Author: Jake Rossen

Alfred Carlton Gilbert was told he had 15 minutes to convince the United States government not to cancel Christmas.

For hours, he paced the outer hall, awaiting his turn before the Council of National Defense. With him were the tools of his trade: toy submarines, air rifles, and colorful picture books. As government personnel walked by, Gilbert, bashful about his cache of kid things, tried hiding them behind a leather satchel.

Finally, his name was called. It was 1918, the U.S. was embroiled in World War I, and the Council had made an open issue about their deliberation over whether to halt all production of toys indefinitely, turning factories into ammunition centers and even discouraging giving or receiving gifts that holiday season. Instead of toys, they argued, citizens should be spending money on war bonds. Playthings had become inconsequential.

Frantic toymakers persuaded Gilbert, founder of the A.C. Gilbert Company and creator of the popular Erector construction sets, to speak on their behalf. Toys in hand, he faced his own personal firing squad of military generals, policy advisors, and the Secretary of War.

Gilbert held up an air rifle and began to talk. What he’d say next would determine the fate of the entire toy industry.

Even if he had never had to testify on behalf of Christmas toys, A.C. Gilbert would still be remembered for living a remarkable life. Born in Oregon in 1884, Gilbert excelled at athletics, once holding the world record for consecutive chin-ups (39) and earning an Olympic gold medal in the pole vault during the 1908 Games. In 1909, he graduated from Yale School of Medicine with designs on remaining in sports as a health advisor.

But medicine wasn’t where Gilbert found his passion. A lifelong performer of magic, he set his sights on opening a business selling illusionist kits. The Mysto Manufacturing Company didn’t last long, but it proved to Gilbert that he had what it took to own and operate a small shingle. In 1916, three years after introducing the Erector sets, he renamed Mysto the A.C. Gilbert Company.

Erector was a big hit in the burgeoning American toy market, which had typically been fueled by imported toys from Germany. Kids could take the steel beams and make scaffolding, bridges, and other small-development projects. With the toy flying off shelves, Gilbert’s factory in New Haven, Connecticut grew so prosperous that he could afford to offer his employees benefits that were uncommon at the time, like maternity leave and partial medical insurance.

Gilbert’s reputation for being fair and level-headed led the growing toy industry to elect him their president for the newly created Toy Manufacturers of America, an assignment he readily accepted. But almost immediately, his position became something other than ceremonial: his peers began to grow concerned about the country’s involvement in the war and the growing belief that toys were a dispensable effort.

President Woodrow Wilson had appointed a Council of National Defense to debate these kinds of matters. The men were so preoccupied with the consequences of the U.S. marching into a European conflict that something as trivial as a pull-string toy or chemistry set seemed almost insulting to contemplate. Several toy companies agreed to convert to munitions factories, as did Gilbert. But when the Council began discussing a blanket prohibition on toymaking and even gift-giving, Gilbert was given an opportunity to defend his industry.

Before Gilbert was allowed into the Council’s chambers, a Naval guard inspected each toy for any sign of sabotage. Satisfied, he allowed Gilbert in. Among the officials sitting opposite him were Secretary of War Newton Baker and Secretary of the Navy Josephus Daniels.

“The greatest influences in the life of a boy are his toys,” Gilbert said. “Yet through the toys American manufacturers are turning out, he gets both fun and an education. The American boy is a genuine boy and wants genuine toys.”

He drew an air rifle, showing the committee members how a child wielding less-than-lethal weapons could make for a better marksman when he was old enough to become a soldier. He insisted construction toys—like the A.C. Gilbert Erector Set—fostered creative thinking. He told the men that toys provided a valuable escape from the horror stories coming out of combat.

Armed with play objects, a boy’s life could be directed toward “construction, not destruction,” Gilbert said.

Gilbert then laid out his toys for the board to examine. Secretary Daniels grew absorbed with a toy submarine, marveling at the detail and asking Gilbert if it could be bought anywhere in the country. Other officials examined children’s books; one began pushing a train around the table.

The word didn’t come immediately, but the expressions on the faces of the officials told the story: Gilbert had won them over. There would be no toy or gift embargo that year.

Naturally, Gilbert still devoted his work floors to the production efforts for both the first and second world wars. By the 1950s, the A.C. Gilbert Company was dominating the toy business with products that demanded kids be engaged and attentive. Notoriously, he issued a U-238 Atomic Energy Lab, which came complete with four types of uranium ore. “Completely safe and harmless!” the box promised. A Geiger counter was included. At $50 each, Gilbert lost money on it, though his decision to produce it would earn him a certain infamy in toy circles.

“It was not suitable for the same age groups as our simpler chemistry and microscope sets, for instance,” he once said, “and you could not manufacture such a thing as a beginner’s atomic energy lab.”

Gilbert’s company reached an astounding $20 million in sales in 1953. By the mid-1960s, just a few years after Gilbert’s death in 1961, it was gone, driven out of business by the apathy of new investors. No one, it seemed, had quite the same passion for play as Gilbert, who had spent over half a century providing fun and educational fare that kids were ecstatic to see under their trees.

When news of the Council’s 1918 decision reached the media, The Boston Globe’s front page copy summed up Gilbert’s contribution perfectly: “The Man Who Saved Christmas.”

For 25 days in the winter of 1986, Jon Menick traveled the country. He would be ushered into a Burger King franchise location by his handlers, loitering until someone recognized his olive-green jacket and high-water pants. He’d wait for them to say hello, at which point he’d stick out his hand and tell them they’d just won $5000.

Menick repeated this process for all 50 states and the District of Columbia. He was appearing in character as Herb, Burger King’s latest pitchman. Aside from his outmoded fashion sense, Herb was notable for being just about the only man in the country who had never eaten a Whopper. Months of print and television ads had teased Herb’s existence; his “family” and “friends” were interviewed, discussing this blight on their existence. The idea of a man who had never succumbed to the pleasures of a grilled fast-service burger was presented as proportionate to a man who had never tasted an orange or experienced a full moon. 

Burger King was certain Herb would help cut into the market share held by their perennial rivals at McDonald’s. And while he was, for a time, one of the most easily identifiable faces on television thanks to that cash reward, he would also prove to be what Advertising Age would later declare the biggest promotional flop of the decade. Recognizing Herb was not quite the same as liking him.

 
In 1985, McDonald’s saw more than 15 million customers a day, who handed over a total of $9 billion annually for their hamburgers, fries, Happy Meals, and McNuggets. While their advertising budget was substantial, it was only in an effort to retain their incredible 37 percent market share of burger joints. Burger King and Wendy’s, in contrast, had to fight for every scrap left over.

With the merits of their food a subjective discussion, both franchises leaned heavily on ad campaigns to try and pull in more stomachs. Wendy’s hit big with their “Where’s the Beef?” campaign of 1984, in which an elderly woman named Clara seemed disappointed by the lack of meat in the competition’s burgers.

Burger King needed a Clara of their own. Ad agency J. Walter Thompson pitched them on the idea of a man who had committed the mortal sin of never tasting a Whopper. A pariah, he’d be spoken of in hushed tones by his associates. After toying with names like Oscar and Mitch, the agency settled on Herb. “Who’s Herb?” was slated to become the company’s campaign focus for late 1985.

The ad agency began by putting cryptic ads in newspapers that didn’t name Burger King or offer much of a hint of the direction they were taking. “It’s not too late, Herb,” read one; “What are you waiting for, Herb?” read another. In one instance, a man with the same first name who owed money to loan sharks saw the ads and thought he was being personally targeted.

From there, J. Walter Thompson rolled out a series of television spots featuring Herb’s shamed relatives. A kind of viral ad before the concept of viral marketing existed, people began to speculate about Herb: his likes, dislikes, what he looked like, and why he had never delighted his intestines with a Whopper. People who marched into a Burger King and announced “I’m not Herb” could get a burger for 99 cents. Overall store sales spiked by 10 percent.

Though Burger King never openly discussed it, plans were already underway to cast an actor as Herb for phase two of the campaign. After spending two months and $40 million on the ads, America would finally get to see the real thing.

 
A trained stage performer, Jon Menick was plucked out of a pool of 75 actors to portray the character in ad spots that would debut with the January 1986 Super Bowl. Menick traveled to Wisconsin on Burger King’s dime to visit a cheese factory and “find” Herb’s essence. MTV agreed to let him be a guest VJ for a day. He earned a spot as guest timekeeper for WrestleMania 2. After months of going incognito, Herb would be everywhere.

When he debuted during Super Bowl XX, there was a collective sigh of disappointment. Herb was a nerd who didn’t appear to possess many charming qualities. During a “press conference,” he admitted he tried a burger at Burger King and loved it. It wasn’t exactly a startling plot twist. Two months of pent-up curiosity resulted in a mass exodus of interest on the part of burger aficionados.

Burger King leaned on bribery, offering a $5000 reward for anyone who spotted Menick-as-Herb during his nationwide tour. (Local franchisees could kick in more if they wanted: some witnesses scored $10,000.) But the chain suffered further criticism when a series of episodes involving underage winners undermined their generosity. To discourage kids from cutting class to brood in Burger Kings all day waiting for Herb to show, the company insisted on a minimum age of 16 for winners.

One adolescent, Jason Hallman of Alabama, was 15 when he spotted Herb in March 1986. Burger King gave his 16-year-old friend the $5000 instead. Hallman’s parents complained, with the Alabama state senate weighing in. They labeled Burger King’s actions as approaching “consumer fraud” because they had failed to make the age minimum a prominent part of the rules. Another juvenile disqualified from the prize in Reno was awarded the $5000 by the local operator.

That May, Burger King ended any further mention of Herb, turning their advertising focus to “real people” who enjoyed their menu items. Then-company president Jay Darling admitted Herb “did not work nearly as well” as he had expected.

The following year, patrons were no longer on the hunt for Herb, but falling over themselves to locate a far more popular attraction. Burger King had just shipped eight million ALF puppets to stores.

When it comes to amateur diagnoses, the internet has been both a blessing and a curse: Googling symptoms has become as much of a habit as checking your local weather. According to Sunbelt Staffing, a healthcare job placement company, different parts of the country have different curiosities when it comes to their ailments.

The company used Google Trends to identify which health-related keywords were most often used in different regions. People living in Columbus, Ohio, had a higher number of queries for the terms “depression” and “stress” than the norm; Detroit seemed most concerned about “flu”; “asthma” was pinged often by residents of Louisville, Kentucky, which ranks among the most polluted cities in the country.

Some other notable top searches:

Dandruff: San Jose, California

Athlete’s Foot: Atlanta, Georgia

Migraine: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Shin Splints: St. Louis, Missouri

Eczema: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Diarrhea and Ulcers: Nashville, Tennessee

As Men’s Journal points out, the Google searches don’t always line up with the Centers for Disease Control’s regional data. This could mean that the results don’t necessary indicate a higher prevalence of the searched-for condition, but could also point to a lack of resources. Columbus, for example, has a reported dearth of mental health professionals. People in that city suffering from depression and anxiety, therefore, could be turning to Google rather than therapists for advice on dealing with their symptoms.

Stanford University’s Dr. David Rehkoph told Men’s Journal that search engine results could help highlight these holes in healthcare availability. “This could help physicians and public health departments better plan resources and better target increasing awareness of issues that could have major impacts on health,” he said.

[h/t Men’s Journal]

Since 1955, Dallas-based retailer Neiman Marcus has placed an increasingly outlandish series of “fantasy” gift items in the pages of its Christmas Book catalog, which is mailed to more than 750,000 homes[PDF] and results in priceless press coverage. The latter is the reason why you’ll see a $35 million Boeing jet offered alongside a $35 bartending set.

“[Co-founder] Stanley Marcus called them ‘stunt pages,’” Ginger Reeder, Vice President of Corporate Communications and the catalog’s longtime curator, tells mental_floss. “He understood that the gifts meant he wouldn’t have to spend quite so much on advertising.”

Despite the “fantasy” and “stunt” labels, all the gifts in the Book are real and ready to ship to legitimate buyers, and roughly half of them get sold each year. Reeder, who has overseen the catalog for 20 years and sifts through more than 200 proposals annually, was kind enough to walk us through some of the company’s more notable offerings—including the time they inadvertently delivered a dead body.

1. A BLACK ANGUS STEER WITH SILVER SERVING CART (1959) // $1925

Although the Marcus brothers had placed a strange gift in a 1955 catalog—a real tiger covered in expensive jewelry priced at $1 million—it was their response to journalist Edward R. Murrow in 1959 that confirmed the company’s devotion to the outrageous. After Murrow phoned to ask if there would be anything of interest that year for his radio listeners, the brothers came up with the idea of offering a Black Angus bull with a silver serving set. “It was a sort of, ‘What are those crazy Texans doing?’ approach,” Reeder says. “You could get it on the hoof or in steaks.”

2. HIS AND HERS CAMELS (1967) // $4125

For a time, Neiman Marcus was in the zoological business, offering a variety of ostriches, baby elephants, and other exotic animals to consumers who were apparently bored of domesticated pets. “We sold one camel to a woman in Ft. Worth,” Reeder says. “She had bought it for her mother. As the story goes, they were watching television and a story about the sale came on. Her mother said, ‘I wonder who that’s for. It’s so stupid.’ And the camel was right outside her door.” At last report, the camel was said to be easily annoyed and spat constantly.

3. AUTHENTIC MUMMY CASES (1971) // $6000

Reeder says one of the Marcus brothers discovered two authentic mummy cases while traveling in England and had them shipped to one of their first stores outside of Texas in Bal Harbour, Florida. He didn’t bother to ever look inside. “Someone on the receiving dock was curious and opened the crate up and found an actual mummy,” Reeder says. “He called Mr. Marcus up and asked what to do. He said, ‘Well, we probably broke international laws by importing a dead body. I guess we’ll need a death certificate.’”

The cases and the lone occupant were bought by a museum in San Jose, a transaction that may have spelled the end for morbid gift items. “We’ve had offers to sell his and hers caskets and a working guillotine,” Reeder says. “They’re not exactly in the Christmas spirit.”

4. A FULL-SCALE STAR WARS X-WING FIGHTER (1996) // $35,000

Prior to the 20th anniversary re-releases of the original Star Wars films, Neiman Marcus offered a scale replica of Luke Skywalker’s X-Wing Starfighter. It was purchased by a fan in Virginia who put it in his back yard. “I remember the first thing I had to do was send a film crew to videotape it being installed,” Reeder says. “In case he ever moved, he wanted to know how it was pieced together.”

5. 90 FIRST EDITION NOVELS (1997) // $185,000

For Reeder’s first official year on the job, she worked with Bauman Books and a librarian to curate 90 first editions of influential novels, including The Great Gatsby and The Catcher in the Rye, many signed by their author. “Coming up with the list took six months,” she says. While the entire set never sold, Neiman Marcus got more than 600 calls asking for the titles of all the books on the list.

6. A “LORDSHIP” TITLE (2001) // $120,000

Couples who invested in Neiman Marcus’s “time travel” package—wearing period costumes and engaging in historic reenactments—would also be afforded the opportunity to be bestowed the title of “Lordship,” a fully legitimate crowning. “A gentleman got in touch with us who had the connections to be able to do that,” Reeder says. “It would then be passed on to that person’s oldest son.” But, she says, “No one bought that.”

7. A BELL 430 HELICOPTER (2001) // $6.7 million

That same year, Neiman Marcus scored one of their biggest headlines ever when they offered a Bell 430 helicopter with a company logo woven into the carpeting. “We’re not actually licensed to sell cars or helicopters, so we deal directly with a vendor,” Reeder says. It remains the priciest fantasy gift item to ever find a buyer.

8. A MERMAID SUIT WITH MERMAID TRAINING (2003) // $10,000

Reeder got the idea for a custom swimsuit and mermaid tail swim training while reading a newspaper article about Thom Shouse, the man who designed Darryl Hannah’s costume for 1984’s mermaid comedy Splash. “I think every little girl grows up wanting to be a mermaid,” she says. “I proposed it at least three times, but no one ever liked the idea. Then something else dropped out of the Book. We were planning a water shoot, so I called [Shouse] and asked if he could get me a mermaid tail right away.”

9. A CUSTOM SUIT OF ARMOR (2004) // $20,000

Men and women alike were afforded an opportunity to be measured for a custom-fit suit of armor faithful to the steel tailoring standards of the 15th century. Reeder says one was sold to a Connecticut couple for their adult son.

10. A #2 PENCIL SCULPTURE (2006) // $40,000

Artists Michael Galbreth and Jack Massing erected this 7-foot-tall sculpture using #2 pencils. “I knew the Art Guys, who made the sculpture, from Houston and had always wanted to offer a piece by them,” Reeder says.

11. A TRITON 1000 SUBMARINE (2007) // $1.44 MILLION

The modestly-priced Triton was the latest in a succession of nautical offerings by the catalog. In 2000, Reeder had placed a more elaborate submarine listing and subsequently received a series of prank calls. “People asking if we had it in yellow, stuff like that,” she says. Then an employee told her she had a call from someone with the New York Terrorism Task Force. “He asked if there was a privately-owned sub that he needed to be aware of. I told him it didn’t sell and that I thought it was a joke when my operator told me there was a sergeant on the line. He said, ‘When someone told me you were selling a submarine out of a catalog, I thought that was a joke, too.’”

12. A SWANKY CHICKEN COOP (2012) // $100,000

Described by the company as a “bespoke, Versailles-inspired Le Peit Trianon” building, this ornate hen house promised nirvana for its chicken occupants. “We actually advanced funds to the vendor so she could build one for the photo shoot,” Reeder says. “It never sold, but we got publicity on the Today show for it.” The coop featured a nesting area, a farming book library, and a chandelier. Why a chandelier? “You’d have to ask the designer,” Reeder says. “I don’t know.”

All images courtesy of Neiman Marcus unless otherwise credited.

Ever since an ill-fated diversion into feature films with 1993’s live-action Super Mario Bros., Nintendo has been notoriously guarded about licensing its characters for any non-pixelized project. Now, it looks like Mario is finally ready to extend the borders of his playable world. On Tuesday, Universal Resorts announced that portions of its parks in Orlando, Hollywood, and Osaka, Japan would be devoted to Nintendo-themed attractions.

“Imagine the fun of stepping into a larger-than-life Nintendo adventure,” the press release read. “Gigantic Piranha Plants spring to life. Question blocks, power-ups, and more surround you. And Mario and all his friends are there to pull you into a brand-new world.”

The parks plan to open their Nintendo expansions in the next several years; the release also makes mention of the “creative visionaries behind Nintendo’s worlds” being involved. Mario and Legend of Zelda creator Shigeru Miyamoto is expected to have a hand in the attractions. Here’s a video released by Universal on the future of the project:

[h/t Orlando Sentinel]

In the United States alone, roughly 750,000 auto mechanics spend long shifts diagnosing, repairing, and preventing motor vehicle problems. But thanks to some stereotypical portrayals in media and a complicated vocabulary of car parts, drivers can sometimes feel like their lack of understanding may prompt technicians to take advantage of them. That’s not the case, mechanics say—the techs are here to help. To get a better idea of what their job really entails, mental_floss spoke with several mechanics at both independent repair shops and dealerships. Here’s a glimpse at what goes on after your car goes in.

1. THEY WISH YOU’D STOP WIPING BOOGERS ON YOUR SEAT.

A car can often resemble someone’s mobile living room, full of decorative accents, music, and occasionally dried snot. Charles, a mechanic who works at a Volkswagen dealership and runs The Humble Mechanic blog, says he’s seen his share of nose gold while working on vehicles. “People seem to like picking their nose and wiping it on the seat,” he says. To do a proper job, techs would prefer you bring in your vehicle without bodily fluids or trash inside. “Sometimes there’s a bunch of dirty clothes over the spare, or fast-food wrappers on the floor that we ask customers to remove. A lot of cars are clean, but people can be gross.”

2. THERE’S A SPECIAL BOOK THAT TELLS THEM WHAT TO CHARGE—EVEN IF IT’S TOO MUCH.

Ever walk away feeling like you’ve overpaid for a repair? It’s possible, but it’s not entirely the shop’s fault. Most every mechanic working on a flat rate (as opposed to a per-hour rate) references an industry trade manual that estimates how long a typical repair should take. If you’ve paid, say, $200 for a two-hour job that an experienced mechanic can get done in 30 minutes, you’re still charged by the book—and you don’t get a refund.

The auto tool industry may share part of the blame. “The way it becomes unfair is when a mechanic buys a new specialty tool that may cost $300 but that pays for itself quickly,” says Ryan, a former mechanic in Colorado. “It means they can do the job in less time, but the customer still pays for full time.”

3. THEY CAN FIND MICE AND SQUIRRELS STUCK IN YOUR AXLES.

Depending on what part of the country you live in, a car’s warm underbelly can be attractive to rodents and other animals. Charles has seen acorns socked away under hoods and once pried a squirrel from the front of a grill. “The biggest thing we see [in North Carolina] is chewed wires from mice,” he says. “They’ll make a nest in the air box. I’ve also had to clean deer guts off.” If you’re going to be storing your car for an extended period of time, Charles says some kind of rodent deterrent spray might help.

4. THEY MIGHT RUN SOME ERRANDS IN YOUR CAR.

While few mechanics actually take vehicles out for joy rides, the fact that they don’t get paid for the time it takes to test drive one means your spotless new Honda might develop a surprise ketchup stain on the driver’s seat. “Basically, every vehicle needs to be driven to make sure the problem is resolved,” Ryan says. “If you’re headed out to lunch and you need to confirm that, it makes sense to drive it down the road.”

5. THEY MIGHT RESCUE YOU IN A ROADSIDE EMERGENCY.

While their individual morality mileage varies, many mechanics feel duty-bound to pull over when they spot a stranded driver. “I do a lot of highway driving in the winter and the rule of thumb is if you see someone stranded on the highway, you stop and check on them,” says Ryan M., a mechanic in Winnipeg. “I’ve also pulled lots of vehicles out of ditches and off curbs.”

6. DEALERSHIPS HAVE ACCESS TO RESOURCES THAT PRIVATELY-OWNED SHOPS DON’T.

If you’ve ever wondered whether you should take your out-of-warranty vehicle in for a repair at a cheaper, locally owned shop over the dealer-branded shingle, here’s something to keep in mind: Many of those smaller outfits can’t afford the kind of information provided by car manufacturers to help successfully diagnose and treat a problem. “We’re able to go deep into the Volkswagen brand,” Charles says. “There are a lot of resources we have access to that an independent place wouldn’t. We can get access to the car’s engineers if we need that. The brand is an ally. A small shop isn’t going to spend $15,000 a year [for that data] to specialize in one kind of car. Once it’s outside their scope of knowledge, it makes more sense to go to a dealer.”

7. YOU’RE TECHNICALLY NOT ALLOWED IN THE GARAGE. EVER.

You’ve probably heard advice about making a mechanic show you a defective part to guarantee they’re not simply making up work to do. That involves a trip beyond the forbidden door marked “Do Not Enter.” But according to Ryan, you’re not actually supposed to be back there for any reason. “Insurance companies don’t want customers in the garage, ever,” he says. “It’s not that dangerous, but it’s not supposed to happen.”

8. THEY SOMETIMES MAKE THEIR OWN TOOLS.

While mechanics start out by buying their own tools—some even investing tens of thousands in supplies—there will always be instances where they’ll need to improvise. “A tool might be missing, or not put back in the right place,” Charles says. “Or a company just might not make what you need. I have a whole drawer full of cut-up sockets and wrenches. Making a custom tool is fun.”

9. THEY USE A COOKIE SHEET TO STAY ORGANIZED.

While cell phones have become handy to help keep track of how a part needs to be re-assembled, some mechanics still like to stay organized by laying out pieces in a specific order. “If I’m working on a vehicle I’ve never seen before, and it’s a complicated job or a job spread out over multiple days like a transmission rebuild or something like that, I’ll take a cookie sheet and magnets and lay things out spatially to stay organized,” Ryan M. says. “You can also mark parts with a Sharpie.”

10. THEY DON’T ALWAYS PERFORM EVERY LITTLE TASK.

Cars brought in for maintenance are supposed to undergo a litany of small adjustments, but that laundry list can sometimes get skipped over depending on how pressed for time your technician is. “Stuff like lubricating door hinges or latching mechanisms gets missed all the time,” Ryan says. “It doesn’t affect performance at that moment, but it can over time.”

11. THEY’RE IMPRESSED BY DRIVER MACGYVERS.

Not everyone can rush to a repair shop when a problem crops up, necessitating some improvisational skills. “I once had someone rig up a dipstick stop with a beer bottle cap,” Charles says. “Someone else used a chewing tobacco lid for a coolant cap. And we had someone else keep the driver’s door shut by rolling both windows down and securing it with a belt.” Less impressive: tin foil in place of a gas cap.

12. IT’S OK TO MAKE SILLY NOISES FOR THEM.

Cars make all kinds of odd sounds, which means drivers are often left to try and replicate them. Mechanics prefer this over you trying to explain the noise verbally, no matter how silly it makes you feel. “I’d rather hear a funny noise come out of you than waste time trying to figure out what you mean by ‘buzzing, but it’s like squishy if that makes sense,’” Ryan M. says. “Make the damn noise!”

13. SEARING HOT OIL BURNS ARE NO FUN.

A garage is a seriously hazardous hub of activity, with mechanics working alongside one another tending to multi-ton vehicles raised above their heads. While major injuries are uncommon, dealing with chemicals is a common source of pain. “Hot coolant and hot oil are the two main things I’ve seen people get hurt the most with,” Charles says. “That’s a weekly occurrence.” Other pitfalls: dropping heavy wrenches on your toes, or having someone fail to [use] the brakes before backing out, running down a co-worker. “A guy broke his arm that way.”

14. THEY MIGHT WATCH YOUR KIDS GROW UP.

The best mechanics, Charles says, play the long game. By being attentive and engaged with customers, they’ll often see their clients’ offspring returning with cars of their own. “A kid could come in at 10 and all of a sudden he’s 16 with his first car,” he says. “Then he’s in college and his mom wants a new car. I’ve had families of people with four or five Volkswagens and I’m working on all of them.” That personal touch also extends to tokens of appreciation. “Sometimes I even get cookies.”

15. THEY LIKE TO GO HOME AND WORK ON CARS SOME MORE.

Surprisingly, a number of mechanics don’t get their fill of greasy hands and wrench lacerations during the day. According to Charles, having a personal vehicle to tinker with is an entirely different experience than working on a customer’s ride. “Wrenching on cars all day at work is similar to working on an assembly line,” he says. “Car comes in, gets fixed, goes out. Car comes in. At home, it’s 180 degrees from that and relaxing. We all like to tinker.”

All images courtesy of iStock.

Like many metropolitan areas, Detroit continues to struggle with a significant homeless population. By one estimate, roughly 86,000 people in the city [PDF] have no roof over their heads. Many of the proposed solutions often involve mental health care, shelter, and job placement. But sometimes addressing the issue comes down to something as simple as making sure people stay warm.

As reported by designboom, the nonprofit Empowerment Plan’s EMPWR jacket uses upcycled automotive insulation to provide a waterproof exterior and heat-trapping interior. When it’s not being worn as a coat, it can be modified to function as a sleeping bag.

The jacket was the invention of Veronika Scott, who also spearheaded the idea to hire single parents from Detroit-area shelters to work in the factory constructing the coats. (Each costs roughly $100 in labor and materials.) The Empowerment Plan makes use of GED education and other resources to help employees transition into more stable living situations.

The coats are distributed nationally, with more than 15,000 currently in use. A similar idea, the Sheltersuit, is being distributed in the Netherlands.

[h/t designboom]

Before Bill Clinton jammed on a saxophone with Arsenio Hall’s band and before Barack Obama sang a few verses of “Let’s Stay Together,” another president voiced his strange and highly unlikely recording ambitions: Richard Nixon once admitted he wanted to become a rapper.

The undated confession was rediscovered during a 1997 tour through the Nixon Presidential Library in Yorba Linda, California by a Washington Post reporter, who was listening to one of the many recordings the president—who resigned in 1974 amid the Watergate scandal—made both in and out of office. In it, the former president said:

“I have often thought that if there had been a good rap group around in those days, I might have chosen a career in music instead of politics.”

Years prior, the idea of the staid, stolid Nixon freestyling verse led to various media outlets coining his possible stage names: Trik-E-Dik was one standout. But it wasn’t quite as unlikely a concept as it may have seemed. As a child, Nixon’s mother, Hannah, bought him several instruments, including a piano, clarinet, saxophone, accordion, and violin; young Nixon practiced the piano every day after school. He even appeared on The Jack Paar Program in 1963 to perform a piano concerto that he wrote himself:

Nixon died in 1994, just a few years after the quote surfaced, but never addressed it directly.

In 1990, Spy magazine asked Kid of the popular duo Kid ‘n Play what a Nixon rap performance would look like. “I see him as a solo rapper and he’d probably have, like, two dancers,” he said. “They’d probably be dressed in some intelligence uniforms, some Watergate break-in uniforms … he’s good at cutting, particularly tape.”

The official name of woodworker Darryl Fenton’s novelty item was the Wooden Moose Candy Dispenser. Handcrafted in his Wasilla, Alaska workshop, the unfinished, sanded animal carving had a rectangular opening in the back that could be stuffed with candy pieces. When the moose’s head was lifted, it dispensed the candy in a way that resembled a bowel movement. 

QVC sold 30,000 of them in 10 minutes.

Colloquially known as the Poopin’ Moose, the wooden gift was discovered during the shopping network’s 50 state tour in 1997. Arriving in Alaska, buyers were presented with the moose by Glenn Munro of Unique Concepts, which had licensed the moose from Denton. The carving had been sold at regional fairs; QVC, knowing a demonstrable item when they saw one, agreed to put it on the air, leaving the sales pitch to its team of accomplished hosts.

“What better way to dispense your candy than through the butt of a moose?” wondered host Pat Bastia. Others stuffed brown M&Ms into the moose; host Steve Bryant pondered whether or not putting a Hershey chocolate bar in the item would result in diarrhea. When the moose became clogged with peanut candies, Bryant declared it “constipated” and inserted a finger to remove the blockage.

Denton, who had patented the device in 1995, couldn’t handcraft enough to meet demand. He outsourced production to several other plants; via Unique and other outlets, he sold over 100,000 in the late 1990s and early 2000s.

As the moose’s profile grew, Denton added animals that could defecate treats on demand: buffalo, mules, bunnies, and alpacas. He produced a premium Millennium Pooper—a walnut-carved moose with ivory eyes—and sold it for $150. A Pocket Pooper that miniaturized the moose was available for a brief time.

Unfortunately, Denton’s commitment to his craft would prove to be his undoing. In 2004, a rival poop gift named Mr. Moose was released. Offering a similar experience to the Poopin’ Moose, it was made in China and retailed for just $25, a fraction of the $100 handmade version. Suffering from neck problems and a financial crunch, Denton decided to discontinue further production. It never again appeared on QVC’s airwaves, a fact that disappointed onetime host Bryant, who spoke to author David Hofstede in 2004.

“It was handcrafted, provided jobs for people in Alaska, and it pooped M&Ms,” he said. “How cool is that?”

Aside from a little—or a lot—of gas, what could be dangerous about cans of baked beans? If you’re the UK’s Advertising Standards Authority, plenty. They’ve banned the commercial for Heinz Beanz featured below for fear it might incite injurious copycat behavior in children.

In the ad, several people are seen singing and drumming on empty tin cans. The song has a positive message about love, but the ASA fears it carries more sinister connotations: If a child were to try replicating the song with his or her own cans, they might cut themselves on the sharp edges of the can’s lip or lid.

According to Advertising Age, Heinz argued that no reports of any injuries had been issued. The ASA was unmoved and has prohibited the commercial from airing on broadcast television. “We considered there was a health and safety risk [in recreating the ‘Can Song’] particularly if a child was to attempt to play the song with an empty tin without adult supervision,” the agency said in a statement.

The ad is still available online, where it has racked up more 1.6 million views.

[h/t Advertising Age]