This trend is not limited to jeans. The store owners I talked to said there is also a strong demand for used cowboy jackets, shirts, boots, and hats. This leads me to my money-making idea, which is going to seem so obvious when I tell you that you’re going to smack yourself in the forehead for not thinking of it first. My idea is to sell used cowboy underwear by mail. Don’t laugh. This is the logical next step, and I’m going to be out front on it. My brand will be called: Buckaroo Briefs. Each brief will come with an authentic piece of old-looking paper with a diagram explaining how the briefs came to look the way they do (“This particular stain occurred when the cowboy got chased by a bull”).

The only problem I see, looking ahead, is that with the increasing big-city demand for authentic Western garments of all kinds, and the relatively small number of actual rural Westerners, we’re going to reach a point fairly soon where the entire population of Montana is running around naked. Fortunately, I’ve thought of a way to solve this problem via ANOTHER money-making concept, namely: Sell urban professionals’ used business attire to cowboys. Why not? Cowboys in suits! Carrying their lassos in briefcases! It might catch on. You could probably even charge them more for the suits with really exciting histories (“This rip occurred when Thad, rushing to an important budget meeting, caught his sleeve on the fax machine”).

Pretty sharp idea, huh? I don’t see how it can miss. The only possible flaw is that cowboys are not nearly stupid enough to pay extra for somebody else’s used and damaged clothing. I doubt that even the cows are.

Like most people, I can always use an extra $7 or $8 million, which is why today I have decided to write a blockbuster legal thriller.

Americans buy legal thrillers by the ton. I was in many airports over the past few months, and I got the impression that aviation authorities were making this announcement over the public-address system: “FEDERAL REGULATIONS PROHIBIT YOU FROM BOARDING A PLANE UNLESS YOU ARE CARRYING THE CLIENT BY JOHN GRISHAM.” I mean, everybody had this book. (“This is the captain speaking. We’ll be landing in Seattle instead of Detroit because I want to finish The Client.”)

The ironic thing is that best-selling legal thrillers generally are written by lawyers, who are not famous for written communication. I cite as Exhibit A my own attorney, Joseph DiGiacinto, who is constantly providing me with shrewd advice that I cannot understand because Joe has taken the legal precaution of translating it into Martian. Usually, when people send you a fax, they send a cover page on top of it, which conveys the following information: “Here’s a fax for (your name).” But Joe’s cover page features a statement approximately the length of the U.S. Constitution, worded so legally that I can’t look directly at it without squinting. It says something like: “WARNING: The following document and all appurtenances thereto and therein are the sole and exclusionary property of the aforementioned (hereinafter ‘The Mortgagee’) and may not be read, touched, spindled, fondled or rebroadcast without the expressively written consent of Major league Baseball, subject to severe legal penalties (hereinafter ‘The Blowtorch Noogie’) this means YOU.”

And that’s just Joe’s cover page. Nobody has ever dared to read one of his actual faxes, for fear of being immediately thrown into prison.

Nevertheless, some lawyers are hugely successful writers, and I intend to cash in on this. I am not, technically, a lawyer, but I did watch numerous episodes of “Perry Mason,” and on one occasion, when I got a traffic ticket, I represented myself in court, successfully pleading nolo contendere (Latin, meaning “Can I pay by check?”). So I felt well qualified to write the following blockbuster legal thriller and possible movie screenplay:

The woman walked into my office, and I instantly recognized her as Clarissa Fromage, charged with murdering her late husband, wealthy industrial polluter A. Cranston “Bud” Fromage, whose death was originally reported as a heart attack but later ruled a homicide when sophisticated laboratory tests showed that his head had been cut off.

“So,” she said. “You’re a young Southern lawyer resembling a John Grisham protagonist as much as possible without violating the copyright.”

“That’s right,” I replied. “Perhaps we can have sex.”

“Not in the first chapter,” she said.

“Ohhhhhhh,” she cried out. “OOOHMIGOD.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but that’s my standard hourly fee.”

The courtroom tension was so palpable that you could feel it.

“Detective Dungman,” said the district attorney, “please tell the jury what you found inside the defendant’s purse on the night of the murder.”

“Tic-Tacs,” said Dungman.

“Was there anything else?”

“No, I can’t think of ... Wait a minute. Now that you mention it, there was something.”

“What was it?”

“A chain saw.”

A murmur ran through the courtroom and, before the bailiff could grab it, jumped up and bit Judge Webster M. Tuberhonker on the nose. “That’s going to hurt,” I told my client.

With time running out on the case, we returned to my office for a scene involving full frontal nudity.

A hush fell over the courtroom, injuring six, as I approached the witness.

“Dr. Feldspar,” I said. “You are an expert, are you not?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“And you are familiar with the facts of this case, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“And you are aware that, as a trained attorney, I can turn statements into questions by ending them with ‘are you not,’ are you not?”

“Yes.”

“And is it not possible that, by obtaining genetic material from fossils, scientists could clone NEW dinosaurs?”

“OBJECTION!” thundered the district attorney. “He’s introducing the plot from the blockbuster science thriller and motion picture Jurassic Park!”

The judge frowned at me over his spectacles. “In the movie,” he said, “whom do you see playing the defendant in Chapter Four?”

“Sharon Stone,” I answered.

“I’ll allow it.”

“And so, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” I said, “only ONE PERSON could have committed this murder, and that person is ...”

The guilty party suddenly jumped up, causing the courtroom to nearly spit out its chewing gum.

“THAT’S RIGHT!” the guilty party shouted. “I DID IT, AND I’M GLAD!”

It was Amy Fisher.