Message for McCluhan

Message for Mr. McCluhan by J.B. Pravda

McCluhan and his business associates were chomping at the bit; having
concluded a long-nursed business deal, they were in a celebratory mode,
so to speak. Gracious host he prided himself as, "Cluey" knew just the
place: Madame Gnarlinghandler's House of Joy, a New Orleans fixture for
half-a-century. Sauntering into the legendary establishment with his
new partners in their wannabe media empire of ten radio stations, and
counting, their fearless leader approached the mistress of ceremonies
in residence, inquiring as to the services of a certain, now surely
aged, gypsy woman, a palmist of great renown he had heard of in his
youth, for a reading on their new venture; unbeknownst to clueless, and
slightly inebriated, Cluey, the House of Joy had fallen on hard
times---economic, that is----its famous staff having either married
politicians or simply moved on, so that when he sought to arrange for
matters of a lesser 'headiness', commonly referred to as 'le deluxe
massage'----seemingly taken back by his requests, the scantily clad MC
blurted out: "But Misieur, the Medium is the massage!"