The ad guy didn’t have a good year. His wife divorced him. His mistress dismissed him, and his only child returned from “The Front” in parts.
Unable to compose a pithy prayer or suicide note, and unable to laugh or get liquored up, he informed his clients that he was closing his agency.
He designs and writes sympathy cards now. The more maudlin, the merrier. He makes good money. He lives and drinks alone, excepting every Saturday night when the service sends over a woman. And they share snort after snort, and hoot after holler, as she sits bare-assed naked, riotously reading the very best of his past week’s work.