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The Dustbin of Million-Dollar Ideas

19 July 2010 Lies and Entertainment 3,909 views No CommentPrint This Post Print This Post Email This Post Email This Post

I should be a millionaire several times over by this point in my life; that I am not is one of those ineffable mysteries that only Robert Stack could narrate. When I say I should be swimming though gold and green like Scrooge McDuck, I’m not speaking existentially—I’m not bemoaning the fact my numbers never come up or that my parents had the temerity to not be descendants of the robber barons. No, I refer to my propensity for ideas that by all rights should have resulted in scores of venture capitalists clamoring to take me to lunch.

Granted, none of them are on the level of edible candy bar wrappers; nevertheless, they should have resulted in showers of cash and ill-advised IPOs. But Fortuna has not smiled upon my epiphanies, and I can allow them to languish no longer. Here, then, are a few of my moments of inspirational genius; I release them into the world for the betterment of humanity. Also, if you enact any of them, I expect a hefty royalty.

The Ultimate Baby-Tee

Whenever I stroll through the stalls in Union Square, I am stunned that not one of these t-shirt entrepreneurs ever takes me up on my idea for the ultimate baby-tee: a simple, skimpy black number emblazoned with the phrase, in High Germanic script, “GOTH MILK?” Is it because goth chicks just don’t bare their under-a-rock complexions that no one bites when I pitch this idea? And what about my other baby-tee: white, with THESIS over one breast and ANTITHESIS over the other, and the word SYNTHESIS just above where a belly-button bedazzler should be? Can there be no nubile Hegelians on America’s campuses aching to make such a clever statement of first principles on their midriff? T-shirt manufacturers of America, I weep at your lack of vision.

The Las Vegas Buffet Franchise

My erstwhile hometown is known for showgirls (which no longer exist), Elvis impersonators (a sad and dying breed) and slot machines (yeah, still plenty of those). But Vegas is also known for its relatively cheap and ridiculously overstuffed buffets; every hotel-casino has one, and none of them lose money. Why, then, has no one opened up a chain of Vegas-themed buffet restaurants across the nation? Why should the geriatric herds who graze at Golden Corral or Old Country Buffet be forced to stare at acne-ridden teenagers in stained polo-shirts when they could be served by a six-foot goddess in sequins and a feathered headdress, all while enjoying the contemporary song stylings of famed Elton John/Lady Gaga cover band Ben E. & The Jetsons? Could anything be more of a no-brainer?

The French Toast-Waffle

I will admit that the first version of this brainstorm was known as the French Toast-Pancake (inspired by a diner menu with bad kerning), but extensive R&D soon showed that the pancake could not stand up to being slathered in egg. The waffle is another story. Picture it: a delicious golden waffle on the inside, encased in pure French Toast goodness on the outside! “It’s a waffle!” “It’s French Toast!” “Now now, kids, no need to fight: it’s both!” Bonus: the powdered sugar is baked right in. The French Toast-Waffle: now that’s a part of this balanced breakfast. Can Bacon-On-Demand, streamed right to your laptop or mobile device, be far behind? Seriously, all I need is $500,000 in start-up funds to buy a waffle iron and some syrup (you know, the real kind that comes out of a tree).

Nixon: The Ultralounge

Let’s face it, we live in the Republic of Transparency, Surveillance Nation, the Panopticon of Kiss-Privacy-Goodbye. So isn’t it time we incorporated this fact of contemporary life into our nightlife with an enjoyable retro feel that all the hipsters will love? Thus, Nixon: The Ultralounge. Sip fern bar umbrella concoctions under photographs of CREEP (The Committee to Re-Elect the President; look that one up if you think I’m joking). Frolic with polyester pant-suited go-go dancers as Haldeman, Erhlichman, Mitchell, Dean and Tricky Dick himself glare down at you from the walls, all while the elaborate hidden recording system at every table records your every drunken indiscretion. At the end of the evening, you’ll be presented with an audio copy of the shenanigans—but not a tape of your table. Every party at Nixon’s goes home with some one else’s smoking gun! (Naturally, for a small fee, you can request an 18-minute gap, especially when you make that pass at your wife’s sister.) Why has no impresario taken me up on this swinging idea? Liability, schmiability.

Internet Pornography

And speaking of Deep Throat, isn’t it about time for porn in the privacy of your own home? Why should you have to navigate the sticky floors of some skeezy, triple-X cinema? Imagine a website that delivers quality pornography to you via your home computer! Streaming pornography directly to your—what? WHAT? Really? Already? Aw, hell. There go my royalties again.

Gregory Crosby


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