A Tasty History of Edible Underwear

Liia Galimzianova/iStock via Getty Images
Liia Galimzianova/iStock via Getty Images

One night in the early 1970s, while consuming wine and smoking marijuana, David Sanderson came up with an idea. He remembered that his older brother had an expression for when David was annoying him: “Eat my shorts.”

What if, Sanderson wondered, people really could eat their own shorts?

He related the idea to his partner, Lee Brady. As a possible result of that same marijuana consumption, Brady believed it was a fantastic idea. And while many people would have been content to let it rest once sobriety settled in, Sanderson and Brady were convinced that an edible undergarment was a concept worth pursuing. They even had the perfect name for their invention: Candypants.

The novelty gift item briefly took the country by storm. Bowled over by the concept of edible underwear, consumers bought Candypants with such fervor that the factory had trouble keeping up with demand. The business grossed $150,000 a month. Sanderson and Brady appeared on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. Everyone, it seemed, had a cheeky comment to make about Candypants.

While its inventors profited from the craze, they had to navigate some popular misconceptions. Originally, edible underwear was never intended to be sold in adult novelty stores. They really weren’t meant to be worn, either. Nor were they supposed to be eaten. Candypants were a risqué gag item that cracked a conservative market by presenting as an innocuous novelty. But some powerful figures involved in the darker corners of the adult entertainment industry had other plans for Sanderson and Brady's novel invention.

 

Sanderson and Brady were a couple in their early 20s living in Chicago when the idea for Candypants blossomed. The two had an entrepreneurial bent, importing Tibetan artwork and even organizing a theater troop, the Puck Players, to perform in Chicago-area elementary schools. These earnest performances were met with some measure of revolt, as Sanderson recalled in a 2015 interview with KCRW. The students, he said, were fond of replacing the P on their truck with an F.

The Candypants venture began with the men inviting friends over to their apartment and using garbage bags to take measurements for underwear sizes. (Presumably, it was easier to cut a pattern into the bags than it would have been a bolt of fabric.) Once they had sizing for both men's and women's options, the two pondered how to make the product something that could actually be consumed. While visiting a baking factory on a scouting trip, they noticed that the company had a bag of yeast that could be thrown in a vat. The bag was biodegradable and edible. Maybe, they thought, this was the answer.

An ad for Candypants edible underwear depicts two models wearing the novelty item
An original advertisement for Candypants circa the 1970s.

To find the right kind of edible material, Sanderson and Brady teamed up with Derek McManus, an analytical chemist originally from England. Over a period of months, the three settled on a recipe that consisted of modified food starch, glycerin, inverted sugar, mannitol, lecithin, artificial color, and artificial flavor. All of the ingredients were approved by the Food and Drug Administration.

The brief itself would be processed in a sheet, then cut to garment specifications. To bind the sides, they used licorice strips. The partners named their company Cosmorotics, Inc.

Cosmorotics had one immediate problem: When they applied for a patent at the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office, their design was rejected because the words candy and pants were mutually exclusive. The office had no idea how to conceive of an edible article of clothing. This was successfully appealed, but it paled in comparison to a bigger problem. How could they let people know that Candypants existed?

Fortunately, the pair had a friend who ran a bath and boutique shop and agreed to put Candypants on display. Because the store was close to the University of Indiana, several students picked up a pair on a whim. One of those students happened to be a reporter for the school newspaper who decided to write a story about this peculiar retail item, and the story got picked up by the Associated Press. Virtually overnight, word spread about Candypants.

When the orders began piling up, Cosmorotics opened a factory in Chicago, where a giant machine squeezed out the edible material in two different flavors: wild cherry and banana split. (A third option, hot chocolate, had a foul taste and was said to be brown in color, an unfortunate choice for simulation underwear. It was quickly discontinued.) The underwear, which retailed for $4.95, was packaged in cellophane with a written caution to unwrap it only when it was ready for use. “Candypants may dry out,” the warning read.

 

By early 1976, Cosmorotics was having trouble keeping up with the demand. With Valentine’s Day looming, lingerie shops, pharmacies, and even motorcycle shops were selling through their inventory. Curiously, Candypants could also be found in major retail chains like Bloomingdale’s and Montgomery Ward—a fact that Sanderson attributed to their conscious attempts to keep Candypants firmly in the territory of a novelty gift item and not presented as a kinky sex accessory in adult bookstores.

“We’re trying for a universal market,” Sanderson told the Los Angeles Times in 1976.

The package to a pair of Candypants edible underwear is pictured
The packaging for Candypants.
Amazon

By 1976, Sanderson, Brady, and McManus were selling $150,000 in Candypants every month. Store owners would get calls for high-volume orders. Nunneries bought them in bulk to give away at bingo games. They went to nursing homes and bridal showers.

But as the volume of orders increased, Sanderson and Brady began having trouble sourcing some of the edible ingredients. They would order 9000 pounds of flavoring, and receive just nine pounds.

As it turned out, people in the business of adult novelties had taken notice of Candypants. And they wanted to take a bite out of them.

Sanderson and Brady discovered that the people behind adult bookstores—which, in the 1970s, was a business often connected with organized crime—were irate that Candypants were not being stocked on their shelves. They intended to produce knock-off versions that would compete with Candypants for material and satisfy the demand at sex shops.

 

Struggling to keep up with orders in the face of competition, Cosmorotics turned to an unlikely ally: Iva Toguri D’Aquino, also known as “Tokyo Rose,” a woman who had once been convicted of treason for broadcasting Japanese propaganda during World War II. (She was pardoned by Gerald Ford after serving three years of a 10-year sentence.)

D’Aquino owned a mercantile exchange in Chicago. She told Sanderson and Brady to connect with a factory in Japan that made rice paper wrappers for candy and medication. The rice paper was edible—and better yet, it was not under the thumb of the mafia. With a new source, Cosmorotics was able to continue churning out Candypants for hungry consumers around the country.

Iva Ikuko Toguri D’Aquino; originally a mug shot, taken at Sugamo Prison on March 7, 1946
Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons

Sanderson and Brady enjoyed their modest fame and literal fortune, buying a mansion in Chicago and installing a disco that played host to parties. They befriended David Bowie, who knew the photographer who had shot ads for Candypants. They expanded the line to include mint and passion fruit flavors, as well as an edible bra they dubbed Teacups. They also released Notables, a stationery package consisting of edible notepad paper and a pen that was caramel-flavored. (The envelopes were not meant for consumption.)

Eventually, the knock-offs began to overshadow the brand identity of Candypants. In the 1980s, the men accepted an offer to purchase the company—made, they said, by a man who paid them in a briefcase full of cash. Sanderson and Brady moved to Florida and eventually married in 2015. They currently have no affiliation with Candypants, which are still being sold on Amazon (in even more flavors).

From one simple night of accidental brainstorming, the men had cultivated an empire. It wasn’t a bad outcome for a product that seemed ill-suited for either of its intended purposes. A 1976 test taste declared Candypants tasted like a rain slicker. Wearing them was not practical, either.

But Sanderson knew it was the package, not the contents, that was the real attraction. In a survey, Cosmorotics found that 85 percent of Candypants buyers never even opened the box.

Overall Charm: Remembering Hasbro's My Buddy Doll

Kendrick Shackleford, Flickr // CC BY 2.0
Kendrick Shackleford, Flickr // CC BY 2.0

If your toy company's boy-oriented doll doesn’t set the world on fire, you might take comfort in the fact it partially inspired a series of slasher movies. That was the case for My Buddy, an oversized doll first introduced by Hasbro in 1985 that failed to make waves on store shelves but informed the creation of the carrot-topped spree killer doll Chucky in writer Don Mancini and director Tom Holland’s 1988 film Child’s Play.

In 1985, toy stores were stocked to the brim with some of the most indelible properties of the decade. Coleco’s Cabbage Patch Kids were a bona fide phenomenon, ringing up $540 million in sales the year prior. Masters of the Universe was Mattel’s hit, with both the action figures and ancillary products doubling the take of the Cabbage people.

Then there was My Buddy, which seemed to straddle the gender lines the other major toy companies had drawn. The Cabbage Patch dolls were highly desirable among young girls; boys gravitated toward the veiny, sword-wielding characters of the He-Man franchise. In marketing My Buddy, Hasbro hoped to pioneer a new toy category: a doll line for boys.

The idea was not totally alien to the market. As far back as the early 20th century, boys played with dolls regardless of whether the toys were marketed specifically toward them or not. The difference was that the dolls were often depicting adult men and women. As time went on and manufacturers began focusing on dolls resembling infants, interest on the part of young male consumers began to trail off.

Hasbro reversed that trend in 1964 with the introduction of G.I. Joe, a line of 12-inch, fabric-outfit military figures intended to do for boys what Mattel’s Barbie had done for the female demographic. Though Joe would go on to inhabit smaller, molded plastic sculpts in the 1980s, the idea of boys playing with plush toys was still of interest. With My Buddy, Hasbro banked on the doll’s heft—at an imposing 23 inches, it was a fair bit larger than the Cabbage Patch line—to ensnare juvenile consumers.

My Buddy was intended to be a companion for boys perceived as more active than girls, canvassing neighborhoods on Big Wheels, clutching My Buddy as they climbed into tree houses, and possibly making him an inadvertent object in a game of touch football. Clad in durable overalls, My Buddy seemed designed for extended trips through dirty terrain.

“My Buddy is positioned as macho,” Hasbro's senior vice president of marketing Stephen Schwartz told The Boston Globe in 1985. “It’s soft macho, but it’s still macho. We show them climbing up trees, riding their bikes. We didn’t position it like a girl doll, soft and sweet.”

Excited by the potential, Hasbro backed My Buddy with an effective ad campaign led by an infectious song:

Unlike other toys with complex personal narratives, My Buddy possessed no agency. He was simply there to accompany his human on adventures. Hasbro’s intent was easily discerned through ad copy: “A little boy’s special friend! Rough and tough, yet soft and cuddly.”

Amid a competitive toy year, the $25 My Buddy fared well in 1985. While Cabbage Patch Kids remained a goliath, Hasbro had four of the top 10 bestselling toys on the market: Transformers, G.I. Joe, My Little Pony, and My Buddy, which ranked eighth on the list.

That success would not last. If boys did not find fault with playing with dolls, some adults did, expressing puzzlement that My Buddy would hold appeal for the blood-and-guts dominion of the boys toys market. Los Angeles Times columnist Bevis Hillier called My Buddy “an unprepossessing creature who also has overalls and freckles but has managed to get his cap on the right way round. With his big, goggling eyes, he is half winsome, half bruiser.” Hillier went on to express doubt that a boy would find the prospect of dressing the doll in his own retired baby clothes enticing.

My Buddy and his various offshoots—there was a Kid Sister—hung on for a few years before disappearing from shelves. The doll market for boys was mostly relegated to Wrestling Buddies, a line of WWE-themed stuffed companions that encouraged boys to drop elbows and grapple them to the floor. My Buddy, with his largely pacifistic persona, invited no such confrontations. Despite Hasbro’s hopes, My Buddy failed to signal a breakdown in gender-specific toys. Mattel’s She-Ra line, an action figure spin-off of He-Man targeted toward girls, failed to take off. My Pet Monster, a plush toy for boys, came and went.

Hasbro subsidiary Playskool continued manufacturing My Buddy into the 1990s. Today, the overall-clad figure is mostly remembered as a model for the murderous Chucky, the doll villain at the center of the Child's Play franchise.

While it never gained iconic status beyond being a horror movie influence, My Buddy did offer a bit of foreshadowing in how toy companies market to consumers based on gender. In 2017, the first male American Girl doll, Logan, was released. Not long after, Mattel ran ads depicting boys playing with a Barbie Dream House and girls with Hot Wheels. My Buddy may not have been a raging success, but its attempts to deconstruct some of the persistent stereotypes in the toy world were ahead of their time.

Up in the Air: When 'Balloon Boy' Took Flight

John Moore, Getty Images
John Moore, Getty Images

It was like a Weekly World News cover come to life. On October 15, 2009, most of the major network and cable broadcasters interrupted their daytime programming to cover what appeared to be a silver flying saucer streaking through the air. Out of context, it was as though the world was getting its first sight of a genuine UFO.

Reading the scroll at the bottom, or listening to the somewhat frantic newscasters, provided an explanation: It was not alien craft but a homemade balloon that had inadvertently taken off from the backyard of a family home in Fort Collins, Colorado. That, of course, was not inherently newsworthy. What made this story must-see television was the fact that authorities believed a 6-year-old boy was somehow trapped inside.

As the helium-filled balloon careened through the air and toward Denver International Airport, millions of people watched and wondered if its passenger could survive the perilous trip. When the craft finally touched down after floating for some 60 miles, responders surrounded it, expecting the worst. The boy was nowhere to be seen. Had he already fallen out?

The brief saga that became known as the Balloon Boy incident was one of the biggest indictments of the burgeoning worlds of reality television and breathless 24/7 news coverage. It seemed to check off every box that observers associated with societal decline. There was the morbidity of a child speeding through the air without control; the unwavering gaze of news networks who cut away from reports on world affairs and even ignored their commercial breaks to obtain footage of an aircraft that measure around 20 feet wide and 5 feet high and resembled a bag of Jiffy Pop.

 

The boy in question was Falcon Heene, one of Richard and Mayumi Heene's three children. The couple had met in California and bonded over their mutual desire to get into the entertainment business. Richard dreamed of becoming a comedian; Mayumi played guitar. The couple married in 1997 and eventually relocated to Colorado; they got their first taste of Hollywood in 2008, when they made their first of two appearances on the reality series Wife Swap.

But Richard Heene wanted more. The avid tinkerer envisioned a show that followed his family around, while at the same time working on his new inventions—one of which was sitting in his backyard. It was essentially a Mylar balloon staked to the ground, which he would later describe as a very early prototype for a low-altitude commuter vehicle.

 sheriff's deputies seach a field for Falcon Heene before learning he had been found October 15, 2009 southeast of Ft. Collins, Colorado
Sheriff's deputies search a Colorado field for Falcon Heene before learning he had been found safe at home.
John Moore, Getty Images

It was this balloon, Bradford Heene told police in 2009, that his brother Falcon had climbed into just before it had taken flight. Earlier, Richard said, Falcon had been playing near the contraption and was scolded for potentially creating a dangerous situation. Now, Falcon was gone, the balloon was in the air, and Falcon's parents feared the worst. Mayumi called the authorities.

“My other son said that Falcon was at the bottom of the flying saucer,” Mayumi told the 911 dispatcher. “I can’t find him anywhere!”

As news cameras watched and the National Guard and U.S. Forest Service followed, the balloon reached an altitude of 7000 feet. Police made a painstaking search of the Heene household, looking for any sign of Falcon. After three passes, they determined it was possible he was inside the balloon.

Approximately one hour later, the balloon seemed to deflate. Authorities cleared the air space near Denver International Airport and greeted the craft as it landed, tethering it to the ground so no air current could hoist it back up and out of reach.

No one was inside the small cabin under the balloon, which left three possibilities: Falcon was hiding somewhere, he had run away ... or he had fallen out.

 

Not long after the craft had landed, a police officer at the Heene house decided to investigate an attic space above the garage. It had gone ignored because it didn’t seem possible Falcon could have reached the entrance on his own.

Yet there he was, hiding.

Elated, authorities explained to the media that they thought Falcon had untethered the balloon by accident and then hid because he knew his father would be upset with him.

Jim Alderden, the sheriff of Colorado's Larimer County, assured reporters that the Heenes had not done anything suspect. They demonstrated all the concern for their missing child that one would expect. Alderden stuck to that even after the Heenes were interviewed on CNN and Falcon appeared to slip up. When asked by Wolf Blitzer if he had heard his parents calling for him, the boy admitted that he had but was ignoring them “for a show.”

Though the Heenes seemed to scramble to cover up for their son's gaffe, Blitzer didn’t appear to register the comment at first. He came back around to it, though, insisting on clarification. Richard would later state that Falcon was referring to the news cameras who wanted to see where he had been hiding. That was the "show" he meant.

Alderden reiterated that he didn’t think the boy could remain still and quiet for five hours in an attic if he had been instructed to. But he admitted the CNN interview raised questions. After initially clearing the family of any wrongdoing, Alderden said he would sit down and speak to them again.

Within the week, Alderden was holding a press conference with an entirely different mood. He solemnly explained that the Heenes had perpetuated a hoax and speculated that they could be charged with up to three felonies, including conspiracy and contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Outlets had already tracked down an associate of Richard’s who detailed his reality series idea, with one episode devoted to the balloon.

 

Richard and Mayumi voluntarily turned themselves into authorities. They each pled guilty: Richard for attempting to influence a public servant and Mayumi for making a false report. In addition to paying $36,016 in restitution, Richard wound up with a 90-day jail sentence, 60 days of which was served on supervised work release. Mayumi got 20 days. Though they pled guilty, Richard maintained that he and his family had not perpetuated any kind of a hoax. In a 2010 video posted to YouTube, Richard said he only pled guilty because authorities were threatening to deport his wife.

Mayumi, meanwhile, reportedly told police it had all been an act (though critics of the prosecution argued that Mayumi's imperfect English made that confession open to interpretation). Mayumi later stated she had no firm understanding of the word "hoax."

Richard Heene and his wife, Mayumi Heene (R) are flanked by members of the media after they both plead guilty to charges related to the alleged hoax of the couple claiming that their son, Falcon Heene was last month onboard a helium balloon, at the Larime
Richard and Mayumi Heene surrounded by the media after they both plead guilty to charges related to the "Balloon Boy Hoax" on November 13, 2009.
Matt McClain, Getty Images

In addition to the fine and jail sentences, the judge also mandated that the family not seek to profit from the incident for a period of four years, which meant any potential for Richard to grab a reality show opportunity would be put on hold until long after the public had lost interest in the "Balloon Boy."

The Heenes moved to Florida in 2010, and soon after their three boys formed a heavy metal band—reputed to be the world’s youngest—dubbed the Heene Boyz. They’ve self-released several albums, and in 2014 even released a song called "Balloon Boy No Hoax."

Richard also peddles some of his inventions, including a wall-mounted back scratcher that allows users to alleviate itching by rubbing up against it. It’s called the Bear Scratch.

In October 2019, Robert Sanchez, a writer for 5280 magazine in Denver, profiled the Heenes and produced a smoking gun of sorts. Sanchez, who was allowed access to the Heene case file by Mayumi's defense attorney, discovered copies of Mayumi's notes about the events leading up to the flight. In one entry, she disclosed Richard had asked her about the possibility of letting the craft go off while Falcon remained in the basement, stirring up attention for the news networks. Later, when the saucer flew away, Richard was confused when Falcon wasn't downstairs. (He chose instead to hide in the attic.) That made the Heenes believe he might really be inside.

When confronted with the document, Mayumi told Sanchez she had made that story up in an attempt to "save" herself and her children, presumably from being separated in the ensuing legal struggle. In the Balloon Boy story, the saucer may have come crashing back to Earth, but the truth remains up in the air.

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