A Peculiar Industry

"A Peculiar Industry" by Charles Battell Loomis is a satirical examination of the advertising industry and the various eccentricities that accompany it. Written in the early 20th century, the book humorously highlights the absurdities of marketing practices and the often-ridiculous lengths to which advertisers will go to promote products. Loomis's witty prose and sharp observations provide a unique lens on consumer culture, revealing both the charm and the folly of the burgeoning advertising world. Through a blend of humor and social commentary, the book invites readers to reflect on the nature of persuasion and the value of authenticity in commerce.

• Short story

								
The sign in front of the dingy little office on a side-street,
through which I was walking, read:

  JO COSE AND JOCK EWLAH
        FUNSMITHS

Being of an inquisitive turn of mind, I went in. A little dried-up
man, who introduced himself as Mr. Cose, greeted me cheerily. He said
that Mr. Ewlah was out at lunch, but he’d be pleased to do what he
could for me.

“What is the nature of your calling?” asked I.

“It is you who are calling,” said he, averting his eyes. Then he
assumed the voice and manner of a “lecturer” in a dime museum, and
rattled along as follows:

“We are in the joke business. Original and second-hand jokes bought
and sold. Old jokes made over as good as new. Good old stand-bys
altered to suit the times. Jokes cleaned and made ready for the
press. We do not press them ourselves. Joke expanders for sale cheap.
Also patent padders for stories--”

I interrupted the flow of his talk to ask him if there was much
demand for the padders.

“Young man,” said he, “do you keep up with current literature?”

Then he went over to a shelf on which stood a long line of bottles
of the size of cod-liver-oil bottles, and taking one down, he said:
“Now, here is Jokoleine, of which we are the sole agents. This will
make a poor joke salable, and is in pretty general use in the city,
although some editors will not buy a joke that smells of it.”

I noticed a tall, black-haired, Svengalic-looking person in an inner
room, and I asked Mr. Cose who he was.

“That is our hypnotizer. The most callous editors succumb to his
gaze. Take him with you when you have anything to sell. We rent him
at a low figure, considering how useful he is. He has had a busy
season, and is tired out, but that is what we pay him for. If he
were to die you’d notice a difference in many of the periodicals.
The poorer the material, the better pleased he is to place it. It
flatters his vanity.”

I assured him that I was something of a hypnotist myself, and,
thanking him for his courtesy, was about to come away, when he picked
up what looked like a box of tacks and said:

“Here are points for pointless jokes. We don’t have much sale for
them. Most persons prefer an application of Jokoleine. A recent
issue of a comic weekly had sixty jokes and but one point, showing
conclusively that points are out of fashion in some editorial rooms.

“A man came in yesterday,” rattled on the senior member, “and asked
if we bought hand-made jokes, and before we could stop him he said
that by hand-made jokes he meant jokes about servant-girls. We gave
him the address of ‘Punch.’”

At this point I shook hands with Mr. Cose, and as I left he was
saying: “For a suitable consideration we will guarantee to call
anything a joke that you may bring in, and we will place it without
hypnotic aid or the use of Jokoleine. It has been done before.”

And as I came away from the sound of his voice, I reflected that it
had.
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