Chapter 23: Not Even This Ad Dog Would Post It

To be fair, Logan could not yet truly call himself a capitalist. From design to factory floor, he had only managed to produce a product. In the words of Professor Marx, moving from a product to a commodity requires a "perilous leap." If this leap cannot be completed, the cycle of "capital-commodity-capital" is broken; in simpler terms, if a capitalist cannot sell their goods, the invested money cannot be recouped, leading to a loss. Therefore, the most critical task now was to get his bras onto store shelves.

And then, Logan got shut down.

His newly hired sales team did not agree with his strategy. Logan believed that advertising was essential for creating brand awareness and insisted on running ads in newspapers across the country. The sales team, however, argued that it would be better to use that budget to hire more traveling salesmen, starting from Chicago and gradually pushing the new style of bras to shops in surrounding cities. In an era without the internet or television, and with radio still in its infancy, most new products were sold by salesmen running from town to town, convincing shopkeepers to stock their goods. America had birthed many a "star salesman" this way. The team insisted that instead of advertising, they should hire a few of these top-tier salesmen.

Logan was puzzled. "Wouldn't advertising nationwide make your sales pitches much easier?"

"Not necessarily," they replied. "Boss, *Vogue* published an article a while back saying, 'Since the Bourbon dynasty, fashionable women’s skirts have always covered the ankles, but the trend of the future might be shorter skirts.' Do you want to guess how the readers reacted?"

Before Logan could speak, they provided the answer: "The readers' reaction was—shorter skirts? How could one ever go out in public wearing that?"

This was a matter of record. The sales team elaborated: Last year, conservatives complained that the hemlines of young women were now nine inches (about 23 centimeters) off the ground—far exceeding traditional tolerance. They hoped that with the arrival of winter, women would lower their hemlines back to their original height. To their horror, when winter arrived, the hemlines did not drop; they rose by several more inches. Some bold women even rolled their stockings down to their calves, exposing their knees and parts of their lower legs, drawing judgmental stares from passersby.

What was the consequence? In Philadelphia, the government established a "Dress Reform Committee." After a lengthy investigation, they designed a "decency robe." It was reportedly loose and baggy, with sleeves reaching only to the forearms, and the hemline hanging less than 7.5 inches (19 centimeters) from the ground.

Logan listened, stunned, feeling as if he had stepped into a chaotic age.

What? What? What was all this? Was America becoming Arabized? Thank goodness he hadn't transmigrated to Philadelphia; if he had, he’d be looking for a way to die just to see if he could transmigrate back.

It didn't end there. "This year, Utah enacted a statute: women caught in public wearing skirts with hemlines more than three inches above the ankle will be fined and imprisoned. And Ohio drafted a bill that only allows necklines two inches below the throat, while prohibiting merchants from selling 'outerwear that overly outlines the female form.' Even though our product is lingerie, it is, by definition, designed to outline the female figure. Not to mention your idea of advertising with women wearing 'only underwear'—if skirts being a little short caused such an uproar, we don't even want to imagine what would happen if we ran those ads."

Logan pinched the bridge of his nose, speechless. He had truly seen it all now. Chicago was clearly too modern; his stunt of putting a girl in the nude in the papers had only triggered protests and a barrage of insults from major newspapers. In any other city, he feared the grass on his grave would already be three feet tall.

But the more they resisted, the more stubborn he became. He was going to run lingerie ads across America just to see what kind of fun it would stir up.

"But the newspapers won't agree to run such ads!" the sales team tried to dispel their boss's "whimsical" notion. Wouldn't it be better to just sneak into the villages and shoot quietly?

Logan smiled. He might not understand this era, but he understood America. "What kind of society is America?"

The sales team was confused. Some said it was a "free society," others called it a "civilized society."

Logan smiled with an air of profound mystery. "America is a capitalist society!"

...

One day, in the conservative state of Virginia, the editor-in-chief of the state’s mainstream newspaper, *The Planet*, felt the veins in his forehead throbbing. His signature roar shook the entire office: "What did you say?! Our paper is going to run an ad like this?!"

His thick, stubby finger jabbed violently at the proof brought by the advertising manager—it featured a woman with a graceful figure wearing nothing but a strange piece of lingerie, highlighting her breathtaking, prominent chest.

The advertising manager shrugged. "The fee they’re offering is quite high. You might want to consider..."

The editor-in-chief's voice made the glass rattle. "Impossible! This is a defilement, a corruption, a moral plague! Only when women are kept pure can our family and social life remain stable! Is this something a woman should wear?"

Regarding lingerie, the editor-in-chief fully agreed with his wife's attire—she wrapped her body tightly in a tubular corset and petticoats, adorned with thick, ruffled lace. That was the standard style for a housewife.

"The sanctity of pure women is being defiled like this; where is the purity? Where is the decency? We are a respectable newspaper, gentlemen!" The fury burning in his eyes was too much for the advertising manager to handle. "Don't even think about letting this contaminate *The Planet*! No dog would ever run an ad like this!"

However, the next day, the advertising manager returned to the editor's office with the familiar proof. The editor slammed his hand on the desk, ready to explode, but before he could shout, the advertising manager silently slid a new price quote across the desk.

The editor's gaze was locked onto the numbers, as if he had been struck by a freezing spell. The thunderous rage that had been ready to burst from his throat was suddenly cut off by an invisible force.

The figure... how staggering was this figure? Let's just say the revenue from this single ad campaign was nearly equal to the paper's entire advertising income for the last six months. He didn't even dare to imagine how generous his bonus would be if he secured this deal. Perhaps he could trade in that old car; perhaps the whole family could go on a vacation; perhaps he could even upgrade to a larger house...

After ten minutes of silence, the editor-in-chief swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with difficulty, as if trying to force down something massive and bitter. When he finally looked up, he whispered:

"Woof..."