TV's worst evangelists: Glory Be to Fraud

Guess I must just be in a righteous mood. You know how it is on YouTube: it's designed for addictive browsing, where way leads on to way, and often you can't go back. So you end up affixing, pasting your favorites onto your blog so you won't lose track of them.

This has to be the ugliest piece of video I have ever seen, so of course I had to post it. When I first watched it, I just could not take in what I was seeing. It was an ugly mob scene featuring hysterical men making weird noises and pushing people over. I would love to know more, i. e. who ARE these people, WHERE are they and WHAT are they doing?, but the video says nothing. The clips have been taken from other videos, perhaps illegally, so are not labelled.

This is obviously some sort of mass exorcism. Trouble is, it's the exorcist who's possessed. Possessed by the God of idiocy. The most baffling and grotesque example is the long clip in the middle. For some reason another guy sort of holds on to him, so he won't float away to Cuckooland. One wonders at the sadism of such people, who surely can't believe they're doing anything of value, or doing anything at all except create false hopes and suck away cash.

Though it's the poor and marginalized who are most taken in by these vampires, I notice the suits and ties and '80s-style dressed-up women with high hair and wonder who on earth would fall for this. It's desperation, for sure, the need to believe, but do we really have to check our intellect at the door, to give our will over entirely?

I'm reminded of Nazi Germany, of Triumph of the Will and its hideous uniformity, the fierce, vacant pride of people falling into lockstep and throwing their individuality gleefully away. People do NOT want to think for themselves. It's a burden to make decisions and live with the consequences. I've heard so many people, even "moderate" Christians and people in 12-step groups (which can be more fundamentalist than the whooping, hollering crowd you see here) go on and on about how "God is in charge, God makes all the decisions, I just put it all in God's hands." Even when I was part of the United Church, that Godless bunch of New Age heathens and mortgage brokers/Mary Kay salesladies, I was encouraged, nay, pressured to just trust in God, bring all my troubles to Him/Her and believe that I would be guided, reassured, even healed.

Didn't happen, folks. In fact, I wasn't the only one who found that her soul maladies and vulnerabilities of the body only got worse in "God's hands".

The truth is, "God" does not HAVE hands. God is a concept, just about the slipperiest, most unknowable and inexpressible concept that exists. God is, perhaps, the mysterious force that gave rise to all life, to the entire universe. And it didn't happen in a week or even a couple thousand years, but an expanse of time so vast we can't even comprehend it.  But is there a personal God, a God who knows us, cares about us, tends to us and listens to all our sorrows?

I think not. Sorry, God. For that, we need each other.

Afterblog. After watching this compilation, I am incredulous: I MUST find out more about the maniac with the suit-and-tie audience. Watching it over and over again, I notice to my horror that most people in the audience are wearing badges. Are they all members of the Gospel Insane Asylum Club or what? Is this some sort of conference? What the hell is going on here? Why are people going along with it? Are they functionally sane? Is HE functionally sane? Are people that desperate to be taken over, to voluntarily give up their will and power of decision? In other alarming clips, I've seen examples of people claiming to be "healed", when in truth they had cancelled surgeries, chemotherapy or other medical treatment in the deluded belief they didn't need them. In one clip, an elderly woman said she was scheduled for open heart surgery because she had several blocked arteries, but glory be to God, she didn't need it any more! "So you went to the doctor and - " began the televangelist scumbag. "I don't need no doctors now! I'm healed! Glory be to God!" In this case, even the evangelist seemed a bit uneasy, but quickly went on to the next victim.

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How To Make Banana Bread (don't try this at home)

Christ, that's funny: portraits of the Laughing Jesus

From what we know of Jesus - which, from a historical perspective, isn't very much - he doesn't seem to have been a real good-time sort of guy. In spite of all those references to turning water into wine, officiating at weddings, last suppers and the like, and even if he DID get a little tipsy from doing so, wisecracks and one-liners do not abound in his many familiar sayings.

THIS was the Jesus I grew up with, and if ever a sobersides existed, he was it. He had this long, sombre, Anglo-Saxon face, a receding hairline, and the high forehead of aristocracy. Not exactly a laugh riot.  The only quizzical line of his that  I can think of is the camel through the eye of the needle (or was that a needle through the eye of a camel? Poor camel!), and that line about, "You see the speck in your neighbor's eye, but not the great log in your own eye." Maybe you had to be there.

We want to know what Jesus looked like. We're curious. Even non-Christians want to know. Even people like me - and in spite of years of uneasy association with the church, I now believe Jesus was a composite, the teachings and sayings and saving deeds of many itinerant prophets rolled into one - want to know. Unconventional takes are welcome, even the above, rather smarmy pose, which probably shows up more often than any of the others, and in more guises.

Sunset orange.

Pastel blue.

And this one, an obvious corruption.

I don't know why it is, but artists have a hard time portraying Jesus as a - what? A real man, or is that too homophobic? What I'm trying to say is, Jeez! He looks like someone competing in America's Got Talent or something, telling us all that his Mom ("Hi, Mom! You're my inspiration!")  is completely OK with his "awesome" lifestyle. Even the hairstyle is a little too Vidal Sassoon for my liking.

But this one is just plain disrespecful. Yes! - I believe that Jesus, if there really was a Jesus, likely laughed, because practically everyone who isn't brain-damaged laughs. But like THIS? The look in his eyes is wicked - demonic. He looks to be hatching some sort of evil plot. I don't know what puts these ideas into people's heads. You'd think, if you'd go to the trouble of painting or drawing a Laughing Jesus, there'd be a little more benevolence involved. To quote a Hindu guy I know: "Holy cow."

But it gets worse! Yes - this really is supposed to be Jesus - laughing. They sure had purty teeth all those thousands of years ago.

Does he have to look like this? In all of them? Or am I thinking in stereotypes again? Raymond Burr was gay. Rock Hudson. Gomer Pyle! None of them looked like this. "Wheeeeeeeeeee!"

Howling, but more in pain than laughter.

This one, for some reason, reminds me of a picture I saw in an anthropology text that depicted an australopithecine, humanity's distant ancestor. 

Once in a while, though, I find a depiction that just sort of appeals to me. This may look nothing like the "real" Jesus, the one who may or may not have existed. But it's a nice picture. He looks just Middle Eastern enough to defy the washed-out Sunday School stereotype, without being an out-and-out Neanderthal. He's - well, he's gorgeous is what he is! Just a hint of androgyny, enough to be cool without the salon look. I think I would welcome him as my personal Saviour - if he, and I, were so inclined.

P. S. (the "kicker"): Been looking for this one for years! Though there are those who believe I am nuts, I am an avid Blingophile. I love making Blingees, as they are my only real shot at visual art, and this one, sentimental though it may be, is quite beautiful. The subtlety of the animation is quite pleasing to me. It took a reverse-search through my TinEye program to find a true animated version, as I only had a jpg on hand from a post a lo-o-o-o-o-ong time ago. By the way, my search yielded 122 results. And as I look at it now, the reflection seems almost feminine, like the face of Mary. Jesus could always depend on his Mom. 

Post-post wow! I was quite thrilled to find, upon researching the paintings of Greg Olsen (who did the Christ image at the end of my Laughing Jesus display), that he also did the face of the Blingee I like. Some of his imagery is kind of cool, bringing contemporary figures into a Biblical setting. I wish my old white vinyl-covered Bible with the zipper on it had had pictures in it by THIS guy - I might have paid more attention in Sunday School.

Another, more secular Olsen painting. I think it's quite charming and well-composed, and I like the quality of the light. I also like what it's saying: I have a couple of granddaughters tricked out like this.

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Dead Monk in the Middle of the Road, Volume 2: A Clockwork Monk

The Smithsonian Institution has in its collection a clockwork monk, about 15 in (380 mm) high, possibly dating as early as 1560. The monk is driven by a key-wound spring and walks the path of a square, striking his chest with his right arm, while raising and lowering a small wooden cross and rosary in his left hand, turning and nodding his head, rolling his eyes, and mouthing silent obsequies. From time to time, he brings the cross to his lips and kisses it. It is believed that the monk was manufactured by Juanelo Turriano, mechanician to the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V (Wikipedia).

But it gets worse.

This might just be the world's oldest surviving windup toy. It's the only existing footage of it, not just grainy but downright pixilated, adding to its creepy charm. Divested of his vestments, he looks even worse, as if that's possible. He's shaped like he's wearing a dress (making him the world's only transvestite medieval automaton monk). You can see something like feet going up and down at the front. Though his movements are described as "lifelike", they aren't. His jaw jerks closed, his hands seem spring-loaded, and perhaps are.

I wish I hadn't seen this, but there is no taking it back now, as it is burned into my memory. This would be a good subject for demonic possession, like Stephen King's old car (or was that My Mother the Car? I always mix those up.) I would imagine Mr. Medieval Monk would be noisy, with a grinding of ancient clockwork gears. As if he needed any more creepiture.

Maybe it's just me, but there's something kind of fetish-y about all those chains working back and forth, the snapping levers moving the hideously jointed arms. Somebody had to sit down and really figure this out. It must have blown medieval minds to see this, something that was not alive moving around as if it was.

The design kind of fell down here, but the feet were hidden under the robe, after all, so maybe it didn't look quite so much like someone was sitting in a wheelchair propelling themselves along. And note how the left foot takes two steps rather than one. . . This gif may be incomplete, since it's only a few seconds long (damn you, Gifsforum!), but that sure is an odd gait. Maybe he was meant to be mounted on a medieval skateboard.

For some reason this creeps me out worse than all the rest put together. It reveals how the automaton monk gets around. He's on wheels, obviously, and not surprisingly, and can swivel around as if on skates, but what kills me is that thing in back: IT'S A PIZZA CUTTER! What else could it be? This guy must have been nothing more than an elaborate tool for slicing up Charles V's pepperoni, bacon and mushroom Little Caesar's Tuesday Night Combo Special. Think how many times he must have gone back and forth! I wouldn't be surprised if he keeled over, his grinding feet kicking helplessly in the air, while Charlie scarfed down his hot buffalo wings chased with a gallon of Coke

P. S.: a little bit more about Charles V:

Heritage and early life

Charles was born as the eldest son of Philip the Handsome and Joanna the Mad in the Flemish city of Ghent in 1500. The culture and courtly life of the Burgundian Low Countries were an important influence in his early life. He was tutored by William de Croÿ (who would later become his first prime minister), and also by Adrian of Utrecht (later Pope Adrian VI). It is said that Charles spoke several vernacular languages: he was fluent in German, French, and Flemish, later adding an acceptable Spanish which was required by the Castilian Cortes Generales as a condition for becoming King of Castile. A witticism sometimes attributed to Charles is: "I speak Spanish to God, Italian to women, French to men and German to my horse." But this quote has many variants and is often attributed instead to Frederick the Great.

(And as with most of these medieval royals, he was his own grandpa, being a direct descendent of Gorgo the Crosseyed, who married himself in 1236. And get a load of this Hapsburg lip:)

Do take into account the fact that these portraits were generally flattering. Oh dear.

 

 

 

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Wall of Ads: blast from my past

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Visiting hours: or, how to call on the cancer warrior

7 Rules You Should Follow When Visiting Someone With Cancer

MARCH 10, 2014 BY DAVID STANLEY

At the stroke of midnight, 01 January, 2014, US Census Bureau statistics tell us that the population of the USA was 317,297,938. The American Cancer Society tells us that in the year 2014, 16 million out of those 317 million people will be diagnosed with cancer.

Half of all men will get cancer during their lifetimes
One-third of all women will get cancer
Three-quarters of all cancers strike after age 55
Fourteen million people are living with cancer; as survivors or current fighters
1500 people die from cancer every day
600,000 lives are lost every year

My brother Michael lost his life his life in 2012 to oral squamous cell carcinoma. Me, I’m one of the fourteen million survivors.

The numbers are clear. At some point in your life, you will want to visit a friend or loved one with cancer. It is scary as Hell. What to say? What to do? How do I help? We want to help, but we don’t know how. What are the rules for a visit with a cancer warrior?

My Seven Rules for Calling on the Cancer Warrior.

1) Make absolutely, positively, 100% certain you are healthy.

Whether from the chemo, the stress of the illness, or their cancer itself, many cancer patients have compromised immune systems. A little bug or a sniffle that might put you a bit under the weather could have serious repercussions for the health of a cancer patient. Even without your bug raising serious problems, a cancer patient already feels lousy enough. Keep your sniffle-ly nose to yourself. If your kid stayed home sick yesterday because of some norovirus, stay home.

i) Wear clean clothes. Your favorite sweater, the one a little kid goobered on yesterday in the queue at McDonald’s whilst you weren’t looking, might still harbor some Klebsiella or H. Influenzae.

ii) Wash in. Wash out. When you enter the house, wash your hands properly with soap and running water for 30 seconds-that’s singing Happy Birthday through twice. Or use hand sanitizer. Wash them again on your way out. It’s a good practice.

2) Make contact in advance.

My brother and I were as close as brothers can be. Yet, when he was deep in his cancer fight, I never dropped by. One, it’s just rude. Two, you never know what kind of day your friend is having. Michael really liked to make those contacts via text message. To a cancer patient, a ringing phone, when your pain and discomfort have just settled down enough so you can nap, is a huge and unwanted intrusion.Send a text. You might not get an answer. Don’t drop by ‘just to see if everything is all right.’ Most likely, your friend is getting some sleep.

Cancer, and cancer treatment, are exhausting beyond words. How exhausting? Picture yourself as you lie on the couch with your face turned towards the seat cushions. You hear something interesting on the TV. Now, try and imagine that you lack the energy to turn your head towards the TV to see what is on. Yep. That bad. Sometimes worse.

3) Time limit your visit.

When you text to see if there is a good time to visit, give a limit.
“Michael, is there a good time today or tomorrow for me to stop by for a twenty minute visit?”
When those twenty minutes are up, get up and go. If your friend wants you to stay longer, s/he’ll let you know.
Even when we have cancer, when someone visits our home, we feel as if we are the host. Just to burn the mental energy required to be “the host” is a huge drain on very limited psychological resources.

4) Contact the caregiver about gifts.

Before you bring anything with you, contact the patient’s caregiver. Radiation and chemotherapy play havoc with the senses. What to you is a lovely scented bouquet of flowers might kick off three hours of retching and vomiting for your friend. In addition, many people become highly sensitive to pollen during treatment. A plant might be nice. But ask.

We like to feed our friends and family when times are tough. Ask if there is anything special you could bring, and anything specific you should avoid. Just because your friend liked your lasagna two months ago, the smell of the tomatoes and basil might send her reaching for the waste bucket.

When Michael was ill, I brought him DVDs. He was a huge baseball and Detroit Tigers fan, so I brought him highlight DVDs from the Tigers amazing 1968 season. We were little kids then, just starting to fall in love with sports and our heroes. I also brought him Rocky and Bullwinkle videos. Mindlessly funny stuff. Norman Cousins, in his great book, Anatomy of an Illness, wrote at length how the Marx Brothers, Laurel and Hardy, and the other great comedians of his youth helped him heal during his bouts with ankylosing spondylitis.

“I made the joyous discovery that ten minutes of genuine belly laughter had an anesthetic effect and would give me at least two hours of pain-free sleep,” he reported. “When the pain-killing effect of the laughter wore off, we would switch on the motion picture projector again and not infrequently, it would lead to another pain-free interval.”

5) Avoid forced optimism.

Don’t be a cheerleader.
“You’re going to be fine. I just know it.”
“Bullshit,” says the patient. “I might freakin’ die. That’s why they’re bolting my head to that goddam table and irradiating my skull. That’s why my body is slowly being carved to pieces. That’s why I get bags of ugly yellow chemicals pumped into my body. You don’t know shit about my illness. I’m laying here, feeling like if I blink 2% too hard, my eyeball is going to fall out of my face, and if I swallow without thinking on it first, I’m going to be curled up in a ball in the bathroom for the next two hours heaving my guts out, while I try not to have shit come pouring out my asshole, and you’re sitting there telling me ‘You’re going to be fine. I just know it?’ ”

“What the fuck do you know? Get the fuck out of here. Jesus, you fucking idiot!”

Don’t play pity poker. Don’t tell a story about your cousin who’s a cancer survivor. Fact is, in the midst of my cancer, I don’t care. I’ve got my own problems right here, thankyouverymuch. When I was struggling with my melanoma, I found inspiration in an older friend who was fighting a much worse case of esophageal cancer. As cancer fighters and survivors, we’re good at finding our own inspiration. Hang out with me, that’s all I ask.

6) Physical contact. Ask first.

Cancer hurts. Sometimes, the pain cannot be imagined. Sometimes, a hug can be agony. Sometimes, you need a hug, a bit of human warmth and contact to remind you that you’re not alone. So ask before you hug. Pro-tip: Use your friend’s hug as your guide. As I was leaving my brother’s house, I’d always ask Michael if we could hug. When he said yes, I’d let him move towards me, and as firmly as he hugged me, I’d hug back, but just a bit softer. If you opt for a hand-squeeze, be just as gentle. Hard to believe, but some cancers cause such deep-seated bone pain that even a too-firm yet loving squeeze of the hand is agony.
What Should You Do?

7) Be there now.

Ram Dass titled his seminal 1971 work Be Here Now. When you are with a cancer fighter, be there. Turn off your damn phone. Your twitter feed can wait. If your friend wants to talk; Talk. With. Them. Listen, really listen, to what they’re saying. They’re talking with their eyes, and body language, as well as their words. Pay some fucking attention. They want to watch a little TV with you, then watch some TV. If they want to lie back for a few minutes and take six or eight deep breaths, why don’t you join them? Lower your shoulders from up around your ears, relax a moment, and join them in several deep quiet breaths.

You do realize, don’t you, that you too, are stressed? You do realize that your angst fills the room? It is hard to watch someone suffer, someone in fear, someone in pain. Let your heart fill with compassion, not pity, and join with them in your heart for a few moments. Don’t share your heartache. Let go of your pain and watch them relax along with you.

In the Torah, Jews are commanded to perform acts of lovingkindness. Buddha says “He who attends on the sick attends on me.” In the Christian Bible, Jesus commands his followers to care for the infirm. The atheist cares for the sick because there is no greater service to humanity than to care for the sick.
Be gentle. Be kind. Be compassionate. Be there now.

Blogger's note. These are things I might not have thought about myself. In fact, I know I wouldn't. We're taught that we must be "positive" at all times, no matter how lousy we feel. If we're not "positive", we're indulging in self-pity. It's just assumed flowers will cheer the person up, when they might hate flowers or find them an irritant. And the hug - I never would have thought about that, but yes. Make the hug extremely gentle, put your hand lightly on his or her forearm  - or just ask before you touch them at all, because they might not feel like it. 

Someone I love, someone who has been part of the family for forty years,  is facing treatment, and many times a day I think about her because the disease is at Stage 4. We're far apart geographically, and right now constant inquiries are not practical or even desirable. The relentless and anxious "how is she?" puts pressure on the family to provide some statement of "improvement", if not physical, then spiritual.

 I once knew an incredibly brave woman facing terminal brain cancer. What she said to me was astonishing: "I don't know how to comfort people." No one wanted to accept what she was saying, they argued with it, they became distressed and full of denial and even anger that she should say such a thing. They even admonished her that she should have the surgery that she knew would not improve the quality of the life she had left. Another reaction is the low moan ("stage fo-o-u-r- r-. . . "), the utterance of dread. Patients and their families don't need the added burden of your hangups about mortality.

It's an ugly fact that a large part of your normal support system might fall away. I've had the big turnaway too, from a disability that some people (though I know it's hard to believe) dread even more than cancer. Then you learn that the old cliche is true: in a major crisis, you find out who your real friends are. And though this piece is extremely helplful and brings up issues most people never even think about, I've had a few thoughts about it.

I have to believe that it's OK to go in there and make a mistake. The "seven rules" are difficult, and if you think you have to apply them all, all at the same time, without a slip-up, you probably won't visit at all. It will just be too hard and you will be too afraid of doing damage. But I believe that someone in deep trouble can usually see the profound concern and love under all the slipping and sliding, the clumsy pratfalls of good intentions.

In all my life, I have found one good listener. One. One who listened so deeply and profoundly that you knew you were heard, who in fact heard things you didn't even know you were saying. Moreover, he was a vault. You didn't even have to ask. When he came to visit me in a place no one else wanted to go, I was reminded of the Bible verse, "For I was hungry and you fed me. . . " I was stigmatized and scorned, I had "fallen" and felt that I had failed massively, and he was there. He sat and looked at me and nodded his head and the listening was like a hum that came from him.

Maybe I'll only find one of these in my entire life, and it's a gift that I did. And it wasn't cancer, it was something else, but believe me when I say it came perilously close to killing me. But his rare gift is a valuable lesson for the rest of us: shut up for a minute, stop trying to fix it so you will feel better, and make yourself open to the pain. You'll walk out of there upright, it won't kill you, and maybe you'll even be able to come back. 

(P. S. to the P. S. A point I've made before, but I will keep on making it until something changes. I remember, not so long ago, that a person who had cancer was always called a "cancer victim". It was used in the media all the time, and not just for the terminally ill (another term I do not like). I also used to hear "AIDS victim" in the '80s. At some point, mercifully, the tide turned, and now it's (rightly) offensive to speak of victimhood. All except in one area. Mental illness always appears juxtaposed with the term "stigma," and it's about as helpful and unstigmatizing as telling someone, "You're NOT really fat, not fat at all, no, fatness does not begin to describe you who are NOT fat, so why do you think you are fat when you are definitely NOT fat?"  So it's stigma/mental illness, stigma/mental illness, stigma/mental illness, etc. etc. etc.

Very seldom have I seen "mental health warrior", but I like it. I like the term "mental HEALTH" because it implies that people with bipolar and schizophrenia can actually - gasp, choke - be "well". "Mental illness" is kind of like saying "cancer illness". How can you be ill and well at the same time? You can't. You're stuck in it forever.

See, it matters, the way we refer to things. Using the term "cancer warrior" won't make it all go away, but it will help in restoring dignity and personal power, and dispelling the fear that keeps people ignorant.

There was a time when cancer was so stigmatized that the word "stigma" wasn't even used to describe it - it was too stigmatized to even mention. The word was never said. We have come a long way. Now can we PLEASE do something to fucking get RID of "mental illness/stigma/stigma/stigma", once and for all!

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Ribbit! (or: Hello my baby, hello my honey)

(The above article is some sort of propaganda for the frog industry. I've seen other articles that claim it's impossible to raise frogs anywhere in the United States, which is why 90% of them are imported from the Orient. Elsewhere I read that frogs ARE raised in the Southern United States, but "in secret". It's something they don't talk about. God knows why, I guess it's stigmatized to have to stick a nail through an amphibian's primitive skull. Not to mention eating their legs. Blecccch. Anyway, this is a transcript of the above newspaper article, followed by, as they say, "the REST of the story".)

Big Profits in Back Yard FROG Raising

A back yard is large enough to start the thriving business of frog raising. How to build up a big income with a very small investment is told in the following article. The white meat, with a taste similar to a tender, juicy squab, is greatly in demand.

by S. L. SCHUTT

WHEN Charlie, of the De Luxe Cafe, told me that he would have to discontinue serving frog leg dinners because his wholesaler couldn’t supply the frogs, I became vitally interested in an industry that has proven to be more profitable, entertaining, and healthful than any other I have ever known.

No frog farmer need search for a market, his crop is virtually all sold before it is raised. I could sell one hundred times my present production in a single week, and am expanding my ponds so, eventually, I expect to have 1000 acres utilized solely for giant bullfrog culture. I sell tadpoles at five to ten cents each by the hundred. They are used to stock farms and for aquarium purposes.

Frog Meat Is Delicious

Bullfrogs, that cost me less than one cent per year to feed, wholesale at $3.00 per dozen in large quantities. Smaller frogs, of which only the legs are used, sell for as high as seventy cents per pound. Each frog gives a pound of delicious white meat that has a taste similar to a tender, juicy squab. The whole frog is used, the front quarter being just as delicious as the legs.

Just one pair of breeders lay over 10,000 eggs each season; usually over seventy per cent hatch and develop into small frogs.

The advantage of frog farming is the fact that you can start practically anywhere and expand gradually as your profits mount. A vacant city lot, an old orchard or even a back yard can be utilized. Due to the cannibalistic nature of adult frogs, the frog farmer needs three separate ponds, segregating the breeders, tadpoles, and small frogs.

I have found a pond, 20×20 feet, water area, with bank space of six feet on all sides, to be capable of keeping six pairs of breeders. The water depth should not exceed 18 inches except for a pit in the center of the pond where the frogs hibernate in the winter time.

Confine With Poultry Wire

Ordinary one-inch mesh poultry wire four feet high with burlap sewed on the inside to prevent injury and to confine the smaller frogs, is the most sensible fence a frog farmer can use both for breeders and small frogs. Frogs breed from April until August.

At this time, the frog farmer must have a small pond about 10×15 feet planted with arrowheads, water moss and other aquatic plants, in readiness. The pond should be not less than three feet deep to take care of the thousands of tadpoles.

The egg mass must be immediately transferred to the small pond, using a scoop to handle them. In five days, each cluster becomes a wiggling, living mass of tadpoles. Tadpoles are scavengers, eating anything from table scraps to water moss.

In six to eight months, the tadpole begins to develop legs and in a short time is a small frog. At this time, its diet changes from that of a scavenger to being satisfied only with a live or moving food.

The growing pond for the offspring of six pairs should embrace about two acres, including shore line. Water in the two acre tract should cover not more than one-half of the entire area.

Feeding the Frogs

I have raised frogs on liver and other domestic meat but I found it impractical to consider this method of feeding on a large scale.

Small bullfrogs can be supplied with an abundance of insects, especially flies, by simply concealing several fish heads in the vegetation along shore. Common crabs, found in most any ditch or stream, and good food for frogs, can be placed directly into the growing pond where they will reproduce in enormous quantities.

When ready for marketing, the frogs are caught at night by blinding them with a search light. When the catcher gets a frog he puts it into a burlap sack with others. They are then put into small pens awaiting the dresser who grabs them by their rear legs and pierces the head with a nail by a downward stroke of the hand. The entrails are removed and the frog is ready for shipment in barrels of cracked ice. 

Related posts:   Raise Giant Frogs (Jan, 1936)

Frogs for Funnin' Prophet (a cautionary tale)

DAY 1. Received Acme Do-It-Yourself Frog Kit by mail order. Pretty derned excited about the whole thing. Expect to make millions of dollars in my spare time, with no work at all! Trouble is the Missus. She wants to know, what's all that stuff in the pail. So I tell her, it's that caviar stuff, you know, that you put on the crackers. She says, what would you want with caviar, that's for rich people.

DAY 2. Opened pail. Smelled it. Put lid back on. 

DAY 3. Opened pail again. Found a lot of stuff in there. Some of it is moving. Fish eyes or something. Instructions say, introduce spawn into prepared frog pond. Say what?

DAY 4.  Got out shovel. Commenced to dig in the back yard. Hole kept filling in with mud. Raining. Tried filling up hole with garden hose. Water sank down into the mud. Raining harder than ever. Slipped and fell in hole.

DAY 5. Major setback today. Put frog eggs in refrigerator for safekeeping in Mason jar. Missus opens it, thinking it's mayonnaise. Screams her head off and  sherriff comes. Lots of explaining to do.

DAY 6. Made a big hole for frog eggs. Very slimy. Dumped in eggs.

DAY 27. Something's moving in there. The water's sort of thrashing around. 

DAY 227. Heard a sound. Funny kind of sound.  Kind of like a croaking noise? 

DAY 276. Am completely overrun with frogs. Frogs are jumping on top of other frogs. Frogs are making a hell of a noise. Neighbors complained, called Sherriff again who wrote out a warning and nailed it to a post. Don't know how to keep frogs quiet.  Don't know what to feed frogs. Frogs begin to eat each other.

DAY 352. Frogs are the size of dinner plates and have taken over the yard. Missus threatening divorce. Instructions never warned me about this. Considering lawsuit against Acme Frog Company Ltd.

DAY 497. Time to harvest frogs. Read instructions, found out how I have to do it. Have to drive a nail through their heads. Makes me want to cry. Frogs have become my pets, companionship since the Missus left.

DAY 502. Most frogs are nailed and in sacks. Now can't figure out how to transport to Acme Frog Processing Plant Inc. Feel that I have been lied to. Feel that I want to start a bonfire. 

DAY 504. Have barbecue at house, invite entire county. Serve them "chicken wings", best ones they ever tasted. Missus moves back in the house.