Last year was the year that I got the concept of marketing my bad ideas, after a conversation with a cousin at Thanksgiving. He called to me from across the Thanksgiving table, "Hey, Mr. Bad-Idea-Man, should I carve the turkey now, or would that be unwise? Maybe you should take a nap and see."
I gave a sarcastic little chuckle as I folded my napkin onto my lap. "Real funny."
My aunt jumped to my defense. "I think your bad ideas are kind of neat," she said, talking to me but glaring at my cousin, "if I had bad ideas like yours, I'd write them all down so I knew what to avoid."
It was a few months after that that I started the Bad Idea Blog. The concept was simple enough: I recorded myself talking in my sleep during the night, typed it all up the next morning, and then sold access to my insights for $11.99 per year.
At first it was just my family that signed up, but it wasn't long before a few local media sources found out about it. A few catchy headlines later, NBC ran the story on a slow news day. There was an immediate spike in my number of readers, and when the surge finally receded I was left with a regular and reliable climb. I hit the hundred thousand mark a month and a half later and took a trip over Niagara Falls in a cardboard box to celebrate. My arm was broken on some rocks, but it was worth it. I was living the life of a king, and all I had to do to stay successful was sleep.
This was the story up until two days ago, when disaster struck. I was listening to the previous night's recording, typing up the bad ideas:
Buy an iPhone for your dog.
Wear a bluetooth in both of your ears.
Break up with your girlfriend via skywriter.
There was a pause here - I rolled over in my sleep, I think - and then, without warning:
Sell bad ideas.