Armbenders Ad Agency buzz me in a panic. The masses are ignoring billboards and commercials, choosing healthy useful products instead; and worst of all, picking politicians on such flimsy grounds as honesty and fitness for the job. Container terminals are bursting with unsold dross, and Westminster bars are heaving with pimps and ninnies, no amount of canvassing can elect.
Because, I diagnose, the hoi polloi have been lied to their faces too often and too clumsily. And I, the brilliant Professor Brion Damage, so savvy I can sell Celtic scarves to Rangers supporters, have a truly Machiavellian solution: lie to their backs. Sneak up behind them into their mirror, mirror on the wall, make them fairest of them all ( pert tits and no beer belly) if they embrace the product I cut and paste into their looking glass with LEDs and Photoshop.
Armbenders and their top clients attend the trial, where we see test subject Mr Crud seated before my magic mirror in his soiled underpants, combing over his last few strands of hair. When suddenly, a bottle of Follycurls hair tonic jumps into his hand. The mirror now cuts to a new, Bermuda shorted Crud, sporting lush manly locks and much admired by six leggy ladies, basking on the beach behind him, purring like kittens. He turns, chases, then kisses them all. He's hooked on Follycurls now! Armbenders and Co. cheer madly.
Until Crud clumsily drops and shatters the bottle, and his beautiful dream image fades away. He finds himself stumbling drunkenly down a slummy back street in soiled underpants, hugging lamp posts all the way. Back home, he kicks my magic mirror into splinters.
Which spells bad luck I reflect later, trudging down Oxford Street wearing a sandwich board, advertising boob jobs; which I have been reduced to. Staring into shop windows, I reflect on two further things: tit is the same reversed; and I have no reflection, which is an attribute of the truly evil.
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