It's All About the Frogs

A tesla coil can make a frog levitate. It is probably not as fun as it looks.

Conventional Wisdom hath said "a frog can be boiled alive if the water is heated slowly enough—it is said that if a frog is placed in boiling water, it will jump out, but if it is placed in cold water that is slowly heated, it will never jump out." Not true. Frogs are smarter than that and will jump out. This untruth has been used to describe us humans who will slowly poison our earth, and only react when disaster happens. Could frogs be smarter than humans?

Apparently George W. Bush had a taste for torture that predates his presidency -- frog torture, and crows are no better.

How to make Origami Frogs and a japanese frog shop.

Bored? Frogcam.

Peace Frogs has a pretty cool franchise idea, for 30k they can set you up with a vw van that is painted groovy and is a retail store. Cool way to live if you didn't have froglets.

The Frog Store is around just in time for my birthday! Your garden needs Garden Frogs! Wear Frog T-shirts! Human-sized copper frogs.Enter Frog Nirvana.

Frogs

Buddhadeva Bose

The rains have come, and the frogs are full of glee.
They sing in chorus, with voices loud and lusty,
They sing in primeval joy:
There is nothing but fear today, neither hinger nor death.
Nor the wanton stones of fate.

Cloud-like the grasses thicken,
And in the fields the clear eaters stand,
And the care-free hours of the day
Are passed in insolent singing.

In the sensual rain there is ecstasy of touch.
How luscious is the mud, how young, how soft!

They are neckless, though their throats are swollen;
They are embodiment of the song's seventh pitch.

O what sleek bodies-cloud like yellow and green!
Eyes staring upwards in glassy transparence,
Like the sombre stare of a mystic
Seeking God, in deep meditation.

The rain is ceased, the shadows aslant.
Hymn-like rises their singing, solemn in silent skies.

As the day pants and dies, the loud shrillness faints,
And the darkness is pierced with a sleep-begetting monophonic
screech.

It is midnight. We have closed our doors and are comfortably in bed.
And the stillness is broken by a single tireless voice.
It is the final sloka of the mystic chanting.
The croak, croak croak of the last lonely frog.