During the past few months, the public-relations and marketing professions have come under intense criticism. Hill and Knowlton has been pilloried for representing theChurch of Scientology and BCCI. The mere fact that he worked as PR man- lobbyist has caused Paul Tsongas political problems. And packaged- goods companies have been accused of improperly targeting certain groups -- young people, blacks -- with harmful products. These brouhahas all derive from three popular presumptions: (1) the PR industry is providing its clients with a false or skewed impression of the real attitudes of the public; (2) these firms will take on anyone as client, as long as the price is right; and (3) modern marketing techniques are so sophisticated that people can be sold anything, whether they want it or not.

Even before these recent controversies arose, we had begun a clandestine investigation of the American PR and marketing industries. To accomplish this, we decided to dream up a doomed company with a terrible name, then invent a couple of bogus deep-pockets Japanese investors who'd be bankrolling the idiotic venture, then contact PR firms of various sizes and whether they'd be interested in representing us, and then take our stupid company with its ridiculous name out into the consumer marketplace.

We needed to come up with a venture that would have the look and feel of a big, well-financed, image-driven, Madison Avenue- created powerhouse yet somehow lack fundamental common sense. The bad idea we settled upon was simple and all-American: a fast food chain called Bunny Burgers Inc., which would be selling ground rabbit, as well as salads and french fried carrots, at dozens of outlets in the eastern United States and Canada. The company could follow the Red Lobster model -- diners would have the opportunity to pick their own bunnies (Tuesday is P.Y.O.B. Night!) for broiling. The whole idea appealed to us because it simultaneously evoked sweetness and made the skin crawl.

We invited nine PR firms to bid on the account and assist us in determining whether the concept was feasible, public-relations- wise, and if so, what measures could be take to mitigate public hostility toward the consumption of bunny meat at a time of burgeoning sensitivity toward the animals with whom we share this fragile planet. At the outset, we feared that PR firms would hang up on us when we phoned to describe our fictitious enterprise and ask for help.

None of the firms hung up on us.

PHASE 1: The Sting

The first step was to make our bogus company look legitimate. We designed and printed suitably impressive stationary and business cards and established a phone line with an answering machine. But the most important artifact was our daunting 24-page business plan and Corporate Overview, which would provide interested PR firms with a quick immersion course in the history of the bunny industry, plus a detailed discussion of Bunny Burgers' marketing and financial objectives.

For this, we spruced up a Vancouver Stock Exchange prospectus issued a few years ago by a real company that was raising venture capital to market a race of super-rabbits. We tore off the front page, which displayed the name of the real company -- Ultima International -- and replaced it with our Corporate Overview, which contained, among other things, references to "Canadian GAAP Regulations." The remainder of the prospectus, which listed typical cuts of antelope meat and included a reference to the Journal of Applied Rabbit Research, was left intact.

The prospectus noted that Bunny Burgers was the "first American fast food franchise specializing in burgers made entirely out of rabbit meat" and would target "gastronomically adventurous diners" looking for leaner, more nutritious fast food. We informed the PR firms that in our first phase we would be opening 26 outlets in New York, Massachusetts, New Jersey and Ohio, as well as 4 in southern Ontario.

To reinforce the impression that ours was a vital, legitimate enterprise, we concocted references to the nutritional virtues of rabbit meat in The New York Times, Meat & Poultry and even the spurious Civet & Lapin. We also noted that the company had the financial backing of two Asian investors with experience in Australian and Canadian industry.

The next step was to phone the PR firms to determine their interest in bidding for our account, which might eventually, we lied, be worth several million dollars to them. Although we had great confidence in our business plan, during some conversations with PR agents we blew a Conair Prostyle Mini 500 portable hairdryer into the phone's mouthpiece to support our assertion that the call was being made from a private Gulfstream IV jet over the Hawaiian Island of Lanai. We also invented a Japanese billionaire, Hidehiko Takada, who was helping to bankroll the project. We described our shadowy billionaire as a titan in the booming Osaka construction industry and an amateur gourmet chef.

We were immensely gratified by the response: All nine of the PR firms we contacted expressed an interest in meeting with us as soon as possible. We made it clear that although we had solid financial footing for the venture, we were a bit concerned that members of the dining public might be offended by the notion of paying to have a cute, fuzzy rabbit flayed, hacked to pieces, fired on a gas-fired industrial griddle, then served on a nutritious sesame-seed bun. We knew we couldn't go it alone, we told the PR people. We would need their help.

The competition for the account was heated, so much so that we were obliged to discourage some agencies from going to the expense of developing prototype ad campaigns. We finally settled on three firms we would invite to bid on the account. We arranged to meet all three at New York's Ritz Carlton Hotel in a lavish, $650-a-day suite that seemed big enough to have its own zip code -- corporate credibility was paramount. Here they would sit down with Bob Jansen, president of Bunny Burgers Inc., and billionaire Hidehiko Takada. "Jansen" was in fact one of the authors of the article, whose smarmy demeanor would stand him in good stead in his new guise as corporate frontman; Takada was actually an actor and sushi chef whose specialty is catering for synagogues. To ensure that Mr. Takada would not tip our hand, we gave him two instructions: (1) Speak very little English, and speak it badly; (2) Don't convey any emotion.

Decamped in the corner of a glorious room overlooking Central Park were a pair of cages containing our two live corporate mascots: Big Wig and The General. Big Wig was a long-earred French Lop rabbit; The General was generic looking, with ears of a more traditional, almost conservative length. (The significance of this difference in ear sizes would soon become apparent.)

The first to arrive was a charming woman in her forties from a Manhattan PR firm. (Charming, but, it turned out, a little hysterical; she was the only PR professional we contacted who subsequently insisted on anonymity for the purposes of this article.) Her face wore an expression of low-key cognitive dissonance; she was clearly a bit discomfited by the notion of representing our kind of company. However, as a general philosophical defense of her and her peers, it is important to remember that by the very nature of their profession, they are constantly required to represent clients seeking to market stupid, tasteless and even immoral products. In a free society, everyone has a right to be heard, and it is the sacred trust of the PR professional to make sure everyone is.

"It's new and it's different, and Americans like novel kinds of products," she began enthusiastically. She had come prepared to pitch the account: "I think what you want to do is have an event. We want to bring the top food editors to a luncheon. It's important to get the word 'rabbit' out there," she added. "We want to see a lot more recipes from the food writers on rabbit.....It has to be a really comprehensive campaign where you're doing a lot of education as well." And in her view, the campaign had every chance of enormous success if we could project a classy, upscale image -- unlike, say, Popeye's. "Americans," she said of Bunny Burgers, "love anything that's chic."

Eager to determine whether our product would meet contemporary standards of chicness, we unveiled a dozen eye-catching Styrofoam Bunny Burgers serving boxes, each sporting our logo and contained a sesame seed bun. Also, each contained a chunky pair of pink Styrofoam bunny ears, which sprang up into the diner's face as the container was opened. The PR woman was impressed by the packaging, although her true feelings were betrayed by the manner in which she clutched her briefcase to her chest. A consummate professional, she put to us the important questions that any nutritionally minded consumer might ask: "What are you using in your Bunny Burger?"

"We're not using bunny stretcher or anything like that," Jansen replied crisply. "It's real bunny."

"A hundred percent?"

"Yeah."

She listened thoughtfully as Jansen expounded his Corporate Imaging Theory, which differentiated between a "deflective" restaurant chain like McDonald's, which seeks to steer the consumer's thoughts away from the creature being eaten (by using a clown rather than a cow as its mascot), and a "reflective" chain like Bunny Burgers, which celebrates the creature it plans to slaughter and serve on a bun.

"What we want to do is talk about how rabbit is as delicious as chicken, and even more tasteful," our PR expert volunteered. We especially liked her presumptuous use of "we." Then Jansen explained why the company did not make Bunny Burgers out of jackrabbits: "We don't have jackrabbits, because you pay for a rabbit by the pound -- you see the size of the ears on a jackrabbit? You're paying for two and half extra pounds of ear meat."

"Right," she said knowingly.

Throughout this conversation, Takada maintained an enigmatic silence, only occasionally surprising us by making irrelevant references to his experiences as an amateur chef back in Osaka.

Our next interviewee was Alfred Siesel, the likable president of the New York branch of the Anthony M. Franco PR firm. (Franco himself was once president of the Public Relations Society of America but had resigned after he was accused by the SEC of insider trading in the stock of a company he was representing. We selected this firm because we figured it could use the business.)

Seisel demonstrated a surefooted command of the nuances of the rabbit-meat-marketing industry and of trademark law. "It's a fascinating product, and the public relations potential is enormous," he said, but "would it interfere with the trademark of Playboy?" This was one thing we never considered. Nor had we contemplated the potentially disastrous PR black eye that would have resulted from using our ecologically retrograde Styrofoam containers. Seisel didn't mince words: He told us we would have to lose our packaging and replace it with something more biodegradable. He also suggested we preempt media criticism of our new product through the establishment of a rabbit-information clearing house.

We played Seisel a tape of our professionally produced jingle, complete with a chorus of cheerful back-up singers: