Think back on the biggest obsession of your life. Maybe you had a huge thing for a girl in chemistry, or a huge thing for putting chemistry in a girl (because you're a drug dealer). Whatever your fixation was, you probably outgrew it and moved on to something else. We can't say the same about these guys, because their freakish infatuations changed the world.
5The Lunatic Who Wrote the Dictionary
The next time you call someone "cray," which will hopefully be about one year in the past, think of W.C. Minor. (Also know that you sound like a big dumb goofball ding-a-ling when you say "cray.") In 1864, Minor was a surgeon serving on the Union front line when he was given the duty of branding a fellow soldier's face with "D" for "deserter." Now, you and I know that branding another human's face is so nuts that Tarantino is probably already putting the scene in his next Civil War/Bollywood mashup called Djamputeena Uncut. Minor, however, was two steps shy of a nervous breakdown. The act of pressing hot metal onto a fellow man's face was exactly enough to push him over the edge.
Within seven years of the incident, Minor's mental health had deteriorated to the point where he moved from America to England as if he'd never heard of things like barbecue or democracy. Oh, and he straight-up murdered a guy in a delusional fit. Minor was judged insane and committed to an English asylum, but luckily for him, he had money, connections, and a bitchin' beard, so his sentence was more of a mandatory timeout than a prison term. But it's there in that asylum that things get interesting for our crazy murderer.
For starters: BEARD PERM.
All his life, Minor had one obsession: words. Three years before the branding meltdown, he agreed to contribute to a new edition of Webster's An American Dictionary of the English Language by defining words in the natural history category. The problem was that he suuuuuuucked. Minor sucked so hard that his definitions were called "defective" and "inverted," which is 19th century speak for "a diaper full of diarrhea water" and "stanky." One expert published five whole pages cataloging Minor's mistakes. Picture this guy with that "You Had a Bad Day" song playing on a loop, all day, everyday.
So after he did some murder (of a person and the English language), Minor was committed to the Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum in 1874. Cut to 1879, when the editor of the yet-to-be-published Oxford English Dictionary put out a call for help. Unlike America's one-volume slapdash effort, the Oxford English Dictionary would use as many volumes as it needed to define every word ever, complete with illustrations and lots of quotes from verifiable sources backing up definitions. Think of the OED as the world's first Wikipedia.
Minus the personal appeals for money.
Guess who took that request for quotations to his murderous heart? Deep behind the walls of Broadmoor Criminal Insane Asylum, W.C. Minor developed a system of poring through his own library in search of illustrative quotes. So let's say the OED was working on defining the phrase "booty meat." Minor would find a sentence like "The knight's booty meat glistened in the sun" from The Canterbury Tales or whatever. Finding words was all the guy did. For two decades. To the point where he ended up supplying 12,000 illustrative quotes in a two-year span and was the OED's biggest contributor. Each definition was marked with the return address "Broadmoor Asylum," and the editors naturally thought he was a doctor in charge, not an American murderer who'd lost it two decades prior.
4The Poison Squad Invented the FDA
Let's say you're a parent and you've got a kid who won't stop eating glue, no matter how many times you tell him that it's really pony sperm. A reasonable person would probably just take the glue away and make the kid use tape. If you were chemist Harvey Wiley, you'd systematically feed a team of volunteers glue every day for five years to prove how much glue it takes to poison them. In this analogy, the glue was poisonous additives, the toddler was the American public, and the volunteers were really volunteers. (I dropped out of Analogy School.)
Harvey Wiley dropped out of Reasonable Hand Size School.
In 1902, Department of Agriculture chief chemist Harvey Wiley got $5,000 from Congress to figure out what was up with the preservatives getting stuffed into food. Only a few years earlier, soldiers fighting in the Spanish-American War complained that their tinned beef tasted like embalming fluid and smelled like human cadavers -- and they would know, on both counts. Soldiers suspected that the meat was laced with boric acid to hide the fact that it was as putrid as the word "putrid" when you say it like this: "peeeeewtrid."
So Wiley gets his $5,000 and sets up a lab full of chimps to systematically study the effects of eating a diet of food filled with additives. WRONG. He asks a regular crew of volunteers from the Department of Agriculture to ingest poisoned food every day for five years -- just to see what happens. Despite having jobs, salaries, and access to regular not-poisoned food, a dozen otherwise sane men volunteered to eat meals laced with borax, salicylic acid, sulfuric acid, sodium benzoate, and formaldehyde. And the meals were just the beginning of the crazy: Each man also had his poop and pee tested daily to see what was coming out. And each volunteer promised not to hold the government liable, no matter what kind of sludge came out of his tear ducts when he cried himself to sleep at night.
The media ate the story up, every pun intended. Reporters staked out the kitchen to find out what nastiness was on the menu, and a minstrel troupe regularly performed a song called "Song of the Pizen Squad," which was probably the equivalent of getting Konyed at the time.
This is America drinking faulty Chairman Mao juice.
Four years after the experiment began, the Pure Food and Drug Act was passed and the Food and Drug Administration was born. True, other people got on the "What the crap is in our food?" bandwagon in the meantime: Upton Sinclair published The Jungle, and a woman named Alice Lakey spearheaded a national letter-writing campaign to legislate food safety. But the heavy hitter in the fight to regulate food was a guy so crazy that he fed people formaldehyde to prove a point.