Once upon a modern time, in the shadow of Sin City’s shimmering lights, the MGM Grand dared to house an automaton steeped in nostalgia—a relic from a bygone era of entertainment. Its name, or rather, his name, was Foster Brooks, and once upon a time, he graced the casino floors of this grand palace of chance and spectacle. McLean, whose fascination with this mechanical marvel persevered long after its disappearance, reached out to the powers that be, inquiring with a hopeful heart if the robot might be available for purchase after it had vanished from the casino floor and the real Brooks had departed this world.
With a response cutting through her dreams like a knife, they laid bare the truth: He had been dismantled, his mechanical sinews repurposed, his existence spread into the ether of the grand establishment as if he were MGM’s very soul scattered across a cosmic plane.
Long before this grim conclusion, back in the December of 1993, past the yellow brick thoroughfare crafted in homage to the storied Emerald Forest, patrons of Kirk Kekorian’s reborn resort beheld the familiar faces of Dorothy, Scarecrow, Cowardly Lion, and Tin Man. Yet, amidst these expected sights, there lurked a surprise, a peculiar anomaly that beckoned to them from the Betty Boop Lounge.
Every thirty minutes, the likeness of Foster Brooks came to life. Seated upon his stool, the robot lip-synced to a 20-minute comedy routine of yesteryear, much to the amazement, or perhaps the befuddlement, of passersby. This Other Tin Man, a mechanical complement to the fabled character, posed a question: Why should a creature of circuitry and steel assume the guise of this particular comedic spirit?
Transcending the obscurity championed by a theme park podcast devotee—claiming it to be the “Most Obscure Reference On Earth”—this animatronic oddity became the subject for the imaginings of one “SpongeBob SquarePants” writer, Jack Pendarvis. His lament on our cultural neglect of the Foster Brooks robot registered a poignant note on the vast symphony of the internet in 2008.
But who was Foster Brooks, this man of mirth whose act hinged upon the portrayal of a drunkard? His life’s work garnered an Emmy nomination, an audience unflinching at the mention of his fictional “Alcoholics Unanimous,” and the favor of celebrities like Perry Como.
Foster Brooks’s career, though silenced with the quiet lull of time, enjoyed a flickering resurgence with the MGM Grand’s offer of $10,000 per annum for a decade, granting them the rights to replicate him as an automaton.
And who birthed this marvelous contraption that stirred both wonder and confusion? The answer lay not in the hands of a Frankenstein, but rather with John Wood, the affable president of Sally Dark Rides, a company even now leaving its mark on Vegas with delightful diversions like the “SpongeBob Squarepants” attraction at Circus Circus.
One could spend a lifetime unraveling the reasons as to why this robot came to be, but sometimes the simplest of truths suffices—Fred Benninger, then chair of MGM Grand Inc., cherished the comedy of Foster Brooks. Benninger’s delight, Wood’s craftsmanship, and Brooks’s routine coalesced into this animatronic novelty painstakingly constructed with compressed air and lifelike movements.
Such was the allure of this artificial jester that a tipsy patron, believing in its humanity, left a tip at its unfeeling toes, a gesture as tender as it was mislaid.
Years later, an ambitious Vegas journalist by the name of Mike Weatherford orchestrated a surreal encounter between the real Foster Brooks and his robotic doppelganger—a tableau observed not for recognition but for sheer novelty.
Sadly, the Foster Brooks robot, alongside its “Wizard of Oz” contemporaries, succumbed to the merciless renovations of the late ’90s. Rumors whispered of a furious Mike Tyson reducing it to rubble, yet these tall tales yield no substance, finding no echo of truth in Wood’s heart or MGM’s vaults.
Now, merely a ghost in MGM’s machine, the Foster Brooks robot holds a place in the annals of Vegas legend and memory. Will it be unearthed from the dust of history, hidden within a storied warehouse or attic? Mike Weatherford acknowledges the sliver of hope: “Somebody has it,” he insists. And for those who care to wonder, this enigmatic mechanical comedian remains a curious treasure yet to be found.
