Bottle Service: How Snapple Took Over the 1990s

David Paul Morris, Getty Images
David Paul Morris, Getty Images

For many consumer brands, the ultimate sign of success is being the subject of an urban legend. In 1985, Procter & Gamble had to refute accusations that their moon and stars logo was somehow representative of Satan worship. In the 1990s, Kentucky Fried Chicken’s publicity department fielded questions about raising eight-legged chickens with no beaks in order to satisfy product demand. In the trifecta of brand disparagement, a rumor circulated in the early 1970s that “Mikey,” the spokes-kid for Life Cereal, had died after mixing Pop Rocks candy with Coca-Cola to produce a combustible blend that blew up his stomach.

In 1993, it was Snapple’s turn. For months, word had circulated in California's Bay Area that the massively popular iced tea and fruit drink brand was secretly funneling money to the Ku Klux Klan organization. The reason? A small “K” appeared on the product label. The rumor persisted to the point that Snapple took out ads in California newspapers to declare they had no involvement with the group.

That such a rumor existed was a kind of testament to the brand's market dominance. Originally founded in Long Island as a regional manufacturer of alternative drinks, Snapple had grown from $13.3 million in revenue in 1988 to $774 million in 1994. Positioned as a healthy alternative to soft drinks, the company used clever marketing, homespun consumer relations, and a relatable spokeswoman to become one of the biggest consumer success stories of the 1990s.

Unfortunately, Snapple’s problems went beyond being falsely affiliated with a racist hate group. Despite their raging success and a $1.7 billion valuation, the company lost sight of the marketing strategy that had catapulted them to a leading position in the beverage market. By 1997, consumers were losing their taste for the “best stuff on earth."

 
 

Arnold Greenberg was running a health food store in 1972 when two old friends joined him in a new venture. Leonard Marsh and Hyman Golden were brothers-in-law and owned a window washing business. On the side, they partnered with Greenberg to create Unadulterated Food Products, Inc., peddling fruit juices, eggs, and produce to other health food stores in and around New York City.

The men intended for their flagship product to be a carbonated fruit juice, combining the fizz of a soft drink with natural ingredients. Their first try, apple juice, fermented in the bottle and exploded, popping off caps and ruining their inventory. The drink was abandoned, but the name—Snapple, a mix of “snappy” and “apple”—stuck. (A company in Texas happened to have already trademarked the name. The three men bought it for $500.)

A bottle of Snapple sits on a table
chrisjtse, Flickr // CC BY-ND 2.0

Unadulterated Food Products did steady business for much of the 1980s selling to bodegas, delis, and other food service locations where people could pick up a bottle to go along with their lunch. In 1987, they had a breakthrough with their approach to iced tea. By bottling it hot, the company was able to avoid adding preservatives, which bolstered their all-natural claims. And by offering it year-round instead of just in the summer, they appealed to consumers who enjoyed the drink in cooler weather.

Snapple embraced their homemade identity. Sipping tea from their wide-mouth bottles was not unlike sipping from a piece of glassware on a porch somewhere; their labels were haphazard in design, the graphics a little lopsided. Compared to the corporate perfection of Coca-Cola, Snapple seemed scrappy.

 
 

Despite the company’s commitment to a casual aesthetic, Greenberg and his partners were taken aback in 1993, when advertising firm Kirshenbaum Bond presented their newest idea for a national ad campaign. They wanted to film the company’s mailroom lady, Wendy Kaufman.

Kaufman had arrived at Snapple in 1991 after getting a referral from a friend’s father who also happened to be a close friend of Greenberg’s. Working in the shipping department, Kaufman took notice of the many letters that were pouring in to the company’s Valley Stream, Long Island headquarters. She asked a supervisor if she could begin responding to them. From there, Kaufman’s job developed into more of a public relations representative.

The ad firm’s idea was to maintain both Snapple’s simplicity and Kaufman’s unrehearsed appeal by shooting a series of television spots that would feature her reading real letters from behind a desk and then following up with the correspondent. One kid wrote in saying he’d make a good mascot; Kaufman showed up with a film crew and took him to mascot school. Another asked Kaufman to be his prom date; she accepted.

For Kaufman, it was an opportunity to distance herself from a self-admitted coke addiction (not the carbonated kind) that had started in 1980. For Snapple, it represented a chance to further their brand identity by passing up the kind of rock star endorsements common in the beverage industry. The 37 commercial spots, shot between 1993 and 1995, were enormously popular, and Kaufman became a mascot on par with Tony the Tiger. She made personal appearances, storming dorm rooms with cases of Snapple. She sifted through 2000 letters a week. Sales jumped from $232 million in 1992 to $774 million in 1994. Snapple was on Seinfeld, on the lips of radio personality Howard Stern, and celebrated for its unique marketing approach.

Then “Crapple” happened.

 
 

In 1992, Greenberg, Marsh, and Golden agreed to sell a majority stake in Snapple to the Thomas H. Lee investment firm, with Marsh remaining on as CEO. Then, in 1994, Snapple was sold to the Quaker Oats Company. As successful as Snapple had been, industry observers were excited to see what a global conglomerate could do to carry the brand further.

As the Harvard Business Review would later point out, fostering an already-successful brand is not as easy as it appears. Quaker Oats had enjoyed an explosion of support for its Gatorade sports drink brand and believed it could apply some of those same strategies to Snapple. Bottles got bigger, from the standard 16 ounces to 32 and even 64-ounce containers. Gone was Kaufman, no longer a good fit for Quaker’s polished promotional plans. They also cut ties with Stern, believing the controversial entertainer didn't reflect Snapple’s growing maturity in the market.

Bottles of Snapple line a store shelf
David Paul Morris, Getty Images

In retrospect, Quaker had erred on all counts. Consumers had little interest in vats of iced tea in 64-ounce containers, preferring to sip smaller bottles at work. They missed Kaufman, who was synonymous with the brand’s irreverence and homegrown feel. And Stern, who could be caustic when he felt minimized by sponsors, began using his considerable airtime to roast Snapple, calling it “Crapple.” The rants were beamed to millions of his listeners at stations around the country.

Quaker had, in effect, misjudged or mistimed Snapple’s graduation from plucky beverage upstart to a dignified institution. The company sold the brand to Triarc for $300 million in 1997. They had paid $1.4 billion for it just three years earlier. Following the sale, Quaker CEO Bill Smithburg resigned from his post.

 
 

Though Snapple’s heyday may have passed, there was still considerable consumer enthusiasm for its more adventurous flavors (like Diet Kiwi Strawberry Cocktail, which was allegedly a favorite among some horses at a Seattle stable) and for a return to less aggressive marketing. In 1997, Triarc invited Kaufman not only to come back and shoot a new commercial but to allow her face to be stamped on every bottle of Wendy’s Tropical Inspiration. And instead of limiting distributors to certain flavors, they shipped out more varied assortments and let consumers decide what they liked.

Triarc’s success was as notable as Quaker’s failure. The company sold Snapple to Cadbury Schweppes in 2000 for $1.45 billion. As part of the Dr Pepper Snapple Group, the brand changed hands once more early in 2018, selling to coffee cup giant Keurig, part of the JAB Holdings investment group, in exchange for $18.7 billion to shareholders.

It’s been a roller coaster of a ride for Snapple, which started in a small health food store, became a part of popular culture, was nearly done in by a misguided marketing plan, and was finally restored to its former glory by a company willing to get back to the basics.

As for that hate group involvement: The “K” on the label never had any connection with Klan activity. It stood for “kosher.”

A Gory Toy Story: The Horrible History of the Evilstick

iStock.com/EKramar
iStock.com/EKramar

When Nicole Allen bought a gift for her 2-year-old daughter the week after Halloween at a dollar store in Dayton, Ohio in 2014, there was little indication Allen should have inspected it prior to letting her child play with it. The toy was a princess wand topped with flower petals, with a cardboard package that featured a smiling female heroine and a suggestion that it was suitable for ages 3 and up. The back of the package promised buyers that the toy “Can Send Out Wonderful Music.” It appeared to be little more than a cheap trinket—the kind customers passing through a discount store might glimpse and toss into their cart without much thought.

Allen didn’t notice that the toy’s playful graphics obscured a somewhat malevolent name. At the top, in a juvenile font, was the official name of the product: Evilstick.

It wasn't until Allen got home that she found out why.

Instead of playing “beautiful music,” pushing a button on the wand’s handle activated a maniacal laugh—one made all the more disturbing by the product’s cheap, tinny speaker. Pressing the button also made the toy’s flower top light up, illuminating a piece of foil that was made transparent to reveal a horrifying image of a woman with pupil-less eyes miming the act of slitting her wrists.

The image would be alarming regardless of context. Stuck in a child’s toy and coupled with a light and sound show, it seemed like a cruel prank. Allen’s subsequent complaint made local news before going viral.

Four years later, the questions remain. Who made it? Was this macabre toy an accident of negligent bootleg manufacturing, or was it something more sinister? And why did an amateur sleuth close to uncovering its origins suddenly disappear from view?

 

For years, discount retailers have stocked inventory shelves with goods manufactured in China. The country’s notoriously economical labor costs can undercut most other wholesale suppliers, particularly when low prices are paramount.

But that tidal wave of product has a key and chaotic consequence: a lack of quality control. It’s virtually impossible for U.S. customs officials to inspect containers and single out counterfeit goods or items that infringe on a company’s intellectual property, leading to a significant problem with knockoff merchandise. Earlier this year, MGA, maker of the successful L.O.L. Surprise! dolls, filed suit against distributors of lookalike toys that were being sold for a lower price. It’s an uphill battle—with a Byzantine supply system, locating companies and pursuing legal remedies across countries and continents is a costly and frustrating process. While MGA has successfully held 81 dealers responsible for the fake dolls, dozens more continue to proliferate.

A photo of the Evilstick toy wand with the gruesome image visible

Mike Mozart, Flickr // CC BY 2.0 // Model photo courtesy of Butcher Ludwig

It’s this complex artery of distribution that presumably allowed Dayton Dollar Store owner Amar Moustafa to purchase a supply of princess wands dubbed Evilsticks in 2012. The “princess” appearing on the package was a character named Sakura Kinomoto, star of the late '90s animated series Cardcaptor Sakura and a popular manga protagonist in Japan. In a nod to Pokemon, fourth-grader Sakura has to retrieve a series of magical cards she accidentally unleashed on the world. While she didn’t wield a wand on the show, the package illustration had been altered so that she was holding one like it.

Speaking to news outlet WHIO in Dayton, Moustafa said he had been at a retailer’s convention when he made the deal for the inventory and that he didn’t recall who sold him the wands. They apparently remained in the store unnoticed until 2014, when Nicole Allen contacted WHIO to report her daughter had been troubled by the image hidden behind the foil wrap. For his part, Moustafa pointed out to WHIO that the “name on it was Evilstick,” and that should have been a tip-off. Allen argued the toy was placed on a rack adjacent to Barbie knockoffs and other kids' items.

Matt Clark, a freelance writer and Dayton resident, didn’t quite buy Moustafa's explanation either. Clark caught mention of the Evilstick via WHIO’s coverage and decided to see it for himself. “I knew where the Dollar Store was and basically made up my mind to go try to get one,” he tells Mental Floss.

Entering the store, Clark encountered Moustafa and asked where the toy was. “He seemed to know exactly what I was talking about and pointed to the back,” Clark says. There, Clark found a peg full of Evilsticks. Peeling away the foil that obscured the image of the suicidal woman to buyers, he found that not all of them featured the grisly photo. “There was one zombie-type character, but most of them were straight cut-out pictures from manga or anime, pretty cartoony and not scary at all.”

It was an intriguing discovery. The Evilsticks seemed to consist of an assortment of images, with the troubling photo placed at random. Whether or not you got one seemed as though it would be the luck of the draw.

Clark eventually found one bearing the notorious photo, bought it, then went home to make a brief 11-second YouTube video showing off the toy’s light-up feature and cackling laugh. “I actually just made it to show a buddy in Cincinnati,” he says. “I didn’t think it would be shared.”

But it was. The next morning, Clark’s snippet had 100,000 views. That led to a longer video review of the Evilstick that garnered 1.3 million visits. Clark had an otherwise unremarkable YouTube presence; the handful of other videos he made had garnered just a few thousand hits each. But with his introduction to the Evilstick, the internet had found a new obsession.

In the rapidly expanding comments section, Clark and his viewers began exchanging theories about the toy’s origins. They determined the image of the woman taking a knife to her wrists could be traced to a horror photographer named Butcher Ludwig, who posted the image on his website and on Facebook years prior. Taken in 2002, it was part of his “Macabre Muses” series, which depicted a vampire ready to feast on her own blood for sustenance.

“[The model] was about 20 at the time of the photo,” Ludwig tells Mental Floss. “I’m not even sure she knows she’s been so well-known.”

Ludwig did not give permission for his photo to appear on the toy. When he was notified of its existence, he says he was shocked someone had “massacred” his photo. Someone had taken his original image and given the model a pair of demonic eyes. Though it’s protected by copyright, it’s almost certain someone involved in the toy’s production saw his image online and downloaded it without his consent.

But who? Clark and his commenters tried searching to see if the barcode—the only real identifying mark on the Evilstick package—led anywhere. It did. “I tracked it down to a factory in China,” Clark says. “I contacted them through [online wholesaler] Alibaba and they said, yes, they made it. I wanted to see if I could talk to someone involved.”

Clark posted on his YouTube page that he appeared close to solving the mystery. People waited. He suddenly went quiet and never made another video again.

 

Quickly, speculation turned to the possibility of the Evilstick being a cursed object—one that had punished Clark for his curiosity. His last message, which mentioned he had things nearly figured out, resembled the words of someone who had flown too close to powers he couldn’t understand.

The reality was a little bit more mundane. “People were saying I had been killed by the curse of the Evilstick and that’s why I never made another video,” he says. “I found that hilarious, and it kind of made me not want to do anything more.”

The Chinese factory—Clark doesn’t recall the name—stopped responding to his emails asking for clarification, and the trail went cold. The alternative speculation was that it actually wasn’t a knockoff item at all but a deliberate act of product tampering. Like the poisoned Halloween candy legends of years past, it was conceivable that someone planted a gory image in a young child’s toy to be a nuisance or maybe to spin a new urban legend. After all, Allen and Clark were the only two documented people to have purchased the spookiest variant of the Evilstick.

A look at the image hidden in the Evilstick
Mike Mozart, Flickr // CC BY 2.0 // Model photo courtesy of Butcher Ludwig

But that doesn’t explain Justin Sevakis. The commercial home video producer had actually uncovered an Evilstick back in 2008, six years before the Dayton discovery. Sevakis was living in New York City at the time and came across the toy while shopping with a friend. Highly familiar with the anime industry—his company, MediaOCD, compiles Japanese-language series for U.S. releases—he recognized Cardcaptor Sakura on the packaging immediately.

“It’s actually a very well-known property,” Sevakis tells Mental Floss. “There was an American dub of the cartoon called Cardcaptors that aired on Fox Kids.” Taking the toy home, it sat in his living room, a perfect blend of Japanese anime iconography and a highly misguided sense of appropriateness. To Sevakis, there was nothing exceptionally sinister about the Evilstick. It was yet another consequence of bootleg manufacturing and a lack of attention to detail.

“Dollar stores are drenched in bootleg anime stuff,” he says. “Sailor Moon, Gundam.” While the gory photo was unusual, a cobbled-together knockoff was part and parcel of the counterfeit trade. “It even had a cheap feel,” Sevakis says. “Like you’d been handling fireworks.”

Sevakis’s earlier excavation of the Evilstick means aftermarket tampering is unlikely. The fact that so few people have come across the wand with Ludwig’s image means it probably appeared in just a small selection of the stock. Yet someone still went through the trouble of altering Ludwig’s photo to be even more upsetting. And while Moustafa was correct in that it was transparently named an “Evilstick,” nothing else about the toy or its material communicated it was a horror-themed novelty. It seemed calculated to disarm parents or children until it was taken home: In order for the sound and light to work, a tab protecting the battery had to be pulled first—a task most people wouldn’t bother with until after it was purchased.

Clark has since lost track of whom he was communicating with back in 2014. Ludwig, too, says he was able to locate the company via the barcode and exchanged emails with someone who said they could do nothing about his intellectual property rights complaint. Today, the barcode doesn’t appear to trigger any company of origin. The Evilstick seemed to swoop in, terrorize a small group of children, and then disappear without a trace.

Sevakis no longer has one. Clark rebuffed several offers to buy his before “renting” it out to an episode of the syndicated series The Doctors, which was eager to report on the morbid toy. He subsequently sold it to a buyer in Canada. “Obviously,” he says, “she’s been cursed, too.”

When Bloodthirsty Batman Readers Voted to Kill Off Robin

DC Comics
DC Comics

Denny O’Neil kept thinking about Larry the Lobster. O’Neil, who served as the group editor of the Batman family of comic book titles for DC Comics in the 1980s, was at a writer’s retreat in upstate New York in 1988 when he and other staffers began discussing the best way to address growing reader dissent with the current incarnation of Robin. Batman’s newest sidekick—a street urchin named Jason Todd—was sullen and moody, a sharp contrast to the gleeful energy of former ward Dick Grayson. Fans called him whiny and petulant. Measures needed to be taken.

During the conversation, O’Neil suddenly remembered a 1982 skit from Saturday Night Live in which cast member Eddie Murphy threatened to boil a lobster named Larry on air unless viewers phoned in and begged for clemency. Or, Murphy told them, they could dial a separate 900 number to cast a vote for his death. The following week, Murphy announced the lobster had earned a stay of execution. He ate it anyway.

O’Neil wondered if the same gimmick could be applied to comics. If fans hated Robin so much, O’Neil thought, then perhaps they should feel culpable for killing him.

 

Death in comics was nothing new. Saddled with decades of continuity and running the risk of repeating themselves, comics writers often turn to tragedy to shake up the status quo. Comic book covers of the 1950s—the clickbait of their time—often hinted at a demise inside, though it was usually a case of misdirection. In 1973, Marvel allowed Spider-Man’s girlfriend, Gwen Stacy, to plummet to her death during a scuffle with the Green Goblin. (In the next issue, the Goblin, a.k.a. Norman Osborn, met his maker.) In the 1980s, one iteration of Captain Marvel succumbed to that most human of weaknesses: cancer.

DC had enlisted the Grim Reaper, too, killing off the Flash and Supergirl during their 1986 Crisis on Infinite Earths crossover that attempted to sort out the publisher’s confusing timelines.

It was the clean slate of Crisis on Infinite Earths that allowed O’Neil to improve upon Jason Todd’s origin story. Originally introduced in Batman #357 (1983) as a trapeze artist whose parents fell to their death, Todd’s background was a virtual carbon copy of Dick Grayson’s, who had first appeared as Robin back in 1940. After more than 40 years as the Dark Knight's sidekick, Grayson came into his own and adopted the mantle of Nightwing, another player in the DC Universe. Which left a spot open for a new Robin. Enter Todd who, under O'Neil's supervision, was first discovered trying to liberate a wheel from the Batmobile. Impressed with the kid’s courage, Batman enlisted him to bust a child crime ring. After a bit of superhero training, he became an official costumed sidekick. 

Batman holds an injured Robin in a DC Comics illustration by Jim Aparo
DC Comics

Jim Starlin, who had recently come on board as writer for the main Batman title—and who had killed off Captain Marvel for Marvel—had never particularly liked any version of Robin; he preferred to depict Batman as a troubled loner. While Starlin had advocated for Robin’s demise as far back as 1984, this latest iteration was especially grating to him, as Todd often ignored orders and brooded incessantly. When DC floated the idea of having one of their characters contract HIV, it was Starlin who repeatedly suggested giving Robin the virus.

The publisher didn’t go for that, but O’Neil’s idea to have readers cast their own votes gained momentum within the company. Starlin needed no convincing and wove a four-issue plot, “Death in the Family,” in which Todd discovers his biological mother is alive and working in Ethiopia. He travels to see her, but realizes she has been recruited by the Joker to sell stolen medical supplies. Todd's only choice is to confront the iconic villain—a showdown that sees him beaten nearly to death with a crowbar and left to die in an explosion.

An ad at the conclusion of the issue breathlessly told readers that Robin’s ultimate fate was in their hands. “Robin will die because the Joker wants revenge, but you can prevent it with a telephone call,” it read. Dialing one 900 number cast a vote for his survival; dialing another would help seal his doom. Each call cost 50 cents.

The lines were only open for a 36-hour period on September 16 and 17, 1988. Approximately 10,614 calls were received. Of those, 5271 backed a second chance, while 5343 threw dirt on Todd’s face. Robin would die, executed by a margin of just 72 votes—though that may not have represented 72 people. At least one anti-Robin activist admitted to calling in four times to cement the sidekick's death.

In Batman #428, which hit stands that October, the Dark Knight finds a bloodied Todd in the rubble. (Two endings had been prepared by Starlin and artist Jim Aparo; the winning conclusion was the one rushed to press.) To make matters worse, Batman discovers that the Joker has been named an ambassador to the United Nations by the Ayatollah Khomeini and now has diplomatic immunity.

Starlin got his wish. So did the majority of fans. But DC wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

 

With the mainstream media not quite hip to the fact that death is often not a permanent condition in comics, hundreds of headlines that fall ran with the news that Batman’s perennial sidekick had perished. “Holy Hearse, Batman!” read the Arizona Daily Star. Press calls flooded into DC’s offices. O’Neil gave interviews for three days straight, and was eventually cut off by a concerned DC public relations employee who feared that all the attention was reflecting poorly on the company.

For most of the public, the “Robin’s Dead” notices were scanned without much regard for which Robin died—it was the aloof Todd who had met his maker, not the beloved Dick Grayson. DC’s marketing arm was jolted, as thousands of lunchboxes, shirts, and toys were now doubling as memorials for Batman's deceased sidekick. (For better or worse, Robin was not a part of Tim Burton’s Batman, which was set to arrive in theaters just seven months later.) Starlin later said, perhaps only half-jokingly, that O’Neil took credit for the idea until executives grew annoyed, at which point Starlin became the man who killed the Boy Wonder.

Batman stands in front of the Bat symbol in this book collection illustration
iStock.com/neilkendall

Batman #428 and the other connected issues sold out, with the issues going for $20 to $40 apiece in the collector’s aftermarket. DC would later use the death trope to even greater effect with their 1993 “Death of Superman” saga, selling millions of copies, some of them bagged with a black armband for proper mourning.

Superman returned, of course. So did Todd. He was later revealed as the Red Hood, a Batman nemesis who is slated to appear on the DC Universe streaming series Titans alongside original Robin Dick Grayson. Still, Todd's death seemed to teach O’Neil a lesson about the enduring appeal of comic mythology and the responsibility that goes along with it.

“It changed my mind about what I did for a living,” O'Neil said. “I realized that, no, I am in charge of post-modern folklore. These characters have been around so long and so ubiquitously that they are our modern equivalent of Paul Bunyan and mythic figures of earlier ages.”

Just because it was O'Neil's idea to let fans decide Robin's fate doesn't mean he was in favor of his demise. During the brief window the phone lines were open, O’Neil picked up his phone. He dialed the 900 number in support of saving him.

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