I’ll be the first to admit I sometimes come up with crazy ideas. “Harebrained schemes,” as the old-timers might say. These have included:
- Creating a hamburger-hot dog hybrid called a burgerdog. Not ground beef rolled into the shape of a hot dog; these already exist. I want to take things a step further and stuff a hot dog inside a hamburger, then grill it to meaty perfection.
- Developing a food-themed fashion line color-coordinated to meals (e.g., a red outfit for spaghetti, green for pesto, etc.). This would eliminate embarrassing stains and dry-cleaning bills. The tagline? “Dressed for ingest.”
- Marrying Amy Adams so we could “fill our cozy little love nest with red-haired babies.” My reasoning was, besides being single and lonely at the time, we were both artists: she could love my books, I could love her movies, and together, we could love each other.
- Packaging up the bottom inch of Nestle Drumstick® sundae cones—you know, the best part, with that cone-encrusted chunk of chocolate—and marketing them as “Drumstick Bites,” a delicious and portable dessert.
- Combining Connecticut, Rhode Island, and New Hampshire into one state because they’re nothing more than bite-sized nuggets that happen to neighbor one another.
- Opening a Chinese restaurant with fortune cookies designed to stroke the ego (“you are one sexy beast”), egg-shaped egg rolls, edible takeout containers, sporks instead of chopsticks, and a Man v. Food-inspired “one-ton wonton challenge.”
Looking at that list, it’s kind of amazing that I’m not rich by now (or home-schooling a ginger-haired kid or three). In retrospect, my current obsession seems rather bland in comparison: I want to become a rancher. Never mind the fact that I know nothing about agriculture or livestock or farm equipment and machinery, and let’s overlook my fingers (which are only slightly more calloused than a newborn’s) and my bank account (a few million dollars short of what it would take to buy land and hire people who would actually know what the hell they were doing). The devil’s in the details!
I’m sure I’m romanticizing the whole ranching lifestyle. I don’t really want to give up my cushy writing job for a hardscrabble life on the northern plains where you’re subject to the whims of Mother Nature. Today, I worry about missing a deadline or overlooking a crucial apostrophe. If I were a rancher, my livelihood would be in jeopardy due to a million factors beyond my control, a list that includes drought, hail, locusts, and fluctuating cattle prices. I just like the idea of wide open spaces, being my own boss, and living off the land. To me, it’s the very definition of an honest day’s work. But I know myself too well: the first time I was elbow-deep in a cow’s uterus trying to birth a calf, I’d be longing for modern comforts like caramel macchiatos. So, no worries: ranching is a no-go.
I still think the burgerdog could be a runaway hit, though.
Be afraid, Golden Arches. Be very afraid…
Mark My Words 
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