Imagine accidentally changing the course of history because you forgot to wash your hands, panicked in a kitchen, or misread a wrinkle. This episode of Dumbify takes you on a wild ride—literally starting with a sweaty Swiss chemist tripping through the streets on a bicycle after inventing LSD by mistake. From there, we dive into how a deadly toxin became the multi-billion-dollar beauty industry we now know as Botox, and how one desperate maitre d’ invented nachos to appease a group of ravenous Army wives.

These three stories have nothing in common—until you see the hidden thread. They weren’t acts of genius. They were “oh crap, what now?” moments that spiraled into mind-altering revolutions, frozen foreheads, and stadium snacks. Tune in to discover why some of the world’s biggest breakthroughs happen not because someone had a brilliant plan, but because they didn’t think it through at all.

Sign up for the Dumbify newsletter: https://www.david-carson.com/

Dumbify celebrates ideas so weird, wrong, or wildly impractical… they just might be brilliant. Hosted by David Carson, a serial entrepreneur behind multiple hundred-million-dollar companies and the go-to secret weapon for companies looking to unlock new markets through unconventional thinking. Dumbify dives into the messy, counter-intuitive side of creativity — the “dumb” ideas that built empires, broke rules, and ended up changing everything.

It's April 19th, 1943, in Basel, Switzerland. A mild spring day, children playing in the street, the kind of day where nothing weird is supposed to happen. But today, there's a man wobbling through these peaceful streets on a bicycle, and he's having the worst commute of his life. His name is Albert Hoffman, a chemist, a serious, respectable man. Except right now, he's sweating bullets, his heart is pounding, and he is 100% convinced his neighbor's house just winked at him. Furniture is breathing. Streetlights are whispering. And Albert, he's wondering if maybe, just maybe, he's about to meet God. What Albert doesn't know yet is that this bizarre, terrifying bike ride will go down in history.

Because earlier that day, in his lab at Sandoz Pharmaceuticals, Albert made a tiny, innocent mistake. He accidentally absorbed a new chemical compound he'd been studying, one derived from a fungus that grows on rye bread. The chemical's name: lysergic acid diethylamide, or as you and every college freshman know it, LSD. Albert was not trying to spark the psychedelic revolution. He wasn't trying to inspire the Beatles or Steve Jobs or every guy at Burning Man wearing a spirit animal onesie. He was just a chemist who forgot to wash his hands. And yet, this one sloppy lab moment opened a portal into the human mind, a portal that would ripple out through art, music, politics, even Silicon Valley productivity hacks. All of it traced back to a single, sweaty, terrified man on a bicycle. It's easy to look at a discovery like LSD and think, "This must've been planned."

Yes!

But what if the most world-changing things don't come from genius strategy or meticulous planning? What if they come from people who just didn't think it through?

Oh my God.

Welcome to Dumbify. I'm your host, David Carson, and today we're following three different accidents, one that altered minds, one that altered faces, and one that altered the way you eat nachos. Because sometimes, the best things in life come from people who clearly didn't think it through.

Yay.

So let's do that. Let's get …dumb.

Dumbify, let your neurons dance. Put your brain in backwards pants. Genus hides and daft disguise. Brilliance wears those googly eyes. So honk your nose and chase that spark. Dumb is just smart in the dark. Dumbify. Yelling like a goose. It's thinking wrong on purpose with Juice.

Albert Hoffman's wild ride didn't just change his life, it cracked opened a door that would ripple through decades of music and art, and neuroscience. Even Silicon Valley hustle culture, to some extent. But Hoffman wasn't trying to do any of that. He wasn't some visionary genius plotting a revolution. He was just a guy who got a little careless in a lab and then hopped on his bike to go home.

And that made me wonder, how many of the things we love most in life exist not because somebody thought them through, but because somebody didn't?

We're going to follow a single thread through three very different stories, and these three moments couldn't be more different, but they all have one important thing in common: Nobody involved had any idea what they were really doing. So, let's start where it all began, with one sweaty, terrified man on a bicycle, and a single drop of liquid that changed the way we see reality.

Before LSD became a punchline on a tie-dye T-shirt, it was really just a weird, but deadly fungus problem.

Eww!

Albert Hoffman worked for Sandoz Pharmaceuticals in the 1940s, studying compounds from ergot, a mold that grows on rye bread. Historically, ergot was mostly famous for killing people and occasionally sparking accusations of witchcraft.

Gasp!

But Hoffman's team was looking for medical breakthroughs. New drugs to help with circulation, childbirth, you know, all the glamorous stuff. LSD was just one of many chemicals they were tinkering with, a footnote in a very long lab notebook. In fact, when Hofmann first synthesized it, he basically shrugged and moved on. For five years, the compound just sat there, like a forgotten gym membership. Then one spring day in 1943, Albert decided to give LSD another look. And here's where things get a little sloppy. Nobody knows exactly how it happened, but Hofmann accidentally absorbed a tiny amount through his skin, and almost immediately, he started feeling strange. Colors sharpened. His hands felt foreign, like he'd borrowed them from a stranger. The world itself started to ripple and bend, and Albert realized that he had really, really messed up. But two days later, because he was either very brave or very bad at reading warning labels, Hofmann decided to intentionally take what he thought was a tiny test dose of LSD, but it wasn't exactly tiny.Within an hour, he was on his bicycle, desperately pedaling home while reality dissolved around him, the trip we now call Bicycle Day. Imagine being his neighbor, watching this poor Swiss chemist careen past your window, looking like he's escaping from a haunted carnival ride. And remember, this is Switzerland. The weirdest thing that usually happens on a Swiss street is someone eating fondue too aggressively.

Hey.

Rude.

Albert survived his trip, barely, and in the weeks that followed, he realized he hadn't just discovered a new drug. He'd stumbled into a doorway to the human mind itself. Over the next two decades, LSD escaped the lab and went absolutely everywhere. Psychologists experimented with it to treat depression and PTSD. Artists used it to fuel creativity. Writers like Aldous Huxley were dropping acid and writing mystical manifestos like The Doors of Perception. The Beatles were recording Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Subtle, guys. Real subtle.

Doctor Carruthers. My wrinkles are gone, gone, gone. The lines on my face that make me look like an old leather bag are gone, gone, gone. Thank you. Thank you. This toxic, poisonous substance you squirt into my forehead is an absolute fucking miracle.

At first, Jean dismissed it, but then more patients mentioned it.

Fucking miracle.

Frown lines had vanished. Crow's feet? Smooth as glass. It was as if the deadliest poison in the world was secretly a beauty serum.

Miracle.

The Carruthers realized they had stumbled onto something massive. They weren't just treating a rare eye disorder anymore. They were about to ignite a multi-billion dollar beauty industry built on freezing foreheads into eternal youth. If LSD opened the mind, Botox shut it tight, or at least the part of your face that moves when you think too hard. By the late 1990s, Botox had gone mainstream. It became the Kleenex of cosmetic procedures, one of those brand names that's also a verb. Movie stars, politicians, your neighbor Karen, everybody was suddenly one tiny injection away from looking vaguely surprised forever. It's funny when you think about it. Albert Hoffman stumbled into a chemical that blew open the doors of perception, while the Carruthers stumbled onto a chemical that just smooths out your forehead so you don't look like you have perception. Two very different accidents, but both proved the same point. Sometimes our biggest breakthroughs come not from thinking things through, but from not realizing what we've created until it's already too late.We've gone from the mind to the face. But our next story, it's headed straight for your mouth because in 1943, the same year Hofmann was peddling through a psychedelic nightmare, a panicked maitre d' was about to invent the ultimate snack food. It happens in a dusty border town on a very normal night, until a group of hungry women walk in and cause a chain reaction that will echo through every sports bar, gas station, and regrettable 2:00 AM kitchen decision for the rest of human history. Halfway across the world in Piedras Negras, Mexico, a maitre d' named Ignacio Anaya is about to face a crisis that would test the very limits of human ingenuity. It's closing time at Ignacio's restaurant. The chef has gone home. The waiters have fled. The kitchen is basically a culinary wasteland. Ignacio is probably thinking about his nice warm bed, when suddenly [door slams] [women laughing], the door bursts open like something out of a Western, except instead of gunslinging outlaws, it's a group of US Army wives who've crossed the border for what they thought would be a delightful evening meal. These women aren't just hungry, they're ravenous. They've traveled all this way, they're excited for authentic Mexican cuisine, and they're staring at Ignacio with the kind of expectant joy that could power a small village. This is the culinary equivalent of being asked to perform brain surgery with a spoon and a paper clip. In this moment, Ignacio has exactly two options. Option one, tell these lovely ladies that there's no food available and watch their faces crumble like his hopes and dreams, and probably starting an international incident in the process. Option two, perform what can only be described as the most important improvisation in the history of human snacking. So, what does our hero do? He panics. But it's the kind of productive panic that built empires and launched a thousand late-night munchie runs. Racing through his empty kitchen like a contestant on the world's most desperate cooking show, Ignacio surveys his pathetic kingdom. Three sad ingredients sitting there like the last survivors of a culinary apocalypse. Tortillas, a hunk of cheese, and some leftover jalapenos. No cookbook could prepare him for this moment. No culinary school teaches Emergency Snack Creation for Disappointed Army Wives 101. But here's where Ignacio becomes a legend. Does he surrender? Does he apologize and send them away? Hell no. This man looks at those three ingredients and sees not poverty, but possibility.

He's basically the MacGyver of Mexican cuisine, except instead of diffusing bombs, he's about to accidentally diffuse decades of boring bar food. He grabs those tortillas and fries them until they're golden and crispy, like edible pieces of sunshine. Then he takes that cheese, probably whispering a small prayer to whatever gods govern dairy products, and sprinkles it on top like he's performing some ancient ritual. The jalapenos go on next, because apparently Ignacio believes that if you're going to make culinary history, you may as well make it spicy. Then comes the moment of truth. He shoves the whole contraption under the broiler, probably holding his breath, and possibly his sanity, waiting to see if he's created a masterpiece or a disaster that will haunt him for the rest of his days. The plate emerges from that broiler like Excalibur from the stone. Brilla. Ignacio carries it to the table with the confidence of a man who has absolutely no idea what he's just unleashed upon the world. He sets it down in front of these Army wives, probably mumbling something like, "I hope you don't hate it," in Spanish. What happens next can only be described as a religious experience. The first woman takes a bite. The crunch echoes through the restaurant like a gunshot at high noon. There's a moment of silence that must have felt like an eternity to poor Ignacio. And then, explosion. [Men laughing] Not the bad kind. The kind where grown women start making sounds that would make a food critic weep. These ladies don't just like it, they don't just love it. [woman moaning] They become Evangelical converts to the church of Ignacio's accidental genius. They're raving about it like they've discovered the meaning of life melted onto a tortilla chip. One of them probably asked for the recipe, and Ignacio is just standing there, like, "Recipe?" "Lady, I'm not even sure what I just did." "What's your name, young man?" the women ask. "Ignacio," he tells them. "But my friends call me Nacho." And just like that, a global snack empire is born from three ingredients and one man's beautiful desperation.

A chemist tweaks the mind. A doctor smooth the skin. A maitre d' feeds the soul, or at least the drunk and hungry part of it. Three wildly different stories, but they all follow the same hidden pattern. We love to imagine history as the result of careful planning, geniuses drawing blueprints, visionaries unveiling master strategies. But the truth is most of history happens by accident. Albert Hofmann wasn't trying to launch a psychedelic revolution. He was cleaning up after himself and missed a spot.St. Martin's, not your average town. The Carruthers weren't trying to invent the world's most famous cosmetic procedure. They were solving a tiny, obscure medical problem and almost missed the side effect. Nacho wasn't trying to change stadium menus forever. He was just trying to get through one awkward evening without disappointing his customers. These weren't acts of genius. They were by-products, little detours, unexpected ripples, things that weren't supposed to matter at all.

But that's how real change often works. It doesn't come from someone saying, "I will change the world." It comes from someone muttering, "Uh-oh, shit, what now?"

Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb word of the day. Dumb word of the day. It's a word. It's dumb. Use responsibly.

That's right. It's time for my absolute favorite part of the show. It's time for Dumb Word of the Day, when I get to say a word so weird it makes you question if you've had a minor stroke, or if I'm just messing with you. And today's dumb word is... Zemblanity, spelled Z-E-M-B-L-A-N-I-T-Y. Zemblanity. If serendipity is a happy accident, zemblanity is its evil twin, the discovery of something you wish you hadn't found. The word comes from Novaya Zemlya, a freezing remote cluster of islands in the Arctic. Basically, a place where good surprises go to die. If serendipity is like stumbling into a surprise birthday party, zemblanity is like stumbling into a surprise funeral and realizing it's yours. You've experienced zemblanity, even if you didn't have the word for it. Like, when you go to check your bank account balance and realize, "Oh, cool, I am officially one latte away from bankruptcy." Or, when you Google a mild headache and discover, according to WebMD, you have 17 minutes to live. Or, my personal favorite, when you proudly share your brilliant new idea and someone says, "Yeah, Arby's has been selling that since 2014." That's zemblanity with extra meats and cheese. But zemblanity isn't just about personal embarrassment. It shows up in history too, sometimes in terrifying ways. The Titanic sinking was zemblanity on a global scale. The unsinkable ship meets the world's rudest ice cube. The invention of lead paint, zemblanity with extra brain damage. And the entire plot of Jurassic Park? Peak zemblanity. Because as Jeff Goldblum wisely said, "Your scientists were so preoccupied with whether they could, they didn't stop to think if they should." Here's the twist though. Sometimes, zemblanity is just serendipity in disguise. Albert Hofmann's LSD trip probably felt like pure zemblanity at first. Terror, confusion, maybe some unfortunate encounters with his furniture. But over time, that mistake sparked whole new ways of thinking about the mind. Same with Botox. The first wrinkle disappearing was probably creepy. Then suddenly, it was a billion-dollar idea. Even nachos might feel like zemblanity to your digestive system at 3 AM. But in the moment, pure melted joy. So maybe the line between serendipity and zemblanity isn't fixed. It's just about perspective, whether you're seeing a disaster in the moment or a breakthrough in hindsight.

Let's try using it in a sentence. When my cat knocked over a bottle of wine and destroyed my laptop, that was zemblanity. But when I sold the story to Netflix for a limited series called Catastrophe, that was serendipity. Remember, not every accident changes the world for the better. Some just change your lunch plans or your bathroom schedule. That was gross. Moving on. All right, it's time for the part of the show where we don't just talk about dumb thinking, we actually do it. This week's Dumbify Challenge is designed to help you create your very own happy accident. Or, if things go sideways, a catastrophic zemblanity. Either way, it'll make a great story. Here's how it works. Sometime this week, I want you to make something, anything, without a plan. Cook a meal. Write a poem. Build a fort. Assemble an outfit. Whatever. The only rule? You must use at least one random ingredient, object, or idea you've never used before. This is exactly what our three accidental heroes did. None of them had a master plan. They were just winging it, and those moments changed the world, or at least changed the way we watch football with snacks. Your goal this week isn't to make something good. It's to see what happens when you let go of the plan and embrace the chaos. You might discover a new family recipe or invent a cursed dish that gets you banned from Thanksgiving forever. Either way, you'll get a taste of how accidents turn into breakthroughs or digestive regrets. And if you're feeling bold, share your accidental creation with the world. Post a photo or video using the hashtag dumbifychallenge so we can all witness your triumph, or your beautiful, gooey failure. Remember, every nacho started as a mistake, so go make some mistakes this week, the kind you can laugh about later, ideally from the comfort of a bathroom stocked with plenty of Tums. And that's our show. Thank you for getting dumb with me today. I'm your host, David Carson. Join us next week when we once again wander blindly into the swamp of stupid ideas and come out somehow holding a Nobel Prize and a half-eaten churro. And if you'd like more dumb from the Dumbify universe, get the Dumbify newsletter at david-carson.com. Until next week, keep throwing darts in the dark. You never know when you'll accidentally invent a new breakfast food or time travel.