We’ve all done dumb things in life. The inspiration for this thought was YouTube. As I flipped through videos earlier this week in search of positive messaging (another blog for another day), I came across an old-school pyramid scheme infomercial that made me think, “What’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever done?”
It’s not a short list from which to choose. There was the time as a 10-year-old I got pissed off because I couldn’t get the Royals game on in Southwest Missouri (good old Lebanon, heart of Cardinals country), so I punched the radio. That temper flareup cost me $75, which meant hours of work for my parents to cover the debt.
Another time, I got sick of my brother calling me names, even though I contributed plenty of names to this fight. I ended up launching a wood block at his head from 100 feet away. It connected. That was the last spanking I ever got, and quite possibly the worst. The old man got his message across, and my temper got significantly better almost immediately.
“Son, if you don’t get control of your temper, you’re going to hurt somebody one of these days. I mean really hurt,” Dad said. I think of these words often when I get angry.
There was also the time, at 25, that I got married to a girl I didn’t want to be married to. Surprisingly, the marriage lasted eight months. What I should have learned from that ordeal was to be strong and say how I felt in relationships. It took another 10 years to figure that one out.
But in terms of “how do you not know better than to do that,” I’ve got to go with a really stupid move as a 19-year-old in 1996. At the time, I lived in Burlingame and had just finished up at Allen County Community College after transferring from Kansas State. I was a few months from starting at Washburn University, where I later graduated and have worked for eight years now.
Despite being young, I was fairly mature and responsible. In addition to college, I worked 30 hours a week covering sports for the local newspaper and about 20 hours a week at the community college manning the front desk. Still, I was scraping by on that money, plus a small student loan.
A night owl, I often stayed up until 3 or 4 in the morning, surfing the new and life-altering world wide web while watching bad 1980s movie and cheesy infomercials on basic cable. Among those informercials was one featuring the corny salesman Don Lapre and his “easy” Money-Making Secrets.
If you don’t remember Lapre, you weren’t up late. If you were up late, you couldn’t miss the guy. He was on multiple channels at multiples times. For months, I’d roll my eyes and flip through the 30-minute sales pitches. Unfortunately, one night I was hooked and watched the entire thing.
That’s where the “dumb” began. By the end of the show, I was on the phone, dumping $300 on a credit card that had about $400 left on it. I figured, hell, I can get my $300 back. Of course, there’s always a catch with these scams, I mean programs. The catch here was that you didn’t get your $300 back, but you could cancel the additional $700 for more pamphlets, books and programming.
Lapre’s pitch was that he’d made millions of dollars placing tiny classified ads in newspapers across the country. Several “success stories” shared tales of following Don’s program and making thousands of dollars in a matter of weeks.
You had four options for the classified ads, which were for various phone lines. I only remember two options: sports lines and dating lines. I chose the latter, which, of course, you had to place and pay for yourself. I placed one in the Topeka Capital-Journal for three weeks. The ad cost $100, so I had $400 invested.
As part of the program, you had to call the number in the ad to make sure it worked. You’d receive a check for the call, along with money for any additional calls people made from it. I received my first check three weeks in … for $3.99, or the phone call I placed.
Needless to say, I knew I’d screwed up. “You are such an idiot,” I said to myself. I called my service rep at Lapre’s company and told him I wanted out. I said I knew I was on the hook for $300, but I did not want to be billed for the additional $700 and to cancel the order.
For the next 15 minutes, the rep tried to get me to stick with the program. “You only placed one ad in one paper. You’ve got to keep trying or it’ll never work,” he said.
Finally, I’d had enough. “Look, this is a scam. You know it. I know it,” I said angrily. “I’m a college student with very little money. You’re screwing people who have no money. Either cancel the order, or I’m calling the Better Business Bureau (something I’d heard my dad say dozens of times through the years) and your state’s attorney general.”
He canceled the order. I had those books and brochures for several years. They were a nice reminder of the dumbest thing I’d done to that point. Twenty-five years later, I’m a hell of a lot smarter with my money.