You Can Sell Anything If You Package it Right

Recently, my wife found a few chunks of memory. These 'chunks' recalled to mind our entertaining venture into the wonderful world of business. Now I am not a business person; neither is my wife, despite her ownership of an M.B.A. This business, however, needed no sophisticated plan, little expertise, and only a little work. Its entertainment value was enough for us. it might have been a riproaring financial success if we had known what we were doing and cared, but, the way it was, was fine with us. It was called, "Endangered Feces," a phrase originated by the late Gilda Radner but copyrighted by us.

It began when we discovered that Alabama was one of only two places in the world where you could find pyratized coprolites. These glittering gems only formed in chalk beds, of which there are only two of sufficient size, the cliffs of Dover, and a large area of land, most of it federal, in Alabama. The person who originally brought these to our attention was, in fact, a federal ranger but we never inquired too closely as to the propriety of the source. I do know that after the original number this individual brought us, the remainder was legitimately given us by a farmer whose land was filled with them. "Sure, take all you want," was his instruction. We did.

Coprolite are fossilized 'droppings', excrement that has been replaced by stone, retaining its original shape, as in the trees in the petrified forest, only not originally wood. These coprolites, however, were nearly unique. They came from the cretaceous era, were 65 to 90 million years old, and they were iron pyrite. When dug out of their longtime bed of chalky ground and cleaned (hydrochloric acid), they looked like gold nuggets. Iron pyrite, of course, is 'fools gold'. This fired my wife's imagination. She ordered a bunch of small Italian leather bags, an equal number of gold foil sheets and small boxes to match. We went into the business of selling turds, pretty turds, inorganic turds, but, in a real sense, turds nevertheless. And we marketed them as "Endangered Feces."

We advertised in the Robb Report, The New York Times, and The Wall Street Journal. The Robb Report was the best source of customers, saying something, I suppose about disposable income of its readers (or sense of humor). We got $25.00 to $65.00 a piece, depending on size, 'quality', and our mood. They were carried in the Disney Store at Disneyworld and carried nationally by the Fossil Stores. We wholesaled them and retailed them by mail. A place called "The Fly by Night Club," in Anchorage, Alaska wrote a song about them and had a night dedicated to contests for which pieces of Endangered Feces were the prizes. This celebration went on for many years after we shut down, We saved a few to give to the owner of the club. We had to maintain the tradition. After all, who knows? We might go to Alaska some day.

It sounds as though we should have made a lot of money on this, but we didn't. Overall, we probably came pretty close to breaking even. We were not vigorous enough in promoting or packing the stuff and advertising was expensive. Interestingly enough, The Robb Report and the New York Times both decided that the word, 'feces' was undignified and stopped carrying our very tasteful ads as long as we used that name. That took all the joy out of it.

The principle was established. We took small rocks that had only symbolic value. Moreover, that symbol was of excrement. We wrapped them in gold foil sheets, placed them in nice, Italian leather bags, and carried this bag in our logo imprinted, tiny shopping bags. Tasteful, pretty, and utterly useless, but they did glitter, and they did sell. We did this for a few years because it was fun, and it made a little money for a while. There were side benefits. We got into wonderful conversations with people across the country who often wanted our ads more than the merchandise. Our logo was a brontosaurus, with a 'dropping' under its tail. Our internal motto was, "if you package it right, you can sell shit."

Unfortunately, our large suppply deteriorated. Once removed from their protective beds of chalky soil and exposed to the elements, 65 to 90 million years old, or not, the pieces oxidized and crumbled. We probably could have protected them if we had tried, but we had our usual lives to attend to, so we let it dry up and drifted out of the dinosaur droppings business. We established the principle of creating a demand and selling a symbol, and we enjoyed the entire process. But my wife did find four intact pieces recently, and we were able to enjoy the memories of the venture. The still intact, still glittering touchstones (as we called our smaller version) were great memoribilia.