The consumer isn't a moron; she is your wife.

Host: The advertising office was a cathedral of glass and noise. Computers hummed, printers spat, and the low murmur of ambition filled the air like a mechanical hymn. On the far wall, a massive poster blared in clean Helvetica: “KNOW YOUR AUDIENCE.”

The evening light seeped in through the windows, painting the white desks gold. Papers were scattered like forgotten promises. Jack stood before a digital screen filled with charts and slogans, his jacket slung carelessly over his chair. Jeeny leaned against a filing cabinet, one eyebrow raised, watching him like someone watching a man build an empire out of cardboard.

Jeeny: “David Ogilvy once said, ‘The consumer isn’t a moron; she is your wife.’”

Jack: “And half the industry still hasn’t heard him.”

Jeeny: “Or worse — they’ve heard him and still don’t believe it.”

Host: The neon from a sign outside flickered through the glass, slicing their reflections into fractured color. Jack took a slow sip of coffee that had long since gone cold.

Jack: “Ogilvy was a provocateur. He wanted to shame the advertisers — make them see that persuasion without respect is just manipulation.”

Jeeny: “He also wanted to remind them that selling isn’t about tricking — it’s about talking to someone who’s already smarter than you think.”

Jack: “You sound like you’d get along with him.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I think he’d hate what advertising’s become. The algorithms, the surveillance, the soulless efficiency. There’s no wife anymore, Jack — just data points in drag.”

Host: A small laugh escaped Jack — sharp, cynical. He turned back to the glowing screen, where words flashed: “TARGET DEMOGRAPHIC – FEMALE, 25–40.”

Jack: “You think people still want to be understood? Or just entertained?”

Jeeny: “Both. But understanding comes first. A good ad doesn’t flatter. It listens.”

Jack: “Listening doesn’t pay as fast as lying.”

Jeeny: “Neither does divorce.”

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t just about marriage — it was about meaning. The office around them buzzed with the last gasps of the day, copywriters packing up, designers closing tabs filled with a hundred versions of the same smiling face.

Jack: “When Ogilvy said that line — comparing the consumer to your wife — he wasn’t being poetic. He was being moral. He was saying: ‘Respect her. She has her own intelligence, her own boredom, her own private dreams. You’re not seducing a fool; you’re speaking to someone you live beside.’”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly why his words still sting. Because somewhere along the way, marketing forgot the human being behind the market.”

Host: The air-conditioning whirred, sterile and indifferent. Jack’s reflection stared back at him from the black screen — eyes tired, mouth tight.

Jack: “You ever wonder if advertising could have been art? If it hadn’t sold its soul for clicks?”

Jeeny: “It was art — once. When honesty was considered persuasive.”

Jack: “Now honesty doesn’t A/B test well.”

Jeeny: “That’s because honesty doesn’t trend. It lingers.”

Host: Jeeny crossed the room, picking up one of the printouts from the table. It was an ad for a skincare brand — a woman smiling under a caption that read: “Because you deserve to glow.” She stared at it for a moment before setting it down again.

Jeeny: “You see this? It’s not bad. But it’s hollow. It talks to her like she’s a child. Ogilvy would’ve said: talk to her like she’s your equal. Better yet, your conscience.”

Jack: “That’s not how we sell anymore.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’re not selling — maybe we’re sedating.”

Host: Her voice carried a quiet sharpness — not anger, but fatigue, like someone tired of watching a craft become a trick.

Jack: “You know, I once believed advertising could change the world.”

Jeeny: “It did. It just changed it into something louder.”

Jack: “You think we can bring meaning back to it?”

Jeeny: “Only if we remember who we’re speaking to.”

Jack: “The consumer?”

Jeeny: “The human. The one buying because she believes you see her — not because you stalked her online.”

Host: The light from the window dimmed as the sun sank, leaving the office in the half-glow of screens. A janitor’s cart squeaked down the hall, a gentle counterpoint to the relentless hum of electricity.

Jack: “Ogilvy built his empire on trust. He once said that the best ideas come as jokes. You have to make your truth charming.”

Jeeny: “Yes, but the charm wasn’t manipulation. It was clarity wrapped in grace. That’s the difference. He didn’t insult his audience — he courted her.”

Jack: “And today?”

Jeeny: “Today we catfish her.”

Host: Jack laughed — a short, defeated sound that somehow carried warmth. He turned off the screen, plunging the room into a calm darkness illuminated only by the city lights outside.

Jack: “You know, I think Ogilvy’s quote still holds. Not because it’s about women — but because it’s about intimacy. Advertising is a relationship. And relationships die the moment you stop listening.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to stop selling to people and start talking with them again.”

Jack: “You think that’s still possible?”

Jeeny: “If we start believing they deserve better — the way a good husband does.”

Host: The city outside pulsed with neon — billboards flashing promises of beauty, freedom, perfection. Inside, two figures stood quietly in their own flickering reflection, between cynicism and hope.

Jack: “So, what would Ogilvy say if he walked into this office tonight?”

Jeeny: “He’d look around at all our algorithms, our metrics, our clever headlines — and he’d whisper the same thing he told them sixty years ago: ‘She isn’t a number. She’s your wife. Speak to her heart, or she’ll stop listening.’”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the office shrinking behind glass, the city alive and restless beyond.

And as the lights of commerce bled into the darkness, David Ogilvy’s words lingered like an unwelcome truth disguised as wisdom:

Advertising dies when empathy does.
The consumer isn’t a target — she’s the reflection of our respect.
Speak to her as if she were your partner,
and maybe — just maybe — she’ll believe you mean it.