Despite a general tendency to view the past as quaint and decorous, some old-time advertisements were just as dopey, contrived, and unconvincing as many are today. Here’s a roundup of eyebrow-lifters from old Ypsilanti papers.

This ad buttonholes the viewer with a demand. Why, indeed, were typewriters invented? As the reader reflexively attempts to dredge from a recalcitrant brain this device’s natal details, the ad briskly moves on to its real subject—kitchen cabinets.

Like typewriters, says the ad, kitchen cabinets offer enormous time and labor-saving benefits. This was doubtless good news to housewives who, prior to this ad, presumably were storing their pots and pans in random piles around the house. And, of course, no other company’s cabinet could offer the advantages that a Hoosier cabinet could—apparently Hoosier had cornered the market on advanced cabinet technology. You could even stop by for a demonstration! That must have been a godsend to Ypsilanti housewives in 1919 befuddled by this baffling piece of furniture.

(Click on any image for a larger view).

Another questioning ad, for the Ypsilanti Savings Bank, asks readers not about checkbooks, or safe deposit boxes, or interest rates, but bulldogs. The ad answers its own question: a bulldog is a good fighter “because he takes hold and keeps hold.” The ad goes on to say that you, too, reader, can be a bulldog, with your “teeth in the coat-tails of opportunity!. . . In other words start an interest-bearing account!” The takeaway message, “be a bulldog--start an interest-bearing account” leaves one with a vision of canines trotting into the Ypsilanti Savings Bank.

Another ad mentioning teeth underlines the less than blatant parallel between plumbing and dentistry. It seeks to incite fear in the reader by warning, “It is more dangerous to neglect plumbing in your house than it is to neglect teeth in your head.” The ad continues, “The plumber is important from the health stand point” because “neglected plumbing may bring sickness to the entire family, while bad teeth are dangerous to you alone.” The lack of any sort of logical connection knitting together these statements neither bothered nor delayed the ad’s copywriter, who exhorted the reader to call O. A. Hankinson and then called it a day.

Another tenuous connection, between WWI soldiers and doughnuts, appears in the C. & A. Baking Co’s ad. The ad informs us that while fighting overseas, being shot at, and seeing buddies get wounded, “John” actually spent much of his time fantasizing about doughnuts. This unrequited longing could now be satisfied at the C. & A. Baking Co., where one could buy “the kind he dreamed of in the Argonne.” What more meaningful tribute could one offer a returned veteran; "it is his due after so many long months 'over there'." Forget the Medal of Honor.

The 1938 Zonolite Week ad isn’t a bad one, but its tragedy lies in its product.

Unbeknownst to its promoters, Zonolite was an insulation material rich in asbestos. The small photo shows men in an attic installing Zonolite without respirators or any sort of safety equipment.

This week-long promotion may have resulted in scores of Ypsi homeowners installing this dangerous substance into their living spaces—where likely some of it remains to this day.

On a lighter note, another ad with a distinctly-named product is this one for an automobile. Made in Flint, this car was named for one of its parent company’s co-founders, former Chevrolet executive Josiah Dort. The ad touts the Dort’s smooth ride, stability, and mileage. It may have been a fine car, but there are times when it is better to forgo making one’s product eponymous. The reader can’t help but imagine a would-be suitor trying to impress his potential date.

“Say!—would you like to go for a ride?”

“Oh my, I didn’t know you had a car!”

“Yes, we can just hop in my. . . uh, my. . .”

“Your what?”

“My, uh, Dort! My new Dort! That Dort over there!”

“A 'Dort'? [stifled giggles].

"Historical Tidbits" is published every Friday on AnnArbor.com.