From time to time at my house, laughter is heard from the living room when my son is watching television alone. He urges me to come see the commercial that has just tickled his fancy. Currently, it is often an award-winning saga of a pup trying to safely store his treasured bone.

A Maltese/Yorkie mix buries it but spends a sleepless night worrying about it. Under the rug doesn't seem right nor behind the recliner cushions. Even a safe-deposit box fails to give him peace. Only a Traveler's Insurance policy finally sets his mind at ease.

It set me thinking that commercials are indeed an art form. The goal is to entertain the viewer while getting the sponsor's message across.

In my checkered past, I spent time at a radio station where my job involved creating 60-second messages of this sort. My modus operandi was to determine what concept I wanted to convey. A local oil company comes to mind. I felt that the warm comfort of an oil-heated home should be the message. A contented cat would be the messenger.

I recorded a background of purring as the feline described how he managed to obtain the creature comfort. In one spot, he told how he checked out garbage cans, searching for one with grapefruit rinds, pages of the Sunday Times and other icons of "the good life." Then he disheveled himself and waited at the front door to be rescued.

Another radio sponsor was Woolworth's 5 and 10 cent store. How to make an interesting commercial listing the week's bargains was the problem. In my best Bronx accent, I became "Mabel," calling the disc jockey, "Sylvester," and telling him how I found a frame for my daughter's ballet picture and bedsheets for a mother-in-law's impending visit. I recorded my part on cassette and supplied a script for the DJ to answer me live. The clever fellow ad-libbed mercilessly, calling me a kvetch and other derogatory names.

One week, Mabel one-upped Sylvester by supplying a script that read, "Say something clever" at his every response. The poor guy stumbled through the minute. He wasn't that quick.

Mabel began making live appearances when the studio speakers revealed that the DJ was bored. One day, she burst into the studio while the mike was on and said she had brought him an "oldie-goldie": a 78 RPM record to play.

Flipped onto the turntable, the strains of Spike Jones's "Der Feuhrer's Face" wafted out into the ether: "Not to love der Fuehrer iss a great disgrace,

So ve heil! (razz) heil! (razz) right in der Fuehrer's face."

A local garage was another unlikely sponsor. I had Count Dracula drive a hearse into the station. The attendant (remember those guys who wore the star?) lifted the hood and found a bat sleeping there and the radiator filled with blood! The count purchased the tires on sale that week and drove away with his cape caught in the door.

As a divorced mother, I might have had to scrub floors to provide for my small family, but luckily, the radio station paid me for having all that fun!

Lorraine Lilja is a retired Press-Republican reporter. A collection of her columns, "Lilja's World," is for sale at local bookstores. Lilja can be reached at llilja17@hotmail.com