We Blyths aren’t known for our entrepreneurial abilities. If you ever encounter one of us in the wild, you’ll note that we’re really just a bunch of pseudo-intellectual ninnies who have bigger lungs than brains, meaning that we can talk at great length about nearly any subject without taking a breath to let our audiences escape. People have died of starvation during some of the longer Blyth soliloquies, while others have resorted to taking their own lives to break free of the prison that is the seemingly perpetually lubricated joints of the Blyth jaw.

Speaking of taking one’s own life, I’m in Dallas, Texas this week for a team meeting. During a finger-food meet ‘n greet tonight, Anand approached me while I was halfway through a chilled prawn and told me that he couldn’t read my blog anymore because it was making him so sad that I was sad and that there was just so much sadness and that it was too much and way too sad and sad this and sad that and saddy-saddy-sad blah blah blah.

I thought he had a point. As of late, my blog has been a dumping grounds for nothing but public announcements of the whoah-is-me variety. Just because I had a really bad reaction to a dose of anti-depressants and wanted to kill myself for several days doesn’t mean that I should vent all my negativity on you.

You can thank Anand, then, for reminding me that it’s all right to occasionally blog on subjects other than my own despondency.

As I was saying, we Blyths aren’t known for our entrepreneurial abilities.

While some other weaker person might allow himself to remain locked into the pattern established by previous generations and branches of the humble family tree, I’ve been pushing forward by using my own brains as the source of a consumer blitz that has left the wallets of this world weeping.

You might remember that I started my own clothing line a few months ago. Following in the footsteps of other international celebrities and superstars, I was certain it would take off and soar into the financial heavens with me hanging on to its tail. Nearly seven sales later, I’m just that much closer to my dream.

However, it isn’t quantity that counts – your clientele is important as well. Anybody can step into The Scene and sell clothes to a bunch of bloggers, but it takes some real star power to dress the right people in your product.

I offer my best friend, customer, and crackhead as a fine example of the sort of person to whom you’d like to peddle your wares.

He was supposed to make dinner for me on Labor Day but had to pass. This is the conversation in which he communicated the unpleasant news:

Me: Hey. We still on for tonight?

Him: [in a strained voice] I don’t think so…

Me: Not feeling well?

Him: No.

Me: Drank too much last night?

Him: No.

Me: Then what’s the problem?

Him: Crack hangover.

Me: Say no more, my friend. Say no more.

He explained that he “just wanted to try” crack to see what it was like.

Him: You know that feeling you get after you’ve done your third line of coke?

Me: Nope.

Him: It’s like that.

Me: OK.

He didn’t like it.

Anyway, I took him out for dinner last Friday. It was the day after his birthday, and we wanted to celebrate the occasion of his strange ability to survive year after year in spite of himself.

Things went swimmingly well. Near the end of dinner, we had this conversation:

Him: I bought one of your “Don’t f*ck with nerds” sweatshirts last week.

Me: Cool. Thanks.

Him: I’m going to wear it when I go to prison tomorrow.

Me: You’re going to prison?

Him: Yeah – just for the day.

Me: Huh. And you’re going to wear my nerdy sweatshirt to jail?

Him: Yup.

Me: Don’t you think you’re going to get your ass kicked? I mean, that’s kind of a cocky sweatshirt to be wearing in the slammer.

Him: I hope not. They’re really strict in Multnomah County prisons. If you so much as look at someone the wrong way, they throw you in solitary confinement, and that sucks.

Me: What’s so bad about it?

Him: For starters, you’re alone.

Me: That follows. What else?

Him: There’s no chair, so there’s no place to sit, and the floor smells like piss.

Me: Why does the floor smell like piss?

Him: Because people piss on it.

Me: Ah. OK. Continue.

Him: They don’t give you any snacks…

Me: You should call the ACLU.

Him: Worst of all, you don’t get to watch a movie.

The horror.

Anyway, just keep in mind that while you’re sitting there in your comfy office chair, munching on vending machine booty, all the cool kids are hanging out in prison wearing Neopoleon gear.

But it’s not too late for you. In fact, it’ll never be too late. I was going to have a marketing campaign based on the traditional “Get ‘em while supplies last” message, but the fact is, this crap is made on demand, no inventory is kept, and there will never be a shortage of product.

So…

Get ‘em while supplies last.

Believe me. Nothing sells clothing like a crackhead prisoner endorsement. It’s what we call Ghetto Chic, and I doubt the CafePress printers will be able to keep up with demand once the orders start coming in. Don’t get left behind.

Smoke some crack. Go to jail. Buy one of my sweatshirts.