A Real Shoe-In
In the 1600s, Louis XIV of France (born 1638, ruled 1643-1715) was at the height of his power, but unfortunately, that was the only height he could claim. You see, the Sun King, one of the most beloved monarchs in history, was—how should I say it?—short. Since the cards were stacked against him in the height department, he decided to use stacks to even things out—he added a few inches to the heels of his boots. The elevator shoes elevated his stature, but he got knocked down a few pegs when he noticed he’d started a fad in his Royal Court—soon everyone was wearing elevator shoes. Not to be overshadowed, Louis added even more height to his heels, and the Royal Court followed suit. Soon people were tottering around in footwear resembling the Frankenstein monster at a disco. Eventually, men’s heel size came back to earth, but women stayed perched on high. In the 1800s, American women began emulating the exotic styles of Paris, and soon “French heels” became part of the American fashion scene and were referred to simply as “high heels.”
Who won the Tony Award for the Best Supporting
or Featured Actor category in 1950? No one.
The judges for the award decided no Broadway performance
was worthy of that award.
Bunker or Just Bunk?
The Battle of Bunker Hill is where the American colonists faced the English in the Revolutionary War and kicked a little redcoat butt, right? Actually, there are two untruths about this statement:1. The British troops, even though they sustained more casualties, ultimately whipped the Americans, chased them off, and claimed victory in the battle.
2. There was no Battle of Bunker Hill.
Wait, if there was no battle of Bunker Hill, what was all the fighting about? The American troops had orders to protect Bunker Hill, but as is sometimes the case during a war, someone screwed up. The soldiers wound up trying to protect nearby Breed’s Hill. So the history books almost got it right: The Battle of Bunker Hill was actually fought on Breed’s Hill, and the British won the battle, not the colonists.
It’s called a flea market because in the olden days most secondhand items had fleas, right? Actually, the term flea market comes from Dutch colonial days and their vallie (valley) markets. Over the years, vallie was shortened to vlie (pronounced “flee”), and eventually this got Americanized to flea.
Nuclear Arms Wrestling
While performing routine maintenance on a Titan III ICBM silo in September 1980, an Air Force repairman accidentally dropped a wrench socket. The socket bounced off the wall of the Damascus, Arkansas, silo and banged into the missile. Surely a little socket couldn’t do any damage to a multimillion-dollar state-of-the-art rocket armed with a nuclear warhead? But the repairman watched in horror as the socket socked the pressurized fuel tank and started a leak. The entire missile complex and surrounding area was evacuated, and eight hours later, a massive explosion rumbled from the silo and blew the 740-ton hatch into the air, followed closely by the nuclear warhead. People watched in terror as the warhead flew 600 feet in the air—but that wasn’t the scary part. The scary part was watching the warhead plummeting toward the earth. Amazingly, the warhead didn’t explode, but the accident still claimed one life, and eleven other people were injured. This proving the old saying, “One nuclear bomb can ruin your whole day.”
Prior to 1953, the slogan of L&M cigarettes was
“Just what the doctor ordered.”
Bridge over Troubled Water
In 1981, the Intermarine Company of Ameglia, Italy, celebrated after they were awarded a huge contract from the government of Malaysia to build an enormous minesweeper and three military launchers. It was a coup for the company, which specialized in building smaller vessels. “This contract,” they thought, “will make us famous.” They were right, but for the wrong reasons. Everything went well for Intermarine, and in fact, they finished the project on time and on budget. During the entire two years it took Intermarine to fulfill their contract, they overlooked one small thing—their shipyard was a mile from the Mediterranean on the Magra River. The river was deep and wide enough to accommodate the ships, but farther downriver was the beautiful but tiny Colombiera Bridge, and not one of the ships could navigate under it. The Intermarine Company pleaded with local authorities, promising they would dismantle the bridge and then rebuild it. The shipyard’s dreams of further lucrative contracts sank when the town council said no.
It took architects, draftsmen, masons, woodworkers,
and hundreds of laborers ninety years to build the
Church of Corcuetos in Navarrete, Spain.
The day after it was finally completed in 1625, it collapsed.
Who Are We Having for Dinner?
The U.S. government loves passing referendums honoring people or naming buildings or parts of buildings after influential people—it’s safe, and it always makes a great photo opportunity. So when a new staff canteen was built in 1977, it gave the U.S. Department of Agriculture the opportunity to commemorate someone of their choice. They chose to honor a famous nineteenth-century Colorado pioneer, Alferd Packer (not “Alfred” Packer). The grand opening ceremony was spectacular, and there was an excited buzz in the air as dignitaries and the press listened when Agriculture Secretary Robert Bergland proudly announced the opening of the Alferd Packer Memorial Dining Facility. “Alferd Packer,” Bergland said, “exemplifies the spirit of fare that this Agriculture Department cafeteria will provide.” Several months later, and without any fanfare, the cafeteria was renamed. It was brought to the attention of the USDA that the reason Alferd Packer was famous, or infamous, was because he was accused of and tried for murdering and eating five prospectors in 1874. Bon appétit!
In March 2003, as a protest against France’s refusal to support the U.S. position on Iraq, the U.S. House of Representatives officially changed the name French fries to “Freedom fries” (and French toast to “Freedom toast,” for that matter—but no word on French kissing) in all three House cafeterias. Along the same lines, during World War II, the German-sounding sauerkraut was renamed “liberty cabbage.”
Random Acts of Kindness
On May 10, 1975, Washington, D.C., hosted Human Kindness Day IV, organized by a nonprofit arts education group called Compared to What, with the support of the D.C. government and the National Park Service. The event attracted a crowd of 125,000 people and featured Stevie Wonder, Graham Central Station, and other popular bands. At a press conference following the event, police announced that there had been 600 arrests, nearly 500 robberies, 150 smashed windows, 120 occurrences of public brawling, 42 looted concession stands, 33 acts of arson, 17 acts of violence toward police officers, and 14 completely demolished cars. Miss Carol Kirkendall, a spokeswoman for the organizers, said that “although sporadic rock-throwing, public mayhem, and purse-snatchings had been a sadness, a lot of beautiful things were going on out there.” I guess if you leave the milk of human kindness out in the sun too long, the sour cream of the crop will rise to the top.
War Is Hell
In 1883, the citizens of Lijar, a small town in southern Spain, were infuriated when reports came back that while visiting Paris, King Alfonso XII had been insulted and attacked. The mayor of Lijar, Don Miguel Garcia Saez, and all 300 citizens of the town demanded retribution and declared war on France on October 14, 1883. Not a single shot was fired and not an injury was sustained during the confrontation. Nonetheless, Mayor Saez became known as “The Terror of the Sierras” for this exploit.
Ninety-three years later, in 1976, King Juan Carlos, Alfonso’s greatgrandson, made a visit to France during which he was treated with great respect. In 1981, the town council of Lijar ruled that “in view of the excellent attitude of the French,” they would suspend hostilities and agree to a cease-fire with France. The current mayor of Lijar, Diego Sanchez, said humbly, “We’ve forgiven them now,” making this the first time in two centuries that France fought a war and didn’t lose.
The Emperor’s New Chair
In the late 1890
s, Emperor Menelik II (1844-1913) of Abyssinia (now Ethiopia) learned that electrocution had become the newest method of capital punishment and wanted to prove to his subjects that Abyssinia could execute with the best of them. The emperor ordered three expensive new electric chairs and was shocked to discover they required electricity to work—Abyssinia did not yet have electrical power. The emperor decided to use one of the electric chairs as his throne. Not to let it seem as if he wasn’t grounded, his aides spread the claim that the emperor was immune to the killing ways of the white man.
The will of Madame de la Bresse instructed her
life savings of 125,000 francs be used to buy clothing—
not for the poor, but for naked Parisian snowmen.
In 1876, the courts ruled her bequest valid, thereby
making French snowmen the best dressed in the world.
Foaming at the Mouth
In 1970, the marketing people at Procter & Gamble decided it was time to update the design of boxes of Ivory Snow. After a lengthy audition, they found the perfect model, Marilyn Briggs. Briggs, wrapped in a white terry-cloth robe and gazing lovingly at her baby, exuded the innocence and purity the company wanted to portray. Three years and millions of boxes of Ivory Snow later, the company got into a lather when they discovered Marilyn Briggs was actually Marilyn Chambers, the star of such hard-core pornographic films as Behind the Green Door and Insatiable. Chambers was one of the superstars of porn from the early 1980s to the early 2000s (originally billing herself as “The Ivory Snow Girl”). I wonder if “getting snowed” had a different meaning back then.
India ink isn’t from India, it’s actually from China.
The French call it Chinese ink.
Survey Says . . .
In the 1880s, as the United States was expanding westward, state borders were rapidly being mapped. After South Dakota’s borders were drawn up, two surveyors working toward each other, one from the north and one from the south, began marking out the boundaries. Both men were supposed to follow the same meridian, but the one working his way south missed the surveyor working his way north by about a mile. In order to finish their job, the men decided to join the boundaries with a slight east-west jig—a mistake visible on any map where South Dakota intersects the borders of Montana and Wyoming.
Myth
The chameleon changes color to match its background.
Truth
Chameleons do have the ability to change color instantly,
but not to match the color of their surroundings. The color shift
is a reaction to fear or extreme changes in temperature or light.
Floundering for a Name
We see tin after tin of sardines in the stores, so it must be pretty easy to catch a sardine, right? Actually, it’s impossible to catch a sardine unless you accidentally hook a can lying on the bottom of the sea. Why? Because there’s no such fish as a sardine. The name applies to any small fish packaged in sardine cans. (They’re usually pilchard or small herring.) The reason sardines are packed, well, like sardines isn’t because companies are trying to give you your money’s worth—it’s because the oil they’re packed in costs more than the fish themselves.
In 1986, after thirty-five years on television, the very last
scene of the final episode of the daytime soap opera Search
for Tomorrow had Stu ask Jo what she was “searching” for. To
which Jo dramatically replied, “Tomorrow.”
Two for One
Has the United States ever had more than one president in power at the same time? Strangely, it has. The presidential race of 1876 between Rutherford B. Hayes and Samuel Tilden was highly contested (a lot like the 2000 race between Al Gore and George W. Bush). Tilden had beaten Hayes by more than 250,000 popular votes, but Hayes won the presidency with one very controversial electoral vote. There was talk of Tilden’s group forcibly taking over the White House, and it was a very unnerving time, especially for Hayes. While dining at the White House with President Ulysses S. Grant on the eve of the scheduled inauguration, Grant, Hayes, and Chief Justice Morrison R. Waite quietly excused themselves and went into the Red Room together, where Hayes took the oath of office to forestall any attempted coups. Therefore, technically, both Grant and Hayes were simultaneously president of the United States. The next day, on the east steps of the Capitol, Hayes officially was administered the oath of office. But even if you combine Grant and Hayes, it still would make for one lousy president.
An Eggstraordinary Story
Images of the Virgin Mary on a grilled cheese sandwich, Jesus on a refrigerator door, Mother Teresa on a cinnamon bun—these all seem like laughable bits of weird news. But what if Christ prophesied his return on freshly laid chicken eggs? That’s just what happened in a small village near Leeds, England, in 1806, when a hen laid an egg with the words Christ Is Coming inscribed in black on its shell. Mary Bateman, the hen’s owner, announced that God had arrived in a vision to tell her the hen would lay fourteen prophetic eggs; the fourteenth would usher in the apocalyptic destruction of the world. But the news wasn’t all hard boiled—God had also bestowed upon Bateman special slips of paper with the inscription J.C. that were basically “Get into Heaven Free” passes available for one shilling apiece. More than 1,000 people purchased the slips of paper and rested comfortably in the knowledge that they were guaranteed salvation while everyone else was going to burn in hell. A doctor who was skeptical of the eggs, or not in on the yolk, examined the eggs and discovered God had used corrosive ink to write on the shells. He told the local authorities, and they burst into the tavern where the chicken was caged and caught Mary Bateman red-handed—shoving the fourteenth inscribed egg into the hen to “lay” later that day. Bateman was hanged, not for egging people into believing her story, but because she later became an abortionist, which was illegal in the nineteenth century.
Birds of a Feather
In November 1977, it wasn’t raining cats and dogs, it was actually raining birds. According to eyewitness accounts, approximately 500 dead and dying blackbirds and pigeons dropped on the streets and sidewalks of San Luis Obispo, California, over a period of several hours. As no local spraying had occurred, authorities had no explanation for why the birds had died en masse over their town, giving rise to a different meaning for the phrase “bird droppings.”
Arnold Schwarzenegger had competition when
auditioning for the lead role in the 1984 film The Terminator.
O. J. Simpson was seriously considered for the role of
cyborg but was eventually dismissed. Why? “People would
never have believed a nice guy like O. J. could play the part
of a ruthless killer,” a studio executive said.
The First Bump in the Road
There’s a first time for everything, and Mrs. Bridget Driscoll holds the unfortunate title of being the first person killed by an automobile. On August 17, 1896, at the Crystal Palace in London, Arthur Edsall, an employee of the Anglo-French Motor Car Company, accidentally ran over Mrs. Driscoll and fractured her skull, leading to her death. At the inquest, it was discovered that Mr. Edsall’s vision had been obstructed by two other cars, and he could not see Mrs. Driscoll as she crossed the road. The verdict of the court was accidental death. Eyewitnesses stated Mrs. Driscoll panicked at the sight of Mr. Edsall’s car and didn’t get out of the way, which she could have done easily, as Mr. Edsall was traveling only four miles per hour at the time. So it could basically be called a slow death.
The Mass of Men...
The introspective musings of Henry David Thoreau in his book Walden are made more romantic by the fact that he voluntarily spent two years isolated from the rest of the world. Well, I hate to burst your literary bubble, but Thoreau’s retreat to Walden Pond was more inclusive than reclusive. He built his cabin a scant two miles from his family’s home and either strolled into the village, had friends visit him at the pond, or trotted home to raid the family cookie jar nearly eve
ry day. Even though his retreat was more like setting up camp in your backyard, you don’t have to throw Thoreau away.
Not knowing the name of a particular cape during
his voyage up the Bering Strait around 1850,
a British officer wrote “? Name” on the map he
was creating. When the map was being copied, the
mapmaker misread the annotation as “C. Nome,”
or Cape Nome, and used that name on his map.
It was from this geographical mistake that the town
of Nome, Alaska, was named.
Stupid History: Tales of Stupidity, Strangeness, and Mythconceptions Throughout the Ages Page 3