“Some people’s get rich quick schemes involve day trading; ours involved night crawling.”
You won’t believe this, but Joe has written in with his side of the story. It turns out, Joe is really FUNNY, which I guess I should have assumed when I received “THE BOX” in the mail. Without further ado, here’s Joe:
When we lived in Santa Barbara a few years back, my kids and I were big into the worming game. Some people’s get rich quick schemes involve day trading; ours involved night crawling. We acquired a worm farm, and lovingly filled it with red worms, newspaper clippings, and table scraps.
I vividly remember the first time my kids and I looked into the composter and noticed our worms had procreated. “They had babies!” my six, five and two year old squealed. “They must have gotten married.” Relying on my excellent parenting skills, I decided that a discussion of the mechanics of the birds and the bees was inappropriate, especially when the former consider our precious newborns to be a delicacy.
In any event, the marriage of our worms signaled our arrival as Titans in the worming industry. We dreamed of elaborate shopping sprees, blowing the enormous piles of cash we would get from selling our squiggly gold to fat cats in Montecito.
Then one day, a fancy envelope arrived in the mail: a wedding invitation. “Ransom notes,” a father of one of my friends used to call them. I quickly looked up the registry, as there’s nothing worse than seeing that everything cool has been taken and being forced to have an order of doilies on your permanent Amazon shopping record.
To our amazement, their registry contained a vermicomposter. To our amazingly amazed amazement, no one had yet grabbed it. I snatched it up with the determined ferocity of a Black Friday shopper, and ordered the composter to be delivered to our address in Santa Barbara. Who knew they were wormtrepreneurs like us?
The package arrived, and like almost anything I do, I immediately sprang into inaction. Months later, guiltily finding the box tucked away in a corner, I sprang into the action I should have sprung into when the springing first sprang.
My kids and I conspired to decorate the worm composter in an appropriate manner for our now married cousins. Thanks to the magic of online shopping, I was able to procure the proper stickers to adorn this worm-dropping-collecting symbol of their blessed nuptial event. My kids gleefully peeled and placed the stickers of worms, brides, bugs, and Disney princesses on the shiny new composter. But what to label our gift of vermicular blessings?
As everyone knows, first comes love, then comes marriage. In our experience, the next logical step just happens to be worms. We carefully packed up our elaborately decorated gift and gave it to a guy in brown shorts to deliver to Charleston…
Fast forward one year, and we too decided to move to Charleston. We had to leave our beloved worms behind, as the airlines will not let you put pet worms underneath the seat in front of you. We contemplated making “Service Worm” jackets for them, but it always bugs me when enabled people abuse the laws meant to protect those who truly need a service animal.
We entrusted our worms to the loving care of our dear friends Orien and Bob. (Note to Orien and Bob: don’t let your chickens eat our worms’ progeny. Though, truth be told, our worms voraciously consumed your chickens’ egg shells. Oh circle of life, you spin in such wildly uncontrollable spirals.)
When we moved to Charleston, I contacted the happy couple so we could hear about all the fun they were having worming. It was then that I learned that they were moving to New York (a place we had abandoned five years earlier) on the very next day. A hastily planned meeting never materialized, due to the exigencies involved in moving. So, we never got to hear the fate of the worm composter we bought for them until reading this blog.
We have since refined our business model and will soon be peddling our new product, meal worms, to well heeled South of Broad blue hairs.
PS: If you missed the original post, click HERE.