That last part was particularly bad news for Friesema, who claimed that his many years of service enforcing whatever "rules" hockey pretends to abide by would be lost if he couldn't return to Colorado sooner, but, as the judge was eager to point out, the order was indeed justified, given just how disorderly Friesema's conduct had been.

Oh, and thanks to Friesema's quip, the airport's main terminal was shut down for three hours in the middle of a cold Alaska night, causing several costly delays and forcing hundreds of pissed-off passengers (including many who were dressed in summer attire en route from warmer destinations) to shuttle to another terminal, hide out in a rental car garage, or simply huddle up in a freezing arctic doorway for a couple of hours while the FBI double-checked to make sure this really was just an extreme case of failed flirtation and not the most poorly planned and executed terror attack in history.

One Small Problem

Even though the story was outlandish and occasionally nonsensical (besides labeling the incident "A Shocking Sabbath Carnival of Death," it also claimed that one of the escaped rhinos "appeared the picture of stupid amiability" and that a Bengal tiger "seemed as harmless as a prostrate forest tree"), it ran 10,000 words long and occupied six full columns. So you can imagine how a reader would just glance at the headline, see the sheer scale of the article, and assume that no newspaper would take a mere joke that far.

And, save for one tiny paragraph at the bottom of the last page, there was no mention whatsoever that the catastrophe might possibly be made up and that maybe people shouldn't drop everything to prepare for the terrifying animal apocalypse soon to be heading their way.

Carl van Vechten
"I don't see how scaring the shit out of people through mass media could possibly backfire." -Orson Welles, 70 years later

The Aftermath

The joke was picked up on by approximately no one, as most readers were far too busy loading their weapons or retrieving their kids from school to bother reading the entire article. As described by the Museum of Hoaxes:

"By all accounts, the article caused widespread panic throughout the city. Armed men rushed into the streets, ready to defend their homes. Reporters were dispatched to cover the story. The police mobilized. Parents rushed to bring their children back from school."

Getty
"Remember, honey: You're already dead. Don't give that lion the pleasure of tasting fear."

In a follow-up story, the New York Times printed letters from readers who'd genuinely feared for their safety on account of the hoax (on a related note, Connery later claimed that on the day of publication, the editor of the Times "ran out of his home waving two pistols in the air, ready to shoot the first animal he encountered"), while several of the more bitter victims went a step further, marching to the district attorney's office and demanding that the Herald pay for their deception. They didn't, as far as we know, but we can't say the same for ...

One Small Problem

Although they did omit the Harrier from the official catalog of prizes, at no point did Pepsi ever come right out and say, "Oh yeah, and that part about us somehow being authorized to issue fully functional, state-of-the-art military aircraft to anyone who drinks roughly 17,000 years' worth of soda? Totally not true!"

The Aftermath

John Leonard, a 21-year-old business student from Seattle, saw that ad and immediately jumped off his couch, snapped his fingers, and declared, "Oh hell no! They're not getting away with this shit!"

Five months later, some unsuspecting Pepsi employee opened a package from Leonard and found inside 15 Pepsi Points, a $700,000 check (additional points could be purchased outright for 10 cents each), and an order form with the words "1 Harrier Jet" handwritten at the bottom of the "Item" column. While we're not sure whether the aforementioned employee then fainted, shat their pants, or just laughed hysterically at the absurd request for hours on end, one thing we know they definitely didn't do was send back a $33 million airplane they never had in the first place and that the U.S. government would never allow them, or anyone else, to ever possess in flyable condition anyway.

"We have an exclusive deal with Coke."

Instead of the plane, Pepsi mailed back some free coupons and an overly polite explanation that despite his impressive efforts (Leonard was able to convince five greedy investors to put up the cash and did already have a team of lawyers lined up for the legal battle that was inevitably about to ensue), he wasn't getting no stinkin' jet. But, instead of simply taking that news in stride and moving on to some other despicable get-rich scheme, Leonard responded with an ultimatum: Either send me my jet or I'll see you in court.

And that's how Pepsi's stupid throwaway joke at the end of an advertisement wound up keeping them tied up in court for three years. It wasn't until 1999 that a federal court finally made official a settlement in which Leonard agreed to withdraw his claim. Pepsi did not, at the end of all of that, have to buy the guy a jet, but did have to eat about $90,000 in legal fees defending the case. And this, kids, is why every commercial has to have a stupid disclaimer at the bottom, no matter how ridiculous the thing you're seeing onscreen.

Always read the fine print. That's where they get you.

And yes, Avon was slammed with "several hundred" calls from people trying to order their ridiculous contraptions; so many, in fact, that until the madness died down, they had to bring on additional staff to answer the phones and crush the dreams of some "very upset" potential customers. Others took a more direct approach by mailing checks straight to the office with attachments indicating how many of each item they wanted, in what color, and in what size.

Even stranger is the fact that Avon didn't even include their real phone number in the catalog, meaning that those several hundred calls were generated by people who looked up the number, no easy feat by 1982 standards. People were that desperate to give Avon their money in exchange for this fictional bullshit. The reception was so great at one point that Avon even considered actually producing the items, but chose not to because they didn't think they could keep up with the demand. The demand, that is, for products like battery-operated eyeglass wipers. And now you know how Hammacher Schlemmer can continue to exist.