pleasant-sounding young woman after I had punched in an interminable sequence of ones, twos, threes, and pound signs. "Yes, I need to complain yet again about the name of a new cereal!" I said loudly. "I'm an important reporter and you people have gone over the line!"
"I understand, ma'am," Helen said. "I'll be happy to assist you. To better help in this matter, I'm going to need a bit of information from you, is that okay?" "Sure sure," I told her. "But then I'm going to need the name of the CEO!"
"Certainly," Helen said soothingly. "Can I have your name please?" "Donna McLudlow McTippit." "And where are you calling from, Ms. McTippit?" "Tufton Flats, Iowa, fifty-five miles east of West Lemon City."
"And what, may I ask, are you wearing?" "A sports bra and bicycle shor---wait a second, why do you need to know THAT?" I asked in disbelief. "Just for a mental image, sweetie," Helen the Operator told me, in a lower voice than she had started the conversation with. "Mmm, I bet your ass looks amazing in those shorts. Is the sports bra nice and snug against your breasts?"
"Why yes it is, Helen, and you're going to see just HOW snug when I fly up there to demand to speak to whoever's in charge of that nuthouse you call a company!" "Mmmmmm, I like to see a woman in a tight sports bra. Tell me about your nipples; are they---"
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I slammed down the receiver and ran home. Then I made sure the box of Shove That Cock Inside Me cereal was secured in the grocery basket of my moped and set out for the airport. By the time I returned to work the next day, I hoped to have an exclusive that would shove yesterday's nuclear exchange between India and Pakistan onto page 6 of the Family Living section---and perhaps finally arouse the hoidy toidy attentions of those stuffed shirts over at The Mid-Central Iowa Farm and Fruit Stand Reader!
I did a little research on the company on the flight to Salt Silo, thanks to the nice man sitting beside me who let me use his computer. It was a lot like the kind the newspaper finally bought last year, which broke immediately. (It was so weird---I was just sitting in front of it and suddenly the screen went dark and it looked like I was soaring through stars in blackest outer space. We've all been afraid to even touch it ever since.)
Profit Pusher had been founded so recently that they hadn't even issued their first earnings report yet. By all accounts, it seemed to be a perfectly normal establishment which planned to manufacture everything from waffle smoothers to butter shapers to bobblehead dolls of the great vice presidents in history. They had begun with breakfast cereal, and were truly a virgin company asking for bigtime trouble by going overboard so quickly with their perverted ideals. I was infinitely disturbed by the fact that their website was sponsored by six or seven pop-up ads beckoning the web surfer to "CUM SEE THE SLUTTIEST BRAILLISTS WE COULD FIND" or "LOG ON NOW FOR THE HOTTEST AFTER-HOURS MUSEUM SEX EVER"!
The central office was on the fourth floor of the Van Vangel Building in the snootiest shopping district in all of Salt Silo. I walked into the receptionist's area and was greeted with the shock of my life. Greeting me was not the smiling face of a helpful secretary, but a strange man's naked buttocks as he thrust himself repeatedly into some woman he'd lifted onto the front desk! She was urging him to "give it to me like you did at SeaWorld" when I shrieked at them to stop.
"What on earth is wrong with you people?!" I yelled. "Have you no sense of decency at all?!" The man pulled up his pants quickly and, patting down his mussed hair, dashed off down the hallway. The girl ran behind her desk and sat down in a fevered state, smiling at me and asking me if I had an appointment.
"I'm here to do a news story about this sick, sick organization," I told her. "I want to see the president, now." "Um, okay," said Miss No-Panties, pressing a button on her intercom. "I apologize for the fucking, miss, but after all, it IS casual day."
"Great," I said disdainfully. "I'd hate to see the office Christmas party!" "Mr. Bootingaily, a woman here to see you," the receptionist said over the intercom. "A woman, eh?" came the reply. "What's she look like? My type? Ah, it doesn't matter, I'd screw almost anything today."