If you work in the ad biz it helps to understand that your job is to sell the client's product. So, what happens when the client's product isn't 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 very large Chicago agency. On this particular day management had gathered the troops -- all 1,500 of us -- to screen the agency reel for a kind of Aren't-We-Awesome morale boosting meeting. As the auditorium lights dimmed and a huge screen came down, the hushed crowd gazed at 200 thousand dollar TV spots for Hallmark, Sears, 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 even see this guy, it's akin to an audience with The Pope.

As I reflect back on this moment in my career (I was probably 26) I can't say for sure what 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 had been enlightening me to the evils of refined sugar. Or, maybe a combination of both. But, whatever the reason, I decide I'm not going to let this opportunity to Ask the Cheese a question with more meat. I raise my hand, and after what seems like an eternity, The Cheese nods in my direction. I speak:

As if an univited party guest has just knocked over the host's prized crystal vase, a sudden hush fills the room. 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. If the CEO is ruffled, he doesn't show it. He does take a couple extra puffs on his pipe and, with words measured as if addressing a Congressional hearing, he speaks:

Dead silence. I suddenly have visions of the corporate Gestapo escorting me out of the auditorium 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 do second guess the timing of it. I also begin to 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 is really amazing. After moving around a bit he's settled into a high level, well-paying job at a huge agency. It didn't seem that long ago that this 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 has a wife, and young kids, and a fancy home in a fancy suburb. When I call to catch up I sense a tone of resignation in his voice as he describes the campaign he's working on -- a battery account featuring 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 consist of bad sitcom-like shenanigans with these Puttermans. Now, with a growing family and mortgage to pay it's clear to me that my friend has bigger priorities than saving the world from bad advertising. Before our chat concludes he shares what seemed like an attempt at vindication: When the kids at his daughter's birthday party heard he was the guy who did the cartoon-like Putterman's, they all wanted his autograph.

During my career I've had to work on some interesting products (infant thermometers, God), but never anything 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. "As a matter of fact, yes," the client replied without a blink.

On two other occasions I had to struggle to keep a straight face while being briefed by serious men in dark 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 told, advertisers could print their ad right on the toilet seat cover. No joke.

I realize that even the most successful careers have their down moments. And, as I sat in those meetings talking toilets, it was hard to ignore the metaphor for the direction 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 Roach Traps. When I ask why, the student says he "had a problem" with the assignment.

Thirteen years after the "Marshmallow Incident" I find myself not only heading up my own hot, Madison Ave agency, but actually power-lunching with the (now ex) CEO to whom I addressed my question. It's hard to believe that the stars have somehow aligned to place me in this position. Fortunately, he has no recollection of me or the incident. We enjoy a pleasant chat and I manage to get through the meal without bringing it up. But, when dessert arrives and I realize the unique position I'm in, I realize I must say something. When I do he confesses to a lack of recollection. Prefacing it with how young and stupid I was, I replay the scenario:

"Huh. So, what did I answer?" he asks sincerely. I tell him.

Without a pause the ex-CEO speaks in a soft but certain voice:

"I think my answer would be different today."

He goes on to tell me how he now believes that we all, especially CEO's, must be willing to accept social responsibility for our business decisions. It's quite a thing to hear. After 13 years I feel vindicated. We finish our meal and part ways with a renewed mutual respect. I feel like I've finally found the mentor and kindred spirit I'd been seeking for years. We vow to lunch again soon.