Country Time rolled out its “Littlest Bailout” plan earlier this summer.
Recognizing the COVID pandemic has wreaked havoc with lemonade stands across the nation, the company is offering budding entrepreneurs (re: kids 14 and younger) a chance to recoup their losses.
In exchange for a 250-word essay submitted on the company’s website and a photo of each entrant’s lemonade stand, Country Time will send 1,000 baby businessmen prepaid gift cards valued at $100 each.
In the essay, writers must explain how they will use the cards to “juice” — see what Country Time did there? — the economy.
By the time you’re reading this, my guess is that Country Time will already be inundated with entries. It’s a cute idea, right?
My rudimentary math skills indicate that $100 for 250 words works out to 40 cents a word, which is — ahem! — more than some people are paid for their writing.
If there’s a sticking point in the deal, it will be the photo. Even before the pandemic squeezed the life out of lemonade stands — see what I did there? — the practice was one that, in Shakespeare’s words, was more honored in the breach than the observance.
In other words, many adults like to say we gained business experience by running lemonade stands, but how many of us actually did?
I didn’t. During my formative years, I lived on streets where lemonade stands would either be decimated by wind from speeding trucks or where cars were so rare that they were akin to UFOs.
Foot traffic? Fuhgeddaboudit!
I have, however, had the experience of being a customer at a few lemonade stands. But given the suburban neighborhoods where I’ve lived as an adult, not as many as one might expect.
Most of these exchanges involve jogging or running — or crawling and crying, depending on the heat and my exhaustion level — past some enterprising kids, making the mistake of looking into their weepy eyes, and then promising to come back when I have money.
I generally do — come back, that is. I never run with money, unless you count Apple Pay on my phone as money, which you could, but what self-respecting lemonade stand accepts Apple Pay?
Come to think of it, what business anywhere accept Apple Pay? Whenever I ask, I’m met with a sad shaking of the head. Nope, sorry, not here, the cashiers say with a frown. These days, I have to assume they’re frowning beneath their COVID-repelling masks – the same coverings that their noses hang out of and that are worn to protect only their chins, apparently.
But I digress.
On those occasions when I return to a lemonade stand with change (back when change was plentiful and its scarcity was not a sign of the impending New World Order, according to all those conspiracy theorists holding court in their parents’ basements), I’m often not served lemonade, but Kool-Aid, and usually whatever unpopular flavors have been clogging Mom and Dad’s cupboard for the past three years.
Sometimes, the pitcher contains sugar. Most times, it doesn’t. If ice was ever part of the mix, it has long since melted, further watering down the strawberry-kiwi-raspberry concoction.
Nobody wants to be that guy, the one who complains about quality at a lemonade stand. So I drink what I’m given, try not to think about the last time the little barista washed her hands, and then go on my way.
Regardless of my execrable experiences, I hope this year’s crop of junior business people gets a share of those $100 windfalls and that they don’t all get gobbled up by giant corporations and the infamous lemonade lobby. Which is probably really a thing, right?
Good for Country Time for having some fun in a summer that isn’t exactly overflowing with it. Still, the company missed a golden opportunity to call this promotion Lemon Aid. A savvy copywriter could have fun with a tagline offering kids $100 in their pocket for not making lemonade in their pants.
Goes good with fudge, I hear.
See what I did there?
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
No comments:
Post a Comment