If you work in the ad business it helps to understand that your job is to sell the client's product. So, what happens if the client's product isn't exactly something you'd like to sell?

I remember a day, early in my career, when I was young and naive and on staff at a large agency. On this particular day management had gathered the troops to screen the agency reel for a kind of "Aren't We Wonderful" morale boosting meeting. As the auditorium lights dimmed and a huge screen came down, the hushed crowd gazed at 200k spots for Hallmark and Kraft with beautifully shot images of puppies and children and marshmallows seductively blended with seamless editing and incredibly composed music. Slowly, the lights come back up and after rousing applause the erudite CEO, pipe in hand, takes the stage and opens the floor for questions. Considering how rare it is that we staffers see this guy, nevermind engage him, it's like an audience with The Pope.

As I reflect back on this moment in my young career (I was 26) I cannot say for sure what it was that was going through my irreverent head. Whether it was the insipid questions like, "Gee, how'd you get that cute puppy to lick the little girl's face?" Or, the fact that my hippy girlfriend was enlightening me (or, at least, attempting) to the evils of refined sugar. Or, a combination of both, I decide to take advantage of this rare opportunity to "Ask the Big Cheese" with a question with more meat. I raise my hand and, after what seems like an eternity, The Cheese finally nods in my direction. I speak:

As if an univited party guest had just knocked over the host's prized crystal vase, a sudden silence fills the room. Curious heads turn to see which of their co-workers is so bold, and stupid, to put the CEO on the spot in front of his entire staff. The CEO calmly pauses, takes a few slow puffs on his pipe, and with words measured as if at a Congressional hearing, he responds:

Dead silence. I suddenly have visions of the corporate Gestapo violently escorting me out of the room and beating me senseless.

As the days and weeks pass, and I notice fewer people chatting with me in the halls, I never second guess the legitimacy of my question. I just second guess the timing of it. I also wonder how much it effected my termination 5-months later.

A writer buddy of mine is one of the most talented in the business. The guy's amazing. After moving around a bit he settled into a high level, well-paying job at a huge agency. It didn't seem that long ago that my writer buddy and I were rising young creative talents sitting around talking about the old hacks who'd sold out for the money to do the dreck we both despised. Now my friend had a wife and a couple of young kids and a fancy home in a fancy neighborhood. When I called to catch up I sensed a slight tone of resignation. He told me he's working on a battery account which featured a fictitious family called "The Putterman's." The Putterman's could only be described as a plastic-coated, alien-looking, family-from-hell, with giant batteries fused to their spines. The spots consisted of really bad sitcom-like shenanigans. Now, with a growing family and mortgage to pay it was clear that my friend had new priorities. Before our chat concluded he shared what seemed like an attempt at vindication: When the kids at his daughter's birthday party heard that he was "the guy who did The Putterman's" they all wanted his autograph.

During my career I've had to work on some interesting products (ie: infant thermometers, God), but never anything that I've seriously had a problem with. I have, however, been involved with a few products that seemed a bit, shall we say, questionable. One client -- a maker of homeopathic remedies for everything from sore throats to PMS -- explained how some people actually used these remedies on their pets. "PMS pills for dogs?" I asked jokingly. "Sure," the client replied without a blink.

On two separate occasions I had to struggle to keep a straight face while being briefed by very serious men in suits about toilet seat products. One was some kind of electronic toilet. The other was a designer seat that was also being pitched as a new media venue. As I was informed, advertisers could print their ad right on the toilet seat cover. No joke.

I realize that even the most successful careers have their down times. And, as I sat in those meetings focusing toilets, it was hard to ignore the metaphor regarding the direction that I felt my career was heading.

Most agency people see the idea of selling Twinkies, or Ding Dongs, or Pop-Tarts, or whatever, as a job they're getting paid to do. And, in most cases, paid very well. So ethics, in this context, can be very subjective. And, sometimes money has nothing to do with it. For example, while teaching my class at The School of Visual Arts, a student failed to bring in his assignment -- an ad for ACME Roach Traps. When I ask him why, the student says he "had a problem" with the assignment.

So, thirteen years after my "marshmallow incident" I find myself heading up my own hot, Madison Ave agency and power-lunching with the (now ex) but very same CEO to whom I addressed my big question. When I sheepishly bring up the incident he confesses to a lack of recollection. Prefacing it with how young and stupid I was, I replay the scenario:

"Hmmm, so what did I answer?" he asks sincerely. I tell him.

With hardly a pause the ex-CEO speaks in a soft but certain manner:

"I think my answer would be different today."

He goes on to say how he now believes that we all must be willing to accept more social responsibility for the decisions we make in business. Wow. After 13 years I feel vindicated. We finish our meal and part ways with a renewed respect. One year later, I notice a blurb in the trades about my converted CEO pal. His obituary.