Emboldened Taliban Try to Sell Softer Image. The Wall Street Journal

I’m sitting in a room with Zubihallah Muhajid and Qalamuddin Maluvi, two senior Taliban officials who hold the pursestrings that I hope they’ll loosen for an eight-figure media buy. We’ve temporarily scripted it out as “New Taliban.” Sort of like “New Coke,” but without the tangy aftertaste.

“This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me.”

“How you guys doin’ today,” I say with every ounce of phony sincerity I can muster.

“The dogs bark, the caravan moves on,” Muhajid says. I don’t know whether this is a joke or not, so I figure it’s best to just smile, not laugh.

“That is so true,” I say. I can make my 2012 with just this one account, so I’m trying not to blow it. I’ve got braces and hockey to pay for.

“So tell me,” I say, leaning back in my expensive swivel chair, my fingers together in a little church-and-steeple. “Where do you want to go with his campaign?”

Muhajid looks at Zubihallah–or is it the other way around?

Fun with guns!

“I don’t know,” Zubihallah says. “I think we’d like to be viewed as the premier ‘go-to’ agency of international stateless terror–in a nice way.”

“Okay,” I say, “that’s a start.”

“Also to wipe Israel off the face of the earth,” Qalamuddin says. “If we can do that without violating any laws against sweepstakes and cents-off coupons.”

“I’ll have to run that one by legal,” I say, shaking my head with frustration. “You know how lawyers are!”

“Whenever I have a dispute with the lawyers about the high cost of photocopies, I find sending a suicide bomber to be an effective negotiating technique,” Zubihallah says.

“Yeah, but then they just add it back as ‘Overnight courier’ or ‘Taxi,’” I say, trying to make a joke at the expense of our common enemy.

“This is wussy,” Qalamuddin says. “Why don’t you just kill them?”

“We could, granted,” I say, “but we have an annual retainer arrangement so it’s in our interest to keep them alive for twelve-month intervals.”

“The weakness of the west,” Zubihallah exclaims. “Please–back to business.”

“Right, right,” I say. “We provide both advertising and public relations services,” I say.

“What’s the difference?” Qalamuddin asks.

“Someone’s dying Lord, kum-bay-yah. Someone’s dying Lord, kum-bay-yah.”

“With advertising you’re trying to sell something to somebody,” I explain. “With public relations, you’re trying to create a favorable impression, or to correct a misimpression.”

“Ah,” Zubihallah says. “There are terrible misimpressions out there in the marketplace about us right now.”

“Like?”

“That we are violent,” Qalamuddin says. “Nothing could be further from the truth.”

“Okay,” I say, taking a grease pencil and stepping up to one of the white boards that line the walls of the room. “Taliban . . . not . . . violent.”

“Good–I like that.”

“So–what’s our story on that one?” I ask.

Sort of like a Harry & David gift package, with more . . . uh . . . zest.

“We’re not violent–it’s those damned IEDs that are violent!” Zubihallah says with obvious frustration.

“Okay, that’s jargon particular to your industry–we’re going to have to translate it for the consumer,” I say. By which I mean “me.”

“Improvised explosive device,” Zubihallah says as he casts a skeptical glance at his partner. Probably saw right through my charade and is trying to ask Qalamuddin by telepathy if they’ve picked the wrong guy for the job. Time to react, strongly and aggressively.

“Sure, I knew what you meant,” I say, a flurry of activity to divert their attention. “So when these things go off–what happens?”

“Infidels are blown into a million pieces!” Qalamuddin says with enthusiasm and gives a high-three–he’s missing two fingers from a practice session gone horribly awry–to his partner.

“Okay, I got you,” I say. “Let’s put on our thinking caps. Do other terrorist groups–give a guaranty?” I ask.

“I don’t think so,” Zubihallah says. “Basque separatists, Irish Republican Army–it’s all ‘buyer beware.’”

“So there’s where you can put the camel’s nose under the tent!” I say with excitement.

“I . . . don’t follow you,” Qalamuddin says with hesitation.

“It’s a two-part guaranty. You promise to blow your victims into at least two parts–and they get to keep both parts!”

They let this soak in for a second, then Zubihallah speaks. “So we’re like . . . the L.L. Bean of terrorism?”

“Exactly!” I say. I can almost feel the commission check sliding into my local ATM.

We had to destroy those crappy statues to save them!

They look at each other. “Let us confer for a moment,” Qalamuddin says.

“Sure,” I reply, and with that they step out in the hall to caucus. I’m thinking I’ll bank a third of my bonus, put aside a third for taxes, and with the rest I’ll take the family on a really nice vacation, something they’ll remember for a long, long . . .

“We have considered your proposal,” Zubihallah says as the two walk back in the room.

“And?” I say, barely able to contain myself.

“We’re going with Smathers + Wilmer + Krug, a hot new shop.”

I’m . . . stunned. “I thought we were competitive in every aspect,” I say, by which I mean I thought I’d seduced them as I have so many other top-flite terror accounts.

“You were,” Qalamuddin says. “But the other guys gave us Super Bowl tickets.”