08/12/2013 12:00 pm ET Updated Oct 12, 2013

I'm With Stupid: The Slime Facial Is Oddly Not a Porn Thing

Before I write anything else, I want to state for the record that the gastropod-facial idea has been my intellectual property for many years now, and I am entitled to all revenues and assets derived from its practice from hereon and henceforth unto perpetuity, yada, yada, yada.

Anyway, with that bit of legal unpleasantness out of the way, we shall proceed.

I'm beginning to get concerned. Last week, I wrote a column -- a sober, intellectual treatise on the myriad industrial uses of urine -- inspired by an article my wife emailed me as a column idea.

It was cute at the time. I thought it was nice that she could help out, and she enjoyed the shout-out I gave her in the column. Everybody's happy, right?

So, inspired, perhaps, by her success, my wife decided to do some more searching for good column ideas and found a great one -- a column idea so good she knew I couldn't possibly not use it. This is why I'm concerned.

You see, my wife is better than I am at lots of things, particularly when it comes to writing. The lone facet of the craft in which I could thus far claim supremacy was my ability to unearth and make fun of stories about dumb stuff. This was my superpower, the one thing I could do well, and now she was getting better at it than I am.

As the bishop of Bushwood would say, "Rat farts!"

But on to the part where I stake my claim to the next big trend in spa treatments.

The article my wife found this time was about a beauty salon in Japan that offers facial treatments in which snails crawl around on your face so their slime can moisturize your skin and make it more supple and kissable.

Obviously, this is a treatment that will soon be available in every spa in every town in America. I mean, who wouldn't want snails crawling around on their face? There's no way this isn't going to be huge. Somebody's going to get rich off this, and that someone should be me. After all, I did the original research.

Back in 1990, while I was in Japan (coincidence? I think not), my friend and I had a bit of a night out on the town in Hiroshima. Unfortunately, we neglected to book lodging before going out, and as we later discovered, that was a bad idea.

Suffice it to say that after a long evening that involved fruitlessly pursuing the most beautiful girl in Japan, drinking way too heavily and getting lost in a mall, my friend and I suddenly realized we had no place to sleep for the night.

We bonded with some young Japanese toughs over our shared love of Bon Jovi, and they helped us look for a hotel. Sadly, none would accept us at 2 in the morning, and I don't think they would have even if we were sober. They just don't work that way.

With no other options, my friend and I found the most comfortable bushes we could in a thin green space between the sidewalk and a small stream, curled up with our packs twisted around our arms as an anti-theft measure and passed out.

Some time later, something tickled my face and woke me up. I put my hand to my cheek and pulled away a large slug that had been inching its way toward my nose. When I checked my hat, I saw that it was crisscrossed with slime trails. It seems the little buggers had been crawling all over me for a while.

I shook my friend awake and convinced him that, given what had befallen me, somewhere else might be a better place to sleep, and we moved a block or so to a couple of park benches. I considered that better because it decreased the likelihood of slugs on my face. Little did I know that one day gullible people would be paying good money for just such a privilege.

I suppose one could make the argument that snails are not slugs, and thus the idea wasn't mine, but we all know that when slugs find shells they become snails, so they're really the same thing. It was indisputably my idea, and I expect to get rich because of it.

And as for my wife, having proven herself better at finding column ideas, I will expect her to come up with one each week from now on. Congrats, honey: You've earned it.

Todd Hartley wasn't told what to say about himself. He awaits his wife's suggestion. To read more or leave a comment, please visit