MR. EATS-ALL
I’ve spent a good portion of my life fascinated with geek culture, beyond just the more modern, computer-related meaning. If you’re unfamiliar, the word geek existed long before it involved glasses with haphazardly repaired nose bridges. Originally, geek described a carnival worker, particularly one whose little show involved less sleight-of-hand and more strength-of-stomach.
The original “geek” was a performer who specialized, to the extent that was possible, in biting the heads off of live animals. Something that didn’t require practice as much as it did a disregard for the damage a chicken’s beak could wreak on an unprotected human tongue. Someone stuck with only the most unpleasant parts of Ozzy Osbourne’s live performance legacy and, I would imagine, significantly less groupies backstage.
It’s funny to me that sideshow performers, carnivals, and all matter of come-one-come-all entertainment seem to be seen as antiquated, considering modern content algorithms. Most viral videos that go around do, in fact, involve a freak of some description. Every day you’re going to repeatedly scroll by 10-30 second chunks of broken social contracts overlaid with crying-face “getting naked in the Wendy's is craaaaaazy” in sans-serif font. Honestly, I think it was a little more charming in the big top than in it is the middle of a Wegman’s, ruining some stockboy’s Wednesday shift.
What I’m trying to say is, even though the meaning has changed, the legacy of the old-school geek is alive and well, thriving in a 9:16 ratio. Throw a striped tent over most influencer meet-ups and you’ve got your modern day sideshow, celebrity vodka sponsors aside. There was a time when someone could simply eat candles to everyone’s grim fascination without us also having to read a 2000-word VICE profile where they refuse to admit they’re doing it so everyone will look at them, same as the kid who ate worms on the playground.
Which brings me to the subject of today’s newsletter. An absolute GOAT, with regards to both abbreviation and general diet, of the eats-things-you-shouldn’t genre, a french reverse-gourmand named Michel Lotito. He was better known by his stage name, Mr. Mangetout, or Mr. Eats-All. Which he very much did.
His most iconic meal, the one that established him in the highest realms of the weirdo pantheon forever, was a small plane. A Cessna 150, to be specific. Not that the descriptor “small” helps much here. It’s still much bigger than anyone’s stomach could possibly desire, like the idea of a “small” calzone. A problem that reaches beyond the digestive and into the realm of simple mass and volume, which is why he reportedly ate the Cessna over the period of two years.
I say reportedly because his plane-eating feat is forever cursed under the unfun label of “possibly apocryphal.” No one is denying that the man ate an incredible amount of metal, to the tune of an estimated nine tons. I say, if a guy digests the better part of twenty thousands pounds of metal, he’s allowed a big-fish story or two.
One tale of Mr. Mangetout’s metal consumption that’s not up for debate is a meal that became his signature: a bicycle. Something that makes me grimace every time I imagine it, especially, for whatever reason, the spokes. Thick tubular steel sure isn’t good eats, but at least it’s not sharp. An unfortunately angled tortilla chip has taken me out, so I can’t imagine what catching a 7-speed hub wrong would feel like. Of course, he also once ate 100 razor blades, so the bike probably felt like a smooth metal milkshake going down in comparison.
What I love and respect about Mr. Mangetout’s particular path to fame, though, what makes it maybe respect it more than someone simply shitting out endless ragebait for engagement, is that he had no high airs about what he was up to. He simply figured out that, for whatever reason, stuff didn’t tear up his insides as bad as most doctors would imagine, and so saw a path to fame he was alright with. Something that today we understand was probably pica, but look, it’s not like we don’t have popular entertainment built around worse illnesses today, so my pearls aren’t too clutched about it. Pica was half of My Strange Addiction, so let’s not act like we’ve grown that much.
He also mentions his high pain threshold, something I appreciate more than just pretending he had a magic mouth. I imagine his take was “If I eat bicycles, which to be clear, really sucks to do? I don’t have to work in an office, and I take that trade.” Honestly, eating a whole bicycle, pedals to brake pads, in exchange for never working again? Probably still a “would you rather” that would be worth some consideration, if death was off the table.
I wish some of today’s questionable micro-celebrities would shoot as straight as Michel did when it comes to their chosen discipline. You want attention, you crave fame, and that’s just fine, as long as you’re not making it anyone else’s problem. We don’t need to hear you try to sputter out some ass-backwards hypothesis about how you’re doing a social experiment, or commenting on social norms. Embrace your inner freak, as they say, but in a real and vulnerable way versus just getting a hentai wrap put on your Honda Fit.
Honestly, I think people respect a straightforward attention play more than having to watch someone constantly try to justify it. After all, Mr. Mangetout himself was rewarded with the highest form of respect that exists: a plaque, issued by those premier arbiters of weirdness, Guinness World Records. Which, out of supreme respect for his audience, he promptly ate.