“Make A merkin Great Again” Cap and Merchandise
Yes, folks, you heard right. The iconic red cap—bold, brash, and utterly ridiculous—is here to remind us that in a world gone mad, sometimes all you need is a good laugh and a strong slogan.
Whether you’re storming the barricades of absurdity or simply confusing your neighbors at the grocery store, the Make A merkin Great Again cap has got you covered.
And why stop at caps? Pick up a Patriot’s Merkin in red, white, or blue, because nothing says “freedom” like a well-groomed sense of irony.
But let’s not get bogged down in merchandising—there’s a story to tell here.
A story of deception, art, and the strange, hairy underbelly of history.
Strap in, my friends, because we’re about to dive deep into the murky world of The Merkin Salesman.
The Photograph: A Time Capsule of Peculiar Commerce
The image is as bizarre as it is captivating. A gaunt man in a three-piece suit stands beside his travelling sales case emblazoned with: “Merkins – Serving the Discerning Pudendum Since 1827.”
The setting is quintessentially Victorian: sepia tones, heavy drapery, and a whiff of propriety clashing with the absurdity of the subject matter.
At first glance, the photograph seems like an artifact plucked from the annals of history—a glimpse into the quirky, forgotten corners of 19th-century commerce. And why not? The merkin, or pubic wig, has a storied past.
Originally a practical solution for 15th-century prostitutes looking to cover signs of disease or lice, it later evolved into a bizarre accessory of discretion and allure. By the time the photograph was supposedly taken in the 1860s, merkins had found their niche among courtesans, performers, and perhaps a few eccentric aristocrats.
It’s easy to imagine the travelling merkin salesman as a kind of perverse pioneer, peddling his wares with the same gusto as a snake oil merchant or a carnival barker.
His clientele? The boudoir set, looking to add a touch of flair to their intimate lives.
His pitch? Equal parts scandalous and sophisticated, delivered with the confidence of a man who knows he’s selling something no one will admit to needing.
But here’s the twist: The Merkin Salesman is a lie.
The Hoax Unveiled
In a 2020 investigation for The Atlantic, reporter Lawrence Weschler pulled back the curtain on the supposed historical artifact. The photograph, as it turns out, is not a relic of the 19th century but a meticulously crafted fabrication by artist Stephen Berkman.
Displayed as part of an archival collection at the Contemporary Jewish Museum from October 2020 to June 2021, the image was part of Berkman’s elaborate project, Predicting the Past—Zohar Studios: The Lost Years.
Weschler’s reporting uncovered the truth: Berkman wasn’t a curator preserving history but a creator inventing it. His life partner confirmed that each photograph in the series was produced with the precision and flair of a short-film shoot.
Scripts, costumes, backdrops, lighting—months of preparation went into crafting images that felt as though they had been plucked from another era.
Berkman wove a tale to accompany the photographs, a cryptic narrative about serendipitously discovering the works of a forgotten Jewish photographer named Shimmel Zohar. The story was compelling, intricate, and—as Weschler revealed—entirely fictitious.
Could It Have Been Real?
Here’s the thing about The Merkin Salesman: even knowing it’s a hoax, it feels true. The concept of a merkin salesman, absurd as it may sound, fits snugly into the fabric of Victorian eccentricity.
This was an era when people paid to see “mermaids” made of monkey torsos and fish tails, when phrenology and séances were serious business, and when every conceivable human quirk seemed to find its way into commerce.
The merkin, with its strange blend of practicality and absurdity, is emblematic of this period. It’s not hard to imagine a man traveling from town to town, setting up shop in dusty parlors and pitching his wares to a scandalized but intrigued audience.
Berkman’s fabrication, while false, taps into a deep vein of historical plausibility, blurring the lines between what was and what could have been.
And isn’t that the essence of great art? To create something so evocative that it feels like it belongs to the world, even if it never actually existed? Berkman’s work doesn’t just mimic history—it enriches it, adding a layer of narrative that’s as entertaining as it is thought-provoking.
President Merkin Muffley
Which brings us, inevitably, to Merkin Muffley—the fictional President of the United States in Stanley Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove. Played with neurotic brilliance by Peter Sellers, Muffley is a man whose name alone is a masterstroke of absurdity.
A president named after a pubic wig? Only Kubrick could pull off a joke so sly and so layered.
Muffley’s legacy, much like Berkman’s photograph, is one of profound satire.
He’s a character who embodies the contradictions of his time: a leader ostensibly in control but utterly powerless in the face of chaos.
His name, ridiculous as it is, becomes a symbol of the strange and the absurd—a reminder that even the highest offices are not immune to the peculiarities of human folly.
In a way, Muffley and The Merkin Salesman are kindred spirits. Both are creations that blend humor and insight, challenging us to question the boundaries between reality and artifice. Both are products of their creators’ sharp wit and keen observation, reflecting the absurdity of the worlds they inhabit.
And both, ultimately, are testaments to the power of storytelling. Whether it’s Berkman spinning a tale of 19th-century commerce or Kubrick crafting a satire of Cold War politics, the message is clear: sometimes, the best way to understand the truth is through a well-told lie.
A Final Word
So here we are, at the end of a journey that began with a red cap and ended with a pubic wig.
Along the way, we’ve uncovered a hoax, explored the peculiarities of Victorian life, and revisited one of the greatest satirical films of all time.
And what have we learned?
Perhaps nothing. Or perhaps everything. Because in a world as strange as ours, where the lines between fact and fiction are constantly shifting, the only certainty is the absurd. And sometimes, that’s enough.
So go ahead. Buy the cap. Wear it with pride. And remember: history is only as real as the stories we choose to tell.
