We
also had the Lucky strike hit parade spots. A bevy of fine specimens of the babe
persuasion, danced to big band music, in what was then, skimpy costumes. The
girls danced, kicked their fine legs up in the air, and sang about Lucky Strike
cigarttes. They were supposed to be a manly smoke, a non filtered butt. They were chest breakers, but the advs made it seem like we could get lucky too, and find babes like them, if we smoked Luckies. Many dumb dumb asses believed that bull shit too, and only smoked Lukies.
It was also the end of an era. Many of us were cowboy fans, we loved Roy Rogers,
Gene Autry, Hopalong Cassidy, Randolph Scott, and many others who were our heroes. So, the industry came up with the Marlboro man, calling us to his wide open country.
A
tin horn rides up on a horsey, and stops overlooking a herd of cattle in a lush
green valley. He stands on his stirrups, looks out over the herd, and sits back in his saddle. He pulls out a pack of Marlboros, cooly taps one out, and lights it. He inhales deeply, and sits there contentedly on his saddle, satisfied. Silence, and a manly voice invites:
“Come to Marlboro country!”
How
sad that so may of us did. Hey man, we all wanted to be cowboys, to be like them,
so the easiest thing was to light up a Marlboro. What a crock! It was all a bunch of smooth bull shit. They sold our gullible, young, silly minds, dumb ass fantasies. Alas, we bought their non refundable fatal products.
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