Franchise Fantasy

I need to come up with the Next Big Thing in franchising.  Because I'm very greedy and I want a gold-plated swimming pool.  A tasteful one.
   When I was younger I imagined - maybe I was told, I don't know - that a good way to start climbing the ladder of the American Dream was to open a franchise like a McDonald's, a Subway, what have you.  The idea was you put your meager savings on the line to risk opening a business that might not make it, but had been proved to work elsewhere.  At least that was the way I understood it.
   Years ago a friend of mine and I looked into franchising.  HA!  Not even a remote possibility, unless we had $750,000 liquid, meaning cash on hand in the bank.  I never did get that; if I had that much money laying around in cash, I certainly wouldn't be exploring the chance to open my own grease palace.  We did some checking and found that almost none of the franchises in existence were owned by a person, they were owned by a company, or a corporation.  And that company didn't own just two or three or four places, they owned twenty or thirty or forty.  Big business built out of small businesses.
   What I didn't get then that I do get now is that the money isn't in being the franchisee, it's in being the franchisor.
   Why expend your own blood, sweat and tears building a business from the ground up when you can get other people to do it, and then pay you a franchise fee for the privilege?  It's genius, really, and totally the American way.  Work smarter, make the other guy work harder.  So here are a few of my ideas.  Nobody steal them, okay?

For old people:
  The Paper 'Net.  A newsstand, just like in the old days.  We take articles and blogs and items of interest from the Web, paste them up into an actual print edition every day, and sell them for 50 cents each.  Large print too.   Kind of like the Huffington Post, but on real paper.  I know, I know, there are tons of copyright problems with stealing content like this, but if Ariana Huffington can get away with it, why can't I?
   Rent a Pet.  Pets make people live longer, it's true.  Or it should be.  Older people's lives are enriched by having a pet, but taking care of a dog or cat really is like taking care of a toddler who's never going to grow up and always gets into the garbage.  We would rent friendly, docile animals to old people for a few hours a day.  That way they get the benefits of having a pet with none of the headache and cleanup associated with owning one.  Like having a pet grandchild.

For college students:
   Party Buddy.  There are tons of people who will take a test for you for a fee, but who's got your back when you're invited to a party you really don't want to go to?  We've all been there, there's a raging kegger or a frat party and you really don't feel like dealing with the douchebags tonight, but if you don't go you'll probably not get invited again.  We'd get your photo and vital stats and send a lookalike surrogate in your place, the people at the party will probably be too drunk to tell the difference.  It'll be just like you did go, without all the beer spillage and vomit.
   Vice Scrubbers.  You know the people who clean up after a crime scene?  They get rid of the blood and spare body parts, that kind of stuff?  We'd do the same kind of thing, but for porn and booze and cigarettes.  Call us before your boyfriend or girlfriend from back home comes for a visit, or before the 'rents come by 'just to see how you're doing.'  We promise to expunge every trace of dirty mags or tobacco or beer bongs to make you seem like the sweet darling you never really were.  Cash only.  Electronic devices incur an extra charge.

For middle school students:
   Cool Parents.  Your parents are not cool.  You know it, but they really, really, really don't.  As a matter of fact, they're so uncool they think they're cool.  You absolutely cannot bring them to any event where other parents will be, otherwise your world will devolve into a year-long exercise in embarrassment.  So call us up, we'll send cool parents in their place.  No mom jeans, no black socks with sandals, just slender, hip, gleaming-smile models, who have absolutely no real interest in you or your day.  The way God intended.
   Touch It.  You know you want to.  Touch it.  It's right there.  I know it's gross, but that's why you need to touch it.  You must touch it.  But you just can't.  So we'll send a kid over to touch it for you.  Yes, it's probably going to be the weird kid, the one who smells like sausage and BO, but at least he's not too chicken to touch it.  Pansy.


See?  Each one a million-dollar idea.  So that's... six million dollars.  Where do I pick up my check?