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9 Secrets About Disneyland's Pirates of the Caribbean Ride

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Long before it was a hit movie franchise featuring a certain swaggering scallywag with a penchant for eccentric fashions, Pirates of the Caribbean was just a little boat ride at Disneyland. Actually, scratch that—Pirates has never been little: Since it opened in March of 1967, the attraction has consistently been one of the most popular ones in the park. If it’s a pirate’s life for you, too, you’ll enjoy these facts about the classic buccaneers.

1. It was originally a wax museum.

The initial plan was to create a walk-through wax museum where guests could get up close and personal with villains throughout history, though the focus was eventually narrowed to pirates. When Disney's It’s a Small World and Great Moments With Mr. Lincoln animatronics were hugely successful at the 1964 World's Fair, elements of each were incorporated into the ride and the museum idea was scrapped.

2. It took a lot of doubloons to create.

The $8 million spent on Pirates of the Caribbean accounted for more than half of the cost to build New Orleans Square, the section of the park that houses the ride. The final bill for New Orleans Square was $15 million—the same cost as the real Louisiana Purchase. And speaking of the Louisiana Purchase, it has another tie to Anaheim’s own little piece of NOLA. The attraction façade was partly inspired by the city's Cabildo building (pictured) where the Louisiana Purchase was signed in 1803.

3. Walt himself supervised the ride creation.

To help Walt get the ride experience before the boats were completed, Imagineers rigged a chair up to a dolly and pushed their boss through the attraction at the same approximate speed a boat would pass. Though they thought he would be upset riders couldn’t clearly hear what all of the pirates were saying, Disney was actually delighted. He thought it was like being at a cocktail party, and was pleased that people would be able to pick out something new every time they rode.

Sadly, it was the last ride Walt would be hands-on with. He died while it was still being constructed; it opened three months after his death.

4. It almost included a dinner theater.

The Blue Bayou restaurant has been housed in the peaceful swamp area at the beginning of the ride since Pirates first opened. Had Disney kept the original plans, however, the eating experience wouldn’t have been so serene. While guests dined on Creole cuisine, pirates would amaze and entertain them. After giving it a dress rehearsal, Walt told his executives that "in this restaurant, the food is going to be the show, along with the atmosphere."

5. Opening day was a spectacle.

Disney knew that launching such a ride with a typical ribbon-cutting ceremony would be a huge missed PR opportunity. Instead, he recruited veteran Disney performer Wally Boag to hijack press night on the Sailing Ship Columbia (a boat ride on the Rivers of America) and steer them toward the new ride. Once there, Boag and his pirate crew busted through the fake front doors of the attraction to “open” it. To christen the ride, actress Dorothy Lamour smashed a bottle of water from the Mississippi over an anchor—one rumored to have belonged to the real Jean Lafitte.

6. The scriptwriter had never written a script before.

Love the puns and slightly PG pirate humor? (“Shift your cargo, dearie.”) Then you have X. Atencio to thank. Atencio had been an animator for more than 30 years, working on features such as Dumbo and Pinocchio. Walt abruptly transferred Atencio to the attraction team and tasked him with writing all of the dialogue for the new pirate ride. “I wondered if Walt was talking to the right guy,” Atencio later said. “I had never scripted anything before, but Walt said, ‘I know you can do this.’ And that’s how I became a writer.”

7. The special effects were a little too real.

Disney has always been ahead of its time when it comes to engineering and special effects—and they were certainly ahead of the game when it came to creating fake fire back in 1967. Concerned that people wouldn’t be able to tell reality from fantasy, the Anaheim Fire Chief asked Disney to have an automatic shutoff for it in the event of a real fire [PDF].

8. There’s a second-floor apartment.

The space above Pirates was intended to be a 3000 square-foot apartment for Walt and Roy Disney to use for entertaining or relaxing when they were in the park. Walt died before it was completed, and Roy decided afterward that he didn’t want to use it. The space was used for entertaining VIPs for many years, then operated as an art gallery. These days, it’s home to the “Disneyland Dream Suite,” a tricked-out apartment where guests occasionally get to stay.

9. There are lots of fun details to be on the lookout for.

Before you enter the building, be sure to check out the wrought iron fence on the balcony. The stylized initials “WD” and “RD” have been worked into the iron, representing Walt and Roy. When you get inside the ride, see if you can count all of the animatronic figures. You should come up with a total of 122: 68 humans and 54 animals.
And finally, here’s the creepiest detail of all: For many years, it’s been rumored that the ride contains a real skull amongst the many fake ones. Disney Parks has never confirmed this, but a cast member has:

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10 Regional Twists on Trick-or-Treating
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Walk around any given American neighborhood on the night of October 31, and you’ll likely hear choruses of "trick-or-treat" chiming through the area. The sing-songy phrase is synonymous with Halloween in some parts of the world, but it's not the only way kids get sweets from their neighbors this time of year. From the Philippines to the American Midwest, here are some regional door-to-door traditions you may not have heard of.


Rice cakes wrapped in leaves.

The earliest form of trick-or-treating on Halloween can be traced back to Europe in the Middle Ages. Kids would don costumes and go door-to-door offering prayers for dead relatives in exchange for snacks called "soul cakes." When the cake was eaten, tradition held that a soul was ferried from purgatory into heaven. Souling has disappeared from Ireland and the UK, but a version of it lives on halfway across the world in the Philippines. During All Saints Day on November 1, Filipino children taking part in Pangangaluluwa will visit local houses and sing hymns for alms. The songs often relate to souls in purgatory, and carolers will play the part of the souls by asking for prayers. Kids are sometimes given rice cakes called suman, a callback to the soul cakes from centuries past.


Raw dough.

Instead of trick-or-treating, kids in Portugal go door-to-door saying pão-por-deus ("bread for god") in exchange for goodies on All Saints Day. Some homeowners give out money or candy, while others offer actual baked goods.


Kids trick-or-treating.

If they're not calling out "trick-or-treat" on their neighbors’ doorsteps on Halloween night, you may hear children in western Canada saying "Halloween apples!" The phrase is left over from a time when apples were a common Halloween treat and giving out loose items on the holiday wasn't considered taboo.


The Dutch wait several days after Halloween to do their own take on trick-or-treating. On the night of November 11, St. Martin's Day, children in the Netherlands take to the streets with their homemade lanterns in hand. These lanterns were traditionally carved from beets or turnips, but today they’re most commonly made from paper. And the kids who partake don’t get away with shouting a few words at each home they visit—they’re expected to sing songs to receive their sugary rewards.


Guy Fawkes Night celebration.

Peter Trimming, Wikimedia Commons // CC BY-SA 2.0

Guy Fawkes Night is seen by some as the English Protestants’ answer to the Catholic holidays associated with Halloween, so it makes sense that it has its own spin on trick-or-treating. November 5 marks the day of Guy Fawkes’s failed assassination attempt on King James as part of the Gunpowder Plot. To celebrate the occasion, children will tour the neighborhood asking for "a penny for the guy." Sometimes they’ll carry pictures of the would-be-assassin which are burned in the bonfires lit later at night.


Kids knocking on a door in costume.

If kids in the St. Louis area hope to go home with a full bag of candy on Halloween, they must be willing to tickle some funny bones. Saying "tricks-for-treats" followed by a joke replaces the classic trick-or-treat mantra in this Midwestern city. There’s no criteria for the quality or the subject of the joke, but spooky material (What’s a skeleton’s favorite instrument? The trombone!) earns brownie points.


Sugar skulls with decoration.

While Dia de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead, is completely separate from Halloween, the two holidays share a few things in common. Mexicans celebrate the day by dressing up, eating sweet treats, and in some parts of the country, going house-to-house. Children knocking on doors will say "me da para mi calaverita" or "give me money for my little skull," a reference to the decorated sugar skulls sold in markets at this time of year.


Kids dressed up for Halloween.

Trick-or-treaters like to keep things simple in the Canadian province of Quebec. In place of the alliterative exclamation, they shout “Halloween!” at each home they visit. Adults local to the area might remember saying "la charité s’il-vous-plaît "(French for “charity, please”) when going door-to-door on Halloween, but this saying has largely fallen out of fashion.


Little girl trick-or-treating.

Halloween is only just beginning to gain popularity in Germany. Where it is celebrated, the holiday looks a lot like it does in America, but Germans have managed to inject some local character into their version of trick-or-treat. In exchange for candy, kids sometimes sing out "süß oder saures"—or "sweet and sour" in English.


Kids dressed up for Halloween.
Rubí Flórez, Flickr // CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Kids in Colombia anticipate dressing up and prowling the streets on Halloween just as much as kids do in the States. There are a few significant variations on the annual tradition: Instead of visiting private residencies, they're more likely to ask for candy from store owners and the security guards of apartment buildings. And instead of saying trick-or-treat, they recite this Spanish rhyme:

Triqui triqui Halloween
Quiero dulces para mí
Si no hay dulces para mí
Se le crece la naríz

In short, it means that if the grownups don't give the kids the candy they're asking for, their noses will grow. Tricky, tricky indeed

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Mill Creek Entertainment
Hey, Vern: It's the Ernest P. Worrell Story
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Mill Creek Entertainment

In her review of the 1991 children’s comedy Ernest Scared Stupid, The Washington Post film critic Rita Kempley described the titular character, the dim-witted but well-meaning Ernest P. Worrell, as “the global village idiot.” As portrayed by Kentucky native Jim Varney, Ernest was in the middle of a 10-film franchise that would see him mistakenly incarcerated (Ernest Goes to Jail), enlisting in the military (Ernest in the Army), substituting for an injured Santa (Ernest Saves Christmas), and returning to formal education in order to receive his high school diploma (Ernest Goes to School).

Unlike slapstick contemporaries Yahoo Serious and Pauly Shore, Varney took a far more unusual route to film stardom. With advertising executive John Cherry III, Varney originated the Ernest character in a series of regional television commercials. By one estimate, Ernest appeared in over 6000 spots, hawking everything from ice cream to used cars. They grew so popular that the pitchman had a 20,000-member fan club before his first movie, 1987’s Ernest Goes to Camp, was even released.

Varney and Ernest became synonymous, so much so that the actor would dread going on dates for fear Ernest fans would approach him; he sometimes wore disguises to discourage recognition. Though he could recite Shakespeare on a whim, Varney was rarely afforded the opportunity to expand his resume beyond the denim-jacketed character. It was for this reason that Varney, though grateful for Ernest’s popularity, would sometimes describe his notoriety as a “mixed blessing,” one that would come to a poignant end foreshadowed by one of his earliest commercials.

Born in Lexington, Kentucky in 1949, Varney spent his youth being reprimanded by teachers who thought his interest in theater shouldn’t replace attention paid to math or science. Varney disagreed, leaving high school just two weeks shy of graduation (he returned in the fall for his diploma) to head for New York with $65 in cash and a plan to perform.

The off-Broadway plays Varney appeared in were not lucrative, and he began to bounce back and forth between Kentucky and California, driving a truck when times were lean and appearing in TV shows like Petticoat Junction when his luck improved. During one of his sabbaticals from Hollywood, he met Cherry, who cast him as an aggressive military instructor named Sergeant Glory in an ad for a car dealer in Nashville, Tennessee.

In 1981, Varney was asked back to film a new spot for Cherry, this one for a dilapidated amusement park in Bowling Green, Kentucky, that Cherry considered so unimpressive he didn’t want to show it on camera. Instead, he created the character of Ernest P. Worrell, a fast-talking, often imbecilic local who is constantly harassing his neighbor Vern. (“Know what I mean, Vern?” became Ernest’s catchphrase.)

The spot was a hit, and soon Varney and Cherry were being asked to film spots for Purity Dairies, pizza parlors, convenience stores, and other local businesses. In the spots, Ernest would usually look into the camera—the audience shared Vern’s point of view—and endorse whatever business had enlisted his services, usually stopping only when Vern devised a way to get him out of sight.

Although the Purity commercials initially drew complaints—the wide-angle lens created a looming Ernest that scared some children—his fame grew, and Varney became a rarity in the ad business: a mascot without a permanent corporate home. He and Cherry would film up to 26 spots in a day, all targeted for a specific region of the country. In some areas, people would call television stations asking when the next Ernest spot was due to air. A Fairfax, Virginia Toyota dealership saw a 50 percent spike in sales after Varney began appearing in ads.

Logging thousands of spots in hundreds of markets, Varney once said that if they had all been national, he and Cherry would have been wealthy beyond belief. But local spots had local budgets, and the occasions where Ernest was recruited for a major campaign were sometimes prohibited by exclusivity contracts: He and Cherry had to turn down Chevrolet due to agreements with local, competing car dealers.

Still, Varney made enough to buy a 10-acre home in Kentucky, expressing satisfaction with the reception of the Ernest character and happily agreeing to a four-picture deal with Disney’s Touchstone Pictures for a series of Ernest features. Released on a near-constant basis between 1987 and 1998, the films were modest hits (Ernest Goes to Camp made $28 million) before Cherry—who directed several of them—and Varney decided to strike out on their own, settling into a direct-to-video distribution model.

“It's like Oz, and the Wizard ain't home," Varney told the Sun Sentinel in 1985, anticipating his desire for autonomy. “Hollywood is a place where everything begins but nothing originates. It's this big bunch of egos slamming into each other.”

Varney was sometimes reticent to admit he had ambitions beyond Ernest, believing his love of Shakespeare and desire to perform Hamlet would be perceived as the cliched story of a clown longing to be serious. He appeared in 1994’s The Beverly Hillbillies and as the voice of Slinky Dog in 1995’s Toy Story. But Ernest would continue to be his trademark.

The movies continued through 1998, at which point Varney noticed a nagging cough. It turned out to be lung cancer. As Ernest, Varney had filmed an anti-smoking public service announcement in the 1980s. In his private life, he was a chain smoker. He succumbed to cancer in 2000 at the age of 50, halting a series of planned Ernest projects that included Ernest Goes to Space and Ernest and the Voodoo Curse.

Varney may never have gotten an opportunity to perform in a wider variety of roles, but he did receive some acknowledgment for the one he had mastered. In 1989, Varney took home an Emmy for Outstanding Performer in a children’s series, a CBS Saturday morning show titled Hey, Vern: It’s Ernest!

“It’s a blessing and a curse,” he told the Orlando Sentinel in 1991, “because it's as hard to escape from it as it is to get into it.''


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