How Powdered Shrimp Fooled a Generation
I ain’t sure those brine shrimp were the worst thing I ordered from a comic book :) - DD
There was a time when “science” meant big things: rockets to the moon, miracle drugs, and color TV. And then there were the Sea-Monkeys — a scientific marvel you could pour out of a packet, and it could be yours for $1.25 plus postage. If you were a kid in the 1960s or 70s, their ads were impossible to resist: smiling pink creatures with crowns, living in underwater castles, practically begging to become your new best friends. Never mind that in reality, they looked more like animated dandruff than royalty. What mattered was the promise — instant life, right in your cereal bowl.
It was the golden age of mail-order dreams, when every comic book swore you could trade your allowance for X-ray vision, super strength, or a loyal crustacean colony. And presiding over this underwater empire was Harold von Braunhut, the kind of eccentric genius who could sell you both wonder and nonsense in the same breath. His story, like his shrimp, is a peculiar mix of biology, marketing, and moral murk — proof that sometimes the strangest thing about “instant life” isn’t what’s in the tank, but who’s selling it.
Sea-Monkeys and the Golden Age of Comic Book Hype
If you grew up flipping through comic books in the 1960s or 70s, you probably saw them — those irresistible, full-color ads promising an instant underwater kingdom. The kingdom’s citizens were a grinning family of pink, bubble-headed humanoids who waved waved from inside a crystal palace beneath the sea. “Own a bowlful of happiness!” they proclaimed, with the same confidence as a politician before…
I recall "X-Ray Glasses" the most anticipated yet unfulfilling comic book purchase for me...
Onward, Christian soldiers!