All language subtitles for Hazardous.History.with.Henry.Winkler.S02E17.Crazy.Cures.1080p.AMZN.WEB-DL.DDP2.0.H.264-RAWR_track3_[eng]

Do you remember

when a cure for deafness
came with a window seat?

Pilots take you thousands

of feet in the air doing
crazy vertical dives,

corkscrew turns,
and loopty loops.

You might get sick
but passengers say

that it does work.

Or when a treatment for
allergies was a real whiz?

You provide a urine sample.

It's put through a centrifuge

and then injected
back into your body.

That's right, you get
injected with your own pee.

Or when one medical
breakthrough could be deadly.

On one side it says
dose, one tablet.

On the other side, it says
poison, which one is it?

I'm not a doctor,

but giving children rat
poison isn't good for them.

These are the
things we used to do.

For fun, for money,

or maybe out of boredom,
that we'll never see again.

Were they dangerous? Certainly.

Deadly? Occasionally.

But boy, wasn't it exciting?

Don't you wish that curing
dental issues could be as fun

and painless as seeing a show?

Well, there was a time when
that wasn't just a fantasy,

except maybe for
the painless part.

In the 1890s, dentistry
is very, very painful.

There's really no
anesthesia, no antibiotics,

so you could walk in there
to get a tooth pulled

and walk out with a very
dangerous infection.

Most people just avoid
the dentist altogether.

So when a man named Edgar
Randolph Parker graduates

from dental school and goes
to set up his dental practice,

he's got a problem.

No patients.

So he decides he's going
to stand on a street corner

with a very unique
dental sales pitch.

He will pull your
tooth out for 50 cents,

and if you feel pain,
he'll pay you $5.

There is a saying,
"The house always wins."

Well, Parker is the house.

He's placing the bet,

and he has one very
significant ace up his sleeve.

A little substance
known as cocaine.

Now, as crazy as it
seems, at this point in history,

cocaine is completely
legal in the United States.

It's actually seen as
a very effective cure-all

for everything from
stomach issues to fatigue.

It's a great painkiller.

You used to even be able

to buy cocaine
capsules at a pharmacy.

Plus, cocaine is
pretty cheap.

You could buy a box of cocaine
pills for like 50 cents.

In today's money,
that's like $18.

So for the same price you're
spending on a six-pack of beer,

you're getting a box of cocaine.

What Parker does is
add the cocaine to water

and inject it directly
into the patient's gums.

If you inject cocaine into
your gum, it's going to work.

It's going to kill the pain.

And if the pain
returns,

just top them off
with a bit of whiskey.

He markets himself
as painless Parker,

and people who are terrified
of the dentist start lining up.

That's when he
decides to upgrade his cure

into a traveling show.

He calls it the
Painless Parker Dental Circus.

This is back when
traveling medicine men

are a thing.

Why not have a
traveling dental circus?

You make money off of the show
and also off the dentistry.

Who cares that you're pulling
out teeth around animals

in completely
unsanitary conditions?

Parker's circus
has everything.

Dancing ladies,
contortionists, show girls

with a 15-piece band, and of
course, the main attraction.

Tooth pulling with
cocaine and whiskey.

Parker is dressed
to the nines.

He's wearing a top hat,
he's wearing tails,

and he's wearing a necklace

of 357 human teeth that he
pulled out in a single day.

He's like the
ringmaster at a

three-ring circus.

And he's selling dental hygiene

and products like Painless
Parker's mouthwash.

After warming up
the crowd, he proceeds

to the main attraction or
extraction, if you will.

He gets a volunteer
from the audience.

He takes out his tools.

He does his injections and
his whatnot and like magic.

No wincing, no winging,
no yelping, nothing.

Painless Parker.

There's a good reason
things go so well,

and it's not the cocaine.

So the person who
volunteers is a plant.

Somebody who has a fake
tooth that Parker pretends

to pull out.

Painless Parker
is Billy [bleep]

but his spectacle is flawless.

And the crowd falls for it.
They're totally into it.

But the extractions

for real patients
aren't always painless.

As Parker starts speeding
up things, he takes a shortcut

of squirting the cocaine
into the cavity rather

than injecting it into the gum.

And that doesn't work the same.

Injecting the cocaine
directly

into the cavity can
cause infections.

If you swallow it, it
can cause other problems

like heart attacks.

And it doesn't really
get rid of the pain.

People are now
screaming throughout these

procedures, but Parker, being
the showman that he is,

has a way to cover it up.

He just cues the
band to play louder.

Drown out the screams.

After each performance,

Parker hits the road,

leaving behind some
pretty irate customers.

Dental boards are furious.

Dentists and states
start to sue him.

The American Dental
Association brands him a menace

to the dignity of
the profession.

In California,
he's actually banned

from calling himself Painless,

which obviously is
his whole brand.

So he know what he
does?

He legally changes his
first name to Painless.

Just using my name, folks.

Even his band can't
drown out the legal threats

and lawsuits.

Parker's down, but he's not out.

Painless Parker retires
the circus and goes legit.

He eventually operates a chain
of successful dental clinics

and speaks about the importance
of preventative health

and dental hygiene.

But Parker never
loses his love of performing.

He makes educational films.

He hosts a call-in radio show,

and he even helps the
animal's teeth at the zoo.

You know, his methods

in retrospect probably
weren't the right thing to do,

but I appreciate a man
like Painless Parker trying

to make it better for all of us.

Now, if you think Painless
Parker was wild, wait

until you meet Clark Stanley.

He had a cure that
would leave you rattled.

In the 19th century,

America is building a
vast railroad network.

It's very difficult, very
dangerous, grueling work.

And so the typical
worker suffers from a lot

of physical aches and pains.

For thousands

of Chinese immigrants
working on the railroad,

there is a cure.

Oil derived from their
native water snakes.

Chinese workers rub this on
their bodies where it hurts,

and it actually relieves
the symptoms of arthritis,

bursitis, and rheumatism.

Sounds crazy, but
it really works.

These snakes contain a high
level of omega-3 fatty acids,

which deliver
actual pain relief.

Suddenly,

there's a market for snake
oil in the American West.

There's only one problem.

America doesn't
have those snakes.

But one entrepreneur
sees an opportunity

to make a lot of money.

Clark Stanley, he's a cowboy,

and he sees rattlesnake oil
as a business opportunity.

Rattlesnakes are a
totally different snake,

but it sounds good.

I mean, what's more
potent than a rattlesnake?

And that's good
enough for Stanley.

Stanley decides to
debut this snake oil

at the world's Colombian
Exposition in 1893.

Millions of Americans
come to this thing

to see fascinating
new inventions.

This is where the
world is first introduced

to Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer,

the automatic dishwasher,
and Wrigley's chewing gum.

Stanley, he rises
to the occasion,

dressed in full cowboy garb

with a crowd
gathering around him.

He slices open a
live rattlesnake,

drops it in boiling water.

He skims the oil off the top
and bottles it right there.

He calls it Clark Stanley's
Snake Oil Liniment.

He claims he was
taught this recipe

by a Hopi medicine man.

He said it cures
basically any ailment.

Clark Stanley's
snake oil liniment

will kill your baldness.

This will solve
your male impotence.

Do you have rheumatism
or arthritis?

Only Clark's patented snake
oil liniment will help you.

But rattlesnake oil
doesn't even contain enough

omega-3s

to soothe your muscles,
much less do anything else.

His snake oil cure is a sham.

Stanley launches
a nationwide blitz

of newspaper ads and live shows

featuring his phony
rattlesnake cure-all.

It's pretty insane,

but the product is
actually so successful

that he sets up two different
production facilities,

one in Massachusetts
and one in Rhode Island,

neither of which are known

for having rattlesnakes
in that area.

It actually doesn't
matter where he sets up shop,

because the only time

that Clark Stanley's snake
oil liniment contains

any snake oil at all is at
the Colombian Exposition.

Once it went to market,

there was never any snake
oil in his snake oil cure.

So what's really in
Stanley's snake oil?

Thanks to the Pure Food and
Drug Act, we actually know.

In 1916, federal
agents seize bottles of his

liniment, and they
find that what's inside

of it is a little bit alarming.

Instead of snake oil,
it contains mineral oil,

capsaicin from chili peppers,
camphor, and turpentine.

Turpentine dissolves
paint, it is highly toxic.

And here people are rubbing
Stanley's concoction

onto themselves like baby oil.

Stanley's
eventually fined $20.

It's a meaningless
amount of money,

but that destroys his reputation

and causes his
empire to collapse.

Stanley does leave us
with one final gift though.

We now have the expression
snake oil salesman

to describe someone
who's trying to scam you.

We all know the
importance of being regular,

but one man built
an empire taking

that idea a little too far.

John Harvey Kellogg is
born one of 17 children.

The Kellogg family
is a big family,

but sadly, it's also
riddled with illness.

He himself suffers
from tuberculosis,

severe constipation,
and hemorrhoids,

and six of his 16 siblings
die of infectious disease.

Kellogg goes on
to become a doctor,

and in 1876, he takes
over the management

of the Battle Creek Medical
Surgical Sanitarium in Michigan.

People will hear
sanitarium

and they'll think crazy people.

It actually has more

to do with the word
sanitary being clean,

and it was a place for
people with all kinds

of different
illnesses to get well.

Kellogg quickly
turns his childhood sickness

into the main focus
of the sanitarium.

And he believes health
starts from the inside.

Kellogg's work leads

to a theory that all
this disease is caused

by food sitting too
long in the intestine,

basically causing your body
to rot from the inside out.

And he calls it
auto-intoxication.

His solution for
auto-intoxication is simple.

More bowel movements.

And not just like one a day.

We're talking at
least four a day.

But you can't make four
bowel movements a day just

because your doctor
tells you to.

It's not how it works.

So Kellogg invents
a colonic irrigator

that can pump 15 quarts of fluid

into your intestines per minute.

Imagine all the fluid
in one gallon of water.

Now imagine four of those shot

into your colon every minute.

Four of those.

This is not a
relaxing day at the spa.

This is a fire hose
in the outhole.

The colonic irrigator
was not his only attempt

at getting people to poop.

He would invent things
like a chair that vibrated

and made you had to clean out.

This guy's a mad scientist.

He's like the Willy
Wonka of poop.

The machines do everything.

They beat you and pummel
you and shake you.

And after all the
flushing,

Kellogg's going to
give you a yogurt enema

to basically replenish
bacteria in the gut.

By the early 1900s,

the Battle Creek Sanitarium
becomes the wellness resort

of its day.

At its height, it has up
to 1300 patients at a time,

paying 45 to $60 a week.

That's more than twice what
the average worker makes

at the time.

From where I'm sitting
now,

I could look at these
things and be like,

"That's so stupid, and
who would do that?"

But if you look at who did it,

it was like influencers
of the time.

Celebrities would hear
about these things

and then go and do them.

Everyone from Henry
Ford to Thomas Edison,

Booker T. Washington, Amelia
Earhart, Eleanor Roosevelt,

they all come for their
industrial strengths enemas.

But the sanitarium
isn't the oasis it claims

to be.

This enema machine
forces high pressured water

through the system, basically
like a power washer.

It cleans out waste,

but it also can tear
away parts of the colon

and cause a lot of damage.

Ironically,

excessive enema use can
actually lead to constipation.

It's unknown how many
people were injured

or even killed by this
dangerous procedure,

but we do know that there
were several suicides,

which would suggest this
is maybe not a safe place

to go get medical care.

And yet, the
sanitarium is wildly successful

until the Great Depression.

After the stock
market crash,

people don't have money anymore

for recreational
colon cleansing.

So in 1933, the sanitarium
is put into receivership

and it ultimately
closes in the 1940s.

But the end of
the sanitarium does not mean

the end of Kellogg's ideas.

He is just as obsessed with
what goes into the body

as what comes out.

He created a sort
of cereal porridge,

but one night it happened
to dry on the rollers.

And suddenly these
flakes appeared.

Changing the Kellogg
family fortune forever

with the iconic
Kellogg's cornflake.

If you think those
constipation cures defy logic,

there was another miracle
cure that was even more

of a stretch.

In the early 20th
century, the average guy was

about 5' 7", and the average
woman was about 5'3".

Much like today, height
equals confidence,

authority, and power.

So what do you do
if you want to be taller?

Well, in 1914, science had
the answer with the invention

of the pendiculator.

The pendiculator is
this polished wooden table

with leather straps.

You lay down, you strap
your head on one end,

and then your feet on the other,

and then you start to crank.

The crank slowly
stretches your body.

Adds promise that it will
lengthen compressed vertebrae,

and restore inches
lost to gravity.

Some customers report
that they've gained two

and a half inches,
two and a half inches.

That's kind of the difference
between looking up at someone

and looking them in the eye.

The pendiculator
not only promises to make you

taller, but it promises to
relieve back pain, constipation,

headaches, crooked posture,
and even exhausted nerves.

Ads declare that
the pendiculator can give you

the health and
vigor of a soldier.

If you saw the ads, you'd
go, maybe that's worth trying.

Sounds like it would work.

Doctors endorse it.
Newspapers promote it.

You can even order one by
mail, no prescription required.

A doctor in Tampa
advises his patients to come

in and use his pendiculator
if you want superb shoulders

and back, or you want
to gain a little height.

Another doctor calls the
pendiculator the most important

health invention of the century

and urges his patients to come
into his office to grow tall.

But the pendiculator
isn't all it's cracked up to be.

It's a cool idea,

but there's no safety
mechanisms on this thing.

So basically people are
willingly subjecting themselves

to extreme spinal traction
without any medical supervision,

which is a recipe for herniated
discs, for chronic pain,

for paralysis, and
on and on and on.

This is the
medieval torture device known as

the rack.

But now we have upcycled it
with a polished wooden surface

and the promise that
you'll be taller.

But it's literally
ripping your spine apart.

People start
complaining.

They're not getting taller,
but they are getting hurt.

Amazingly, it goes
on to sell for 30 years.

The pendiculator
doesn't meet its end

by getting pulled
from the market.

It's actually the US Post
Office that steps up to say,

"This thing is so fraudulent,
we refuse to ship it."

And that was it.

So in the end,

the pendiculator didn't
quite measure up.

What do you do when
you're feeling tired?

Reach for coffee
or an energy drink?

You won't believe what
doctors used to prescribe

for a quick pick-me-up.

In the late 19th century,
Americans are tired.

Industrial work is grueling.

Nutrition is inconsistent,
and diseases like tuberculosis

and anemia are all over the
place, people are run down.

So doctors had
a little something

that could put a little
pep in your step,

and they called it strychnine.

Now, you may have
heard of strychnine

before because it's the thing
that we all use to kill rats.

Does it help with
energy? I don't know.

I'm not going to try it.

Ultimately, it
doesn't help the rats.

You ever seen a
rat on rat poison?

They don't look very
energetic to me.

But in the late 1800s,
it was used as a nerve stimulant

and as a medicinal tonic
in very small doses.

Advertisers promote
the drug

as this kind of
cure-all du jour.

Whatever you've
got, it can fix it.

They say it'll
restore flagging strength,

revive masculine vigor,
cure the despondent.

It'll do everything.

It's sold in
pharmacies across the country,

and in some versions,

they're in tiny little
chocolate morsels.

It's like microdosing
before microdosing was popular.

You could buy little pieces

of it and just chew on
it throughout the day.

But its
most memorable use

is as a performance-enhancing
drug in the Olympics.

In 1904,

an Olympian named Thomas
Hicks is running the marathon.

He collapses in the middle

of it as a result
of his exhaustion.

His trainers then
rush to the scene

and give him a
formula of egg whites

and Strychnine that
brings him back to health.

Later, he gets a second
dose mixed with Brandy.

What a treat.

He does finish, Andy wins Gold,

but it's not really
doping at the time.

It was more like nutrition.

This is a time

when strychnine is even
considered safe enough for kids.

In 1894, in a
newspaper column,

someone writes in and says,
"Hey, my kid's lethargic.

They just don't have as
much energy as they should.

What should we do?"

And the doctor said,

"Oh, just give them a half
a teaspoon of strychnine

before each meal."

What?

That's a ton of strychnine.

I'm not a doctor.

I haven't gone to any
fancy medical schools,

but I do believe giving
children rat poison isn't good

for them.

In fact, the
line between therapeutic

and toxic is razor thin.

On one side, it
says dose, one tablet.

And on the other
side, it says poison.

Which one is it?

Just a few milligrams
too much

of strychnine will cause
your back to seize.

Arch like a bow.

It could cause asphyxiation,
seizures, and even death.

As the 20th century goes
on,

reports of accidental
strychnine overdoses

are flooding the
medical journals.

You've got imprecise measurement
in tonics leading to death.

You've got children mistaking
chocolate-covered strychnine

for candies and dying.

It's a bad situation.

It's not until 1962
that strychnine use

on human beings is
completely banned.

But if you want to charge
yourself up a little bit,

that's right

at about the time that
instant coffee takes off.

Before American doctors
went crazy for strychnine,

they went mad for an
equally curious remedy.

In the 1800s, if
you went to the doctor

for basically anything,
syphilis,

gonorrhea, tuberculosis,

a cold, you would probably leave

with this small pill
called Blue Mass.

Most of the
ingredients seem pretty

harmless, licorice, rose
water, honey, sugar,

but also something
called quicksilver.

Quicksilver is like a jaunty
name for pure liquid mercury.

At the time,

they though mercury was
kind of like a cure-all.

Mercury is this
mesmerizing,

highly reflective liquid
that seems like it's magic.

So it would make sense that
people would want to use it

to cure things because magic
can do incredible things.

Blue Mass
is used by everyone

and anyone, including
future presidents.

In 1841, Abraham Lincoln
starts taking the pills

to manage melancholy.

Today, we would call
that depression.

Shortly after his
inauguration as president,

he determines that these pills
are making him irritable.

It is a little surprising
that it took him 20 years

to figure this out.

You know, he starts in
1841 and stops in 1861.

Lincoln was
irrationally angry

and having these mood swings.

And when he stops taking these
pills, that's when he sort

of settles into the character
that he's remembered for,

patient and thoughtful
and contemplative.

Is it a coincidence? Maybe.

But mercury is known
to cause mood swings.

Quicksilver also
causes bleeding gums, coughing,

vomiting, and trouble breathing.

But doctors at the time
take these symptoms

as signs that the
medicine is working.

What doctors though was
a therapeutic reaction

to this medicine was
actually just early signs

of mercury poisoning.

The modern analysis

of Blue Mass has revealed
that the doses of mercury

in it were 9,000 times higher
than today's safe level.

So people were getting
like real crazy hits

of mercury back then.

By the early 20th
century,

doctors realized they were
wrong about this cure-all pill

and Blue Mass goes away.

It's just funny

because the human body is the
most complicated organism.

But the medical profession
at that time though,

it's easy guys.

We just need one pill.
Let's not complicate it.

Turns out one of history's
favorite mood stabilizers

was a little unstable.

At the dawn of aviation,

airplanes weren't
just thrilling.

They were mysterious and
powerful and magical.

And when something
new feels magical,

people start to believe
it can do anything.

Like maybe even curing the sick.

After the Wright
Brother's famous flight in 1903,

America becomes
obsessed with airplanes

and airplane technology,

the number of airplanes
grows exponentially.

They're used for
agriculture, for transportation,

for shipping, for warfare.

Then a
story hits the news

that seems almost impossible.

A World War I veteran
named Henry Renz mysteriously

loses the ability to speak.

Doctors try every cure they can
think of, but nothing works.

So after eight
months of all kinds of tests

and coming up with nothing,

he goes to the US
Public Health Service.

And there,

a doctor tells him that his
problem is psychological.

What does he prescribe
as treatment? A plane ride.

The fact that a
doctor could even think

of using an airplane

as a medicinal cure shows just
how novel they really were.

People weren't sure what
planes could and couldn't do.

So why not give it a try?

His theory is that
if you take a patient thousands

of feet in the air and you
do all these dramatic turns

and you're in this different
sort of air pressure system,

you will actually reset
their nervous system.

Whether it was
psychological or physiological

or merely a placebo
effect, when Renz lands,

they ask him if he can talk

and he says, "I don't know
whether I can talk or not."

Which says everything.

Newspapers spread
the story across the country

and soon curative
flights start taking off.

In 1922,

a World War I veteran
by the name of

Augustus S. Harris

is dismissed from
a military hospital

as being hopelessly deaf.

Thinking that maybe
the changes in air pressure

at high altitude can help,

the American Legion
arranges a flight.

The plane takes
Harris to 16,000 feet,

and then suddenly he
regains his ability to hear.

After word gets out
about Harris being cured

by taking a flight,

other pilots begin to offer
this deaf-curing service.

Even well-known
pilots go along for the ride.

In 1925, two years

before his big flight, for $50,

Charles Lindbergh
will take you up,

spin you around 28 times.

You might get sick,

but his passengers
say that it does work.

But these
miracle flights come

with multiple risks.

These pilots are
using

these decommissioned
World War I planes,

and some of them
have been in combat

and they're really
beat up and old,

and now they're pushing
them to their limits.

Doing crazy vertical
dives and corkscrew turns

and loopty loops.

In 1930, the wing of a
plane that is flying comes off.

The plane crashes into a
swamp, kills the pilot,

and the person that
was hoping for a cure.

Another deaf flight in
Massachusetts results

in the deaths of three people.

Eventually, science
and common sense catch up.

By the late 1920s, medical
journals debunked the treatment,

and these flights are
ultimately grounded.

Whatever the reason
these people got better,

who knows?

But it definitely wasn't
the plane ride itself.

Doctors ultimately realized
that if it did anything,

it should have made
them much worse.

Rapid changes in air
pressure

and the noise of loud
engines is much more likely

to damage your hearing
than to heal it.

At the same time Americans
are fascinated by flight,

they're also obsessed with
another new wonder, electricity.

But some people took that
obsession a little too far.

At the beginning
of the 20th century,

electricity is transforming
every facet of American life.

Streetlights glow, homes
hum with appliances,

and factories roar to life.

As people see all the
things that electricity can do,

some begin to wonder,

can we use electricity
to improve our health?

So several
enterprising companies come up

with a device called the
Violet Ray Generator.

This is a handheld
device that channels high

voltage through a glass tube
filled with gas.

When activated, it glows purple,

hence the name
Violet Ray Generator.

And the manufacturers
claim that it can treat up

to 80 different conditions.

We're talking asthma,
headaches, dandruff, wrinkles,

and even hemorrhoids.

This thing sounds
like a miracle.

Doctors endorse it.
Dentists are using it.

Consumers are buying it.

Everybody is now smitten
with this new technology.

When you're using
them and rubbing them all

over your body,

they're creating these
beautiful purple arcs of light.

But what people don't realize
is that it can generate tens

of thousands of volts.

Some of them
generate 50,000 volts.

That's the same as a stun gun. .

If you don't use it right,
you could suffer burns,

electrical shocks, other
electrical injuries.

It's really dangerous.

Prolonged exposure
can absolutely damage your

tissue and worsen the condition
that you're trying

to treat in the first place.

If people are using this
to treat hemorrhoids,

you can end up with some
interesting situations here.

But the
most interesting thing

about the violet ray generator

is even more shocking
than electricity.

The device also
generates ozone,

which manufacturers claim
has antibacterial properties,

but is toxic.

Ozone is O3, meaning
three oxygen atoms combined

into a molecule
rather than just two,

which is what we breathe.

And that third oxygen, that
sucker is highly reactive.

Short-term exposure
to ozone triggers asthma,

and long-term exposure can lead

to chronic respiratory
failure and even death.

It's one thing to
emit ozone,

but the violet ray generator
actually had an ozone setting

to treat lung disease
of all things.

By the late '40s,
the FDA has seen enough

and it files multiple lawsuits

and ultimately the government
bans them completely.

Before it went away, it was
a product that burned bright

for decades and people
had the scars to prove it.

Back in the day, moms
had a cure for everything,

but one popular cold remedy came

with a little more kick
than anyone expected.

In the early 1930s,
when Americans get a cold,

their options aren't very good.

Most people just
suffer through the cold

without any treatment at all.

Then in 1932,

an American pharmaceutical
company introduces

an over-the-counter
cure that's small,

sleek, and revolutionary.

The Benzedrine inhaler.

It's a little tube
that fits in your pocket,

and you just inhale it
through your nostrils,

and it clears your
sinuses in seconds.

Doctors love them,
drugstores stock them

everywhere and by the late 30s,

they are a household staple
with millions sold every year.

But they come
with a dirty little secret.

If you use it
properly, it opens up your

nasal passages.

But if you break it open,
you can get super duper high.

Inside of it was
200 to 300 milligrams

of amphetamine.

And you don't
need a prescription.

You can just go to
the corner drugstore

and get a massive dose of speed.

And while you're at it,

top it off with a milkshake
at the soda fountain.

If you suck on the
cotton swab that's inside of it,

you get the equivalent

of 40 Adderall coursing
through your system.

They keep stuff like
this behind the pharmacy counter

today because if you
buy enough of it,

you can actually
manufacture methamphetamine.

But back in the 30s and
40s, sky's the limit.

Buy all you want.

There's lots of groups
that immediately get into it.

Students who want to stay
awake, to cram for tests,

truck drivers who need
to do a long haul.

There's musicians who
want to just be able

to riff all night
long on the stage.

Jazz legend Charlie
Bird Parker allegedly is

cracking so many inhalers
during his performances

that his stage starts to
look like it just snowed.

It was a massive sales
hit, but it was dangerous.

The stuff is so
potent that militaries

on both sides give
it to their spies

and soldiers to keep them awake
and alert in World War II.

Problem is,

soldiers are coming back from
the war addicted to Bennys.

The overuse of
Benzedrine leads to insomnia,

paranoia.

hallucinations, seizures,
and in some cases, death.

By the late '40s, it's
become rampantly clear

that addiction is
a huge problem.

One newspaper puts it perfectly.

They say Benzedrine
inhalers start dope craze.

The proper thing to do
is to just take this thing

off the shelf, but
there's no profits there,

so the company's not
going to do that.

So they decide to monkey
with it a little bit

and they put dye inside.

So if you do rip it open, use
it, your mouth gets all black

and everybody knows
what you're doing.

They also try to deter the
abusers by adding capsaicin.

That's the stuff that
makes hot peppers hot.

The problem is
people who are using it

for the right reasons
also dealt with that.

Imagine, you're all
congested.

Your eyes are watery,
your nose is stuffy.

The last thing
you want is a shot

of hot pepper up your nose.

But none of these
measures work.

So by 1959, the FDA steps in

and says Benzedrine inhalers
are prescription only.

And a decade later,
Benzedrine itself gets labeled

as a controlled substance.

And just like that,

people who have a cold
are left out in the cold.

When one miracle
cure disappears,

it leaves an opening in
the market for a new one.

In the 1970s, if your
allergies wouldn't go away,

some doctors had a
more personal solution.

Back in the 1970s,
if you had allergies,

you would be treated
with an antihistamine,

but they caused drowsiness.

The type of drowsiness that
would put you out of action.

So people start
looking for alternatives,

but what they find isn't
sold in drugstores.

It's urine.

Dr. George R. Burrell runs

the allergy control
medical clinics.

They're based in
Southern California

and they're working on something
called autoimmune therapy.

Don't worry, patients
are not drinking the urine.

Dr. Burrell has a better idea.

You don't drink
liquids for 12 hours.

You're then exposed
to an allergen.

You then provide a urine sample.

The urine sample is
taken by the clinic

and it's put
through a centrifuge

and then injected
back into your body.

That's right. You get
injected with your own pee.

I mean, my first
thought is that someone

had had a little
too much to drink

and they were like,

"You know, I bet your
pee could heal you."

And they're like,
"You wouldn't dare."

You would think with
all

of the ridiculous
cure-alls we've had

throughout human history,
we'd be done with that.

But it just keeps happening.

The theory is that
the antibodies created

inside you when you were
subjected to your allergens

is basically then
resubmitted into your body.

So it's almost like your
own little mini vaccine

to help you fight
those allergies

and over time overcome them.

When you say it out
loud, you go, "Oh,

that kind of makes sense," but
then when you think about it,

you're like, "So my
pee will cure me?"

That's a tough sell.

Although unconventional,

it seems to work.

Newspapers began
running testimonials

and they're singing its praises.

It has helped with
their hay fever,

their asthma, their eczema.

It has even relieved headaches,

and they make it sound
like urine therapy

is the best thing ever.

It would be great
if your own waste could become

your own cure, but it's
a cure with a catch.

There are so many problems

with injecting your own
urine back into your body.

Urine is what your
body has already decided to get

rid of.

It contains urea and ammonia

and just all kinds of
concentrated waste products.

Injecting it back into the
body forces your kidneys

to filter it all over again,

leading to dehydration
and kidney stress.

In 1976, a committee
of doctors investigate this

clinic and they find no evidence

that these treatments
actually work.

There seems to be
something about the culture

of the '70s where people
were a little fast

and loose with their own health.

Let's just say that treatment
didn't exactly hold water.

There was a time
when Americans believed

the stronger the treatment,
the better the results.

And one doctor took
that philosophy

to truly thunderous extremes.

In 1793 in
Philadelphia,

there is this sense of
promise and hopefulness.

America has waged its

revolutionary
war against Britain.

Now the Constitution, the Bill
of Rights, it's all ratified.

This is literally a moment

that a new nation
has just been born.

And then yellow fever strikes.

Yellow fever is known
as the American plague.

What begins with flu-like
symptoms soon spreads

throughout the body,
causing organ failure

and yellowy, sallow
skin and eyes.

And it gives the fever its name.

When the outbreak starts,
almost half the city flees,

including Alexander Hamilton
and George Washington.

But one of
Philadelphia's most

respected doctors stays behind,

believing he's the one
who can deliver a cure.

Dr. Benjamin Rush
is kind of a big deal.

He's a signer of the
Declaration of Independence,

and he's one of the country's
most famous doctors.

In a time when a
person can be a doctor just

by calling themselves a
doctor, he's a real doctor.

He's attended one of the best
medical schools in Europe.

Like a lot of
doctors at the time,

he believes that the
human body is composed

of four fluids
called the humors.

Black bile, yellow
bile, blood, and phlegm.

If there is a disease,

then it comes from a problem
with one of these four fluids.

So the trick is to
figure out which one

of these four humors is out of
balance and then to purge it.

But Dr. Rush
thinks purging one humor

is not enough.

Dr. Rush is a maximalist.

He believes that if a little
purging is good for you,

a lot is really good for you.

So he creates his own tablets

called Dr. Rush's Bilious Pills.

These things contain
laxatives 10 times stronger

than anything else
on the market.

And as if that's
not extreme enough,

there's a little mercury to
get things moving on both ends.

They cause profuse
sweating, intense vomiting,

extreme diarrhea, and enough
drool to fill a bucket.

These pills don't
just move things along.

They launch them
from every direction.

You've heard of
extra strength pills?

This is super maximum extra,
extra, extra strength.

It basically takes
the colon,

which ordinarily
moves at a trot,

and turns it up
to a full gallop.

Anything that's in you is
going to come out and fast.

Patients say the results of
the pills are so explosive,

they resemble thunder.

So they get the nickname
thunderclappers.

And the results
are deadly serious.

If you're already
suffering from yellow fever,

you likely are dehydrated,

and then all of a sudden
you're doing these things

that are making you
more dehydrated.

You're getting
electrolyte issues.

You go into kidney failure,

and ultimately the likelihood
of dying skyrockets.

It's absolutely crazy
to think that the effects

of these pills are so extreme

that they would
likely kill you way

before the mercury
poisoning could.

Benjamin Rush's
patients end up being four times

more likely to die from yellow
fever than anyone else.

And yet, his
pills remain on the market

until the 1940s.

And we're still finding
traces of them today.

In 1804, Dr. Rush
equips the Lewis

and Clark Expedition with nearly
five dozen thunderclappers,

and they take them prolifically.

This probably was
not so good for them,

but it's very good for
modern historical research.

We're able to retrace their path

because every time
they took these pills

and went to the bathroom,

they would be excreting
mercury deposits.

A lot of it ends up
in the latrine holes

that they make
throughout the journey.

200 years later,

archeologists are excavating
a latrine in Montana.

And what they discover is
it has way more mercury

than in the surrounding soil.

So thanks to Dr. Rush
and his thunderclappers,

we can definitively say Lewis

and Clark were here.

Looking back at
the cures we trusted,

whether it was snake oil
or electric generators,

or a little strychnine to
get us through the day,

some of our remedies may
have been hard to swallow,

but hope has always
been powerful medicine.

And that's why our
hazardous history was just

what the doctor ordered.