The Most Ridiculous Scams in History

There’s a fine line between genius and idiocy, and some people dance back and forth across it with wild enthusiasm. The world has never been short on those who believe they’ve cracked the code to easy money, dreaming up elaborate schemes that seem, at least to them, airtight. They cook up elaborate plans, convinced they’ve outsmarted the system, only to be undone by the one fatal flaw they never accounted for: their own staggering incompetence. Because the problem with being the smartest person in the room is that it only works if everyone else in the room is dumber than you - which, as it turns out, is rarely the case.

Some cons are intricate and well-planned, masterminded by people who probably could have made a fortune legally if they weren’t so allergic to hard work. Conceived by minds that dance at the precipice of brilliance and catastrophe, weaving intricate plots that seem, for a brief, intoxicating moment, as if they might actually work. Others, however, are so astoundingly ill-conceived that one wonders if the scammer thought things through at all. If you’re going to fake your own death, for example, maybe don’t show up in family vacation photos. If you’re impersonating a Saudi prince, perhaps you need to curb your enthusiasm for pork chops.  

Since our February 14th blog post was all about hacking, one of our loyal readers suggested that we turn our attention this week to an equally dubious “profession” - scamming. But not the kind that makes millions or brings corporations to their knees. No, we’re talking about the truly ridiculous cons, grifts so harebrained that they ultimately did more harm to their masterminds than their intended victims. From selling monuments they didn’t own to claiming to be stranded astronauts, these were not mere con artists; they were the tragic maestros of deception, who watched as their grand symphonies collapsed into absurdity. Scams, after all, require a delicate balance of nerve, charisma, and at least a passing familiarity with logic. And as we peel back the layers of these misadventures, it becomes apparent that some of history’s most absurd fraudsters possessed none of the above.

So, hold on tight to your wallet, and your common sense, as we take a look at some of the most ridiculous scams in history.

The Artist of the Con

Victor Lustig was not just a con artist; he was an artist of the con, a man who could sell you your own shoes and have you thanking him for the deal. But his true masterpiece - the Sistine Chapel of swindles - was selling the Eiffel Tower. Not once. Twice.

In the 1920s, Lustig cooked up a scheme so audacious that it really should have been a red flag to anyone with basic critical thinking skills. He forged government documents, posed as a French official, and invited a group of scrap metal dealers to a highly confidential meeting. The pitch? The Eiffel Tower was, unfortunately, a rusting relic and had become too expensive to maintain. The French government had decided, in the utmost secrecy, to sell it off for scrap. Lustig, ever the generous civil servant, was willing to let one lucky bidder in on the deal - for the right price, of course. One eager businessman took the bait, handing over a small fortune in bribes and payments, only to later realize he had bought exactly nothing. Too embarrassed to go to the police, he kept his mouth shut, leaving Lustig free to vanish into the sunset.

Now, a lesser man might have taken the win and retired to some tropical hideaway, but Lustig, drunk on his own brilliance, decided to run the same scam again. This time, however, his marks weren’t as meek, and law enforcement got involved. He managed to slip away before being caught, but the walls were closing in. He would go on to charm and cheat his way through America, even conning Al Capone at one point, which is the kind of thing that, by all rights, should have ended with him at the bottom of the Chicago River.

The scam was beautifully simple. Lustig approached Capone with an investment opportunity, claiming he could double the mobster’s money in just two months. Capone, intrigued but naturally suspicious, handed Lustig $50,000 - not an insignificant sum in the 1920s, but pocket change to Capone. Lustig then took the money, placed it in a bank, and waited. Two months later, he returned to Capone, apologetic and regretful, explaining that the deal had fallen through but – miraculously - he still had every penny of Capone’s money and he handed the cash back to him (minus any accrued interest of course).

Capone, stunned by this rare display of supposed honesty, was so impressed that he rewarded Lustig with a $5,000 "good faith" gesture for his integrity. And just like that, Lustig walked away richer, having successfully conned one of the most dangerous men in America without ever technically breaking a promise. It was, in a way, the perfect scam: no risks, no chase, and no cement shoes - just a man so good at lying that even telling the truth became a con.

Eau De Nothing

There’s a certain genius in selling people something they already have for an absurdly high price - just ask anyone who’s ever marketed bottled water. But one particularly ambitious scammer in the 1970s took this concept to an entirely new level when he decided to fill high-end Chanel No. 5 bottles with tap water and sell them at luxury prices. For a while, it worked. After all, if you dress something up in enough elegance and exclusivity, people will convince themselves it’s special,

until, of course, reality seeps in.

For months, customers waltzed out of boutiques clutching their extravagant little glass bottles, blissfully unaware that their "timeless floral masterpiece" had more in common with a kitchen sink than a Parisian fragrance house. But perfume, by design, is meant to linger, and the first cracks in the scheme began when buyers noticed that their supposed Chanel No. 5 had the staying power of a light drizzle. Worse yet, instead of the delicate blend of jasmine, rose, and ylang-ylang, some customers swore they detected a faint hint of chlorine and, in one particularly damning complaint, a distinct "public swimming pool" aroma.

Once suspicions arose, the whole thing unraveled faster than a cheap knockoff handbag. Authorities quickly caught on, tracking down the man behind the scentless swindle. When confronted, he reportedly insisted that his version of Chanel No. 5 was just "exceptionally subtle." Unfortunately for him, subtlety is not a legal defense, and he was soon arrested for fraud. After all, you can put lipstick on a pig, but in the end it’s still just a pig.

The Magic Box of Money

Some scams rely on elaborate deception, intricate schemes, and a careful balancing act of lies. Others just bank on the fact that some people are really eager to believe in magic. Enter the legendary “Magic Box That Doubles Money” con - a beautifully simple, almost childlike fraud that somehow worked on at least one very hopeful (and soon-to-be very broke) individual.

The scammer, our old friend Victor Lustig from the Eiffel Tower scam above, presented his prized possession: a handcrafted mahogany box roughly the size of a steamer trunk that, when fed a banknote, would miraculously spit out an identical copy.

Demonstrating his "invention," he would insert a real bill into the contraption, turn a few knobs, and – after a period of a couple hours – lo and behold, two identical banknotes would emerge. The trick, of course, was painfully obvious to anyone not blinded by sheer greed: Lustig had preloaded the box with a second real note, and once the performance was over, the box contained nothing but air and regret.

One notable instance involved a Texas sheriff who purchased the box for a substantial sum. Upon realizing he'd been deceived, the sheriff tracked Lustig to Chicago. There, Lustig managed to pacify the sheriff by claiming improper operation of the device and compensated him with counterfeit bills, further entangling the lawman in the scam. This counterfeiting activity eventually led to Lustig's arrest.

$1 Million for Your Thoughts

Throughout the years, several individuals have attempted the audacious - and profoundly misguided - act of passing off counterfeit $1 million bills as genuine currency. Side note: the U.S. Treasury has never issued such a denomination, making these attempts all the more absurd.

The Nebraska Incident (2019):

In October 2019, a man in Lincoln, Nebraska, strolled into a Pinnacle Bank branch with the intention of opening a new account. His initial deposit? A crisp $1 million bill. Bank tellers, well-versed in the realities of U.S. currency, informed him that no such bill existed. Undeterred, the man insisted on its authenticity. When the bank refused to comply, he left with his fictitious fortune still in hand. Concerned about the nature of the encounter, bank employees alerted local law enforcement. Authorities reviewed security footage to identify the individual, aiming to conduct a welfare check and determine if he had been the victim of a scam himself.

The Pittsburgh Supermarket Fiasco (2007):

In October 2007, Samuel Porter attempted to use a $1 million bill at a Giant Eagle supermarket in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

He handed the bill to a cashier, requesting change. The cashier, recognizing the bill as counterfeit, contacted authorities. Porter was subsequently arrested and charged with forgery and theft by deception.

The Iowa Arrest:

In another instance, Dennis Strickland from Iowa tried to deposit a $1 million bill at a local bank. Bank employees immediately recognized the bill as fake and contacted the police. Upon searching Strickland, authorities discovered methamphetamine in his possession, leading to his arrest on drug charges.

Have I Got a Deal for You!

George C. Parker was not a man burdened by scruples, legalities, or any particular attachment to reality. What he was, however, was a consummate salesman - the kind of guy who could look you straight in the eye and convince you that the Brooklyn Bridge was not only for sale but that you were the lucky person destined to own it. And he did exactly that. Not once. Not twice. But over and over again, selling the same bridge to one gullible mark after another.

Parker, born in 1860, ran his scam throughout the late 19th and early 20th centuries, targeting wide-eyed immigrants fresh off the boat, eager to make their American dream a reality. His pitch was simple but effective: for a modest sum, he would transfer ownership of the Brooklyn Bridge, allowing the "new owners" to set up toll booths and rake in a fortune. Papers? Of course, he had papers - elaborate forgeries with official-looking seals and signatures. The scam worked so well that the police repeatedly had to stop would-be bridge owners from setting up their booths, at which point the realization would dawn that they had just spent their life savings on a very public piece of infrastructure.

Parker didn’t stop at the Brooklyn Bridge. He "sold" Madison Square Garden, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and even the Statue of Liberty, presumably with the same level of confident absurdity. But all good things must come to an end, and in 1928, Parker was finally convicted of fraud and sentenced to life at Sing Sing Prison, where he remained until his death in 1936.

And while many con artists have come and gone, his legacy remains: every time someone warns you, “If you believe that, I’ve got a bridge to sell you,” they’re tipping their hat to the greatest bridge salesman who ever lived.

You Are What You Eat

In the world of high-stakes deception, few have played the part with as much chutzpah - or dietary inconsistency - as Anthony Gignac. Born in Colombia in 1970 and adopted by a Michigan family, Gignac didn’t let the minor inconvenience of not being Saudi stop him from spending three decades posing under the alias of Prince Khalid bin Al-Saud. Dressed in designer clothes, draped in fake royal credentials, and demanding the deference befitting his entirely fictional lineage, he swindled millions from investors eager to court his supposed wealth.

Gignac’s act was thorough but not without its…flaws. For one, he didn’t speak Arabic. For another, he had a particular fondness for pork products, a curious habit for a man claiming to be a devout Muslim prince. In 2017, billionaire Jeffrey Soffer, considering a business deal with Gignac, noticed the alleged royal tucking into a plate of prosciutto...

- a detail that didn’t quite square with his purported Saudi pedigree. Suspicions arose, private investigators were called, and the façade unraveled faster than a discount Rolex. A closer look at his world revealed fake diplomatic license plates, forged documents, and a history of fraud convictions stretching back decades.

By 2019, after an extensive investigation, Gignac was sentenced to more than 18 years in prison for fraud, identity theft, and impersonating a foreign diplomat. Perhaps most remarkable was not that he got caught, but that he managed to pull off the act for so long - traveling in elite circles, living in luxury, and convincing some very rich people that he was precisely the kind of person they wanted to believe in.

Lost In Space

Everyone is pretty familiar with Nigerian email scams - where absurdity meets just enough pseudo-plausibility to ensnare the truly hopeful. Well, among the more ambitious entries in this genre was the 2016 "Nigerian Astronaut" scam, a unique fusion of classic advance-fee fraud and straight-up science fiction. The email, allegedly from a government official, claimed that Nigeria had secretly sent an astronaut, Major Abacha Tunde, to space in 1990 as part of a top-secret Soviet mission. Unfortunately, due to a series of logistical oversights (one assumes someone forgot to file the appropriate return trip paperwork), Tunde had been stranded aboard a Soviet-era space station for nearly 15 years.

The email assured recipients that Major Tunde was alive and well, heroically orbiting Earth while waiting for his nation to secure his return. All that was needed was a modest sum - three million US dollars - to unfreeze some bureaucratically entangled funds, after which donors would be rewarded handsomely with a cool $15 million for their trouble. How exactly an astronaut had survived in an abandoned space station for two and a half decades was left to the imagination, though one assumes an intergalactic grocery delivery service was involved.

Despite the sheer audacity of the premise, the scam followed the well-worn script of Nigeria’s infamous 419 fraud schemes, named after the section of the country’s criminal code that prohibits them. While it is unclear if anyone actually fell for the story of the world’s loneliest astronaut, the email gained a certain cult status online, proving once again that, when it comes to internet scams, there is no such thing as too ridiculous.

A Picture is Worth £600,000

John Darwin was, at best, a mediocre ghost. In 2002, the former prison officer from the UK decided that the best way to escape his mounting debt was to simply cease existing. So, off he went in a canoe off the coast of Seaton Carew, in the UK never to be seen again - except, of course, for the part where he was very much seen again.

His wife, Anne, played the part of the grieving widow to perfection, collecting more than £600,000 in life insurance while John conveniently hid next door in a secret room behind a wardrobe. (Yes, literally behind a wardrobe. Narnia it was not.) When the couple eventually decided that life in the shadows wasn’t sustainable, they reinvented themselves with fresh identities and moved to Panama, where they planned to live out their days in tropical financial fraud bliss. Unfortunately, subtlety was not their strong suit. In 2007, a photo surfaced of the "late" John Darwin and Anne smiling in a Panamanian real estate office.

Hardly the spectral presence one expects from a supposedly dead man.

Within months, their little scheme unraveled. John, in a last-ditch attempt at damage control, strolled into a London police station claiming he had amnesia, which would have been a brilliant excuse had his wife not already confessed to everything. The courts were unamused. Both were convicted of fraud, with John receiving six years in prison and Anne getting slightly longer for being better at the scam. In the end, John Darwin did get a fresh start - just not in Panama, and certainly not with any of the insurance money he and Anne had so carefully pilfered.

A Rock-Solid Investment

In the annals of audacious scams, few can rival the sheer chutzpah exhibited by a group of enterprising fraudsters in Nanjing, China. In 2015, these individuals didn't just set up a run-of-the-mill Ponzi scheme or an online phishing operation; they went the extra mile - quite literally - by constructing a fully operational, brick-and-mortar bank. A completely fake version of the real China Construction Bank (CCB), one of China’s largest state-owned banks, complete with uniformed staff, gleaming interiors, and even functioning ATMs.

This counterfeit financial institution stood as a testament to their commitment to the con.  

The faux bank lured unsuspecting customers with the tantalizing promise of 2% weekly interest rates - a return so generous it could make even the most optimistic investor raise an eyebrow. Yet, the prospect of quick riches proved irresistible, and over the course of a year, more than 200 depositors entrusted their hard-earned yuan to the sham institution, amassing over USD $32 million in deposits.

One particularly eager individual invested nearly USD $2 million, undoubtedly envisioning a future of endless prosperity.

However, as with all things too good to be true, the scheme's facade eventually crumbled. Authorities caught wind of the operation, and in a move that surprised no one (except perhaps the fraudsters themselves), the bank was promptly shut down, and its architects were arrested. In spite of that old saying that “imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery”, in the world of finance, it's also a fast track to a prison sentence.

But I Wore the Juice

McArthur Wheeler was a man of rare conviction. In 1995, convinced he had cracked the secrets of invisibility, he strode into two Pittsburgh banks in broad daylight, pointed a gun at the tellers, and walked away with the cash - all without wearing a mask. Why? Because he had smeared his face with lemon juice, which he believed would render him impervious to security cameras.

This was not, as one might assume, the result of an experimental hallucinogen trial gone awry. Wheeler had, in fact, tested his theory beforehand. By rubbing lemon juice on his face and taking a Polaroid photo of himself - which, for reasons unknown, did not develop properly - he concluded that he had become undetectable to photographic technology. Unfortunately for him, the bank cameras did not suffer from the same malfunction. Within hours, the Pittsburgh police broadcast his very visible face across local news stations...

...and he was arrested the same day.

Upon being shown the footage, Wheeler was reportedly baffled, exclaiming, "But I wore the juice!" - a phrase that, regrettably, did not spark a new legal defense strategy. His case would later inspire the Dunning-Kruger effect, a psychological principle describing how people with low ability often overestimate their competence. Wheeler, however, will forever be remembered as the man who learned, the hard way, that citrus-based invisibility cloaks remain firmly in the realm of fairy tales.

The thing about scams – real, ridiculous, or somewhere in between – is that they all walk a fine line between audacity and believability. Play it too safe, and no one bites. Go too big, and you end up with a half-baked astronaut marooned in space or a million-dollar bill that no one’s dumb enough to take. The best cons - the truly legendary ones - work because they tap into something deep and universal: greed, hope, desperation, or the simple human instinct to believe a well-told lie. But as history has shown us, not every fraudster is a criminal mastermind. Some are just desperate, lazy, or so spectacularly overconfident that they genuinely believe their own nonsense. And when that happens, well, you end up with a man trying to sell the Eiffel Tower twice, a bridge salesman with a lifetime customer base, or a fake prince outed by his love of pork chops.

There’s a reason we’re fascinated by these stories. We like to think we’d never fall for such obvious schemes, that we’d spot the red flags from a mile away. But scams don’t work because people are stupid - they work because people want to believe. They want to believe that there’s an easy way out, a shortcut to wealth, a secret handshake that lets them slip past the velvet ropes of life. They want to believe in once-in-a-lifetime deals, in secret government programs, in a suitcase full of cash that will double overnight if they just trust the process.

And sometimes, the line between scammer and mark isn’t as clear as we’d like to think. After all, how many of us have bought into things that, in retrospect, were only just slightly more socially acceptable grifts? Multi-level marketing schemes, miracle weight-loss pills, luxury brands that sell us the idea of exclusivity rather than actual quality, politicians who tell us they are the only ones with all the answers? The only real difference is the level of polish on the lie. History has shown, time and time again, that if you don’t spot the mark in the room... it’s probably you.

The best con artists understand that their greatest trick isn’t just selling the lie - it’s knowing when to walk away. Most of history’s greatest fraudsters didn’t get caught because their schemes were flawed; they got caught because they believed their own hype. They thought they were untouchable, invincible. And that, more than anything else, is what sunk them. Yet still the scams keep coming. Because as long as there are people looking for shortcuts - for something too good to be true - there will always be someone willing to sell it to them. Maybe that’s the real lesson here - not that people get fooled, but that deep down, they want to be. And who knows? Maybe, right now, someone’s out there with an unbeatable investment opportunity, a once-in-a-lifetime deal just waiting for the right buyer. The only question is - are you feeling lucky?

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