How To Catch A Frog From The Ditch


Best way to catch a frog is with your hand. Forget the busted hockey stick stapled yogurt-cup scoop deal; this ain't Vegas, baby. Just lay down on the grass with your arms dangling into some ditch, grab the little bastard and toss him into a frickin ice cream bucket.

OK what’s most important bout this complete scenario is you gotta be careful when quick-snapping your hole-poked plastic lid back into position. Conversely my sister'll tell you what’s claiming priorities over lids is being cognizant you don’t reach too hard and slide face first into the sewage. And I'll tell you she has no idea what the fuck she's talking about. If you find yourself going under, just keep your mouth closed and health risks're minimized. Enda story.

Back to buckets I’m talkin' classic 4 litre semitranslucent Lucerne Vanilla Ice Cream Receptacle with Original Lid for secure fit. C'mon let's grab ahold of my neighbour Little Ryan's bucket. Jeez-loois the kid is Three Minutes of Microwave into the Bag of Extra Buttery Orville Reddenbackers, there's gotta be 40+ amphibians shooting round inside this thing. Boy's obviously My Apprentice. OK hold the works up between me you and the sunlight for quick silhouette review and see we got these guys stuck to all sides, corners, up-top down-low, like I'm talkin full interior surface coverage with concentration round this edge here where lid meets bucket. Precarious. Right as rain sure as Hell soon as I crack the lid these S.O.B.s'll be launching a coordinated final effort for the freedom. The ol' textbook last-ditch kamikaze blitz. This equals guaranteed panic attack on our part.

Results of such carelessness can be devastating. Take a glance over at Mark Thompson's pail: guy's got dripping guts, innumerable dismemberments, who knows how many decapitations. Probly the baker's dozen. For every new ‘phib Mark tosses in, we got 4-6 scramblers getting pinched right in half as he snaps that lid back in place. Unacceptable.

Back to Little Ryan. Lookit my boy, already got an additional slimer immobilized in his left hand. All we gotta do now is get him into this bucket we got right here. Bucket seems to be getting all quiet inside, eh? Lemme offer some administrative advice: this is too quiet. Something's cooking. These phibs're just clownin, y'all, tryna spring us unawares. Not on my watch. What we're gonna do is give 'em the Group Stunner. Just bang the works swift on the pavement sos they all pile up on the bottom, slophouse-styles. Stunner'd. Wait, hold up, we got a couple clingers maintaining their adhesive fortitude. Side-clingers, the stubborn bastards, warrant Individual Stunners. Just make like you're bout to flick boogers off the end of your index finger, line yourself up and Snap! Shoots him clear into next week. Now quick, pop the top a the lid. Toss in your catch. Snap lid back into position. 1.5 seconds later this pail'll be bouncing across the concrete, on volition of pure amphibious rage, frickin Three Minutes of Microwave into the Bag of Extra Buttery Orville Reddenbackers, baby.

OK listen close: on our block, frogs’re never bigger than a quarter. 'Cept once. Eyeballs nearly flop outta my face when I see this badass BigMac-size bullfrog just chillin' amongst reeds down enda Camden Crescent. Grabbed his big ass right straight and sprint 0.75 miles home. My old man's beaming with fatherly pride and full support. Guy equips me some 1 litre mason jar w/ nailpunched lid, we toss bit of compost in there, tennis ball, handful of flowers, some Shreddies, pb&j with the crusts cut off, half a glass fruit punch and my favourite bullfrog ever. Got her all up for public display on the window sill, daily viewings 3:30-4pm. Two days later she’s not looking so fresh and I get some speech about loving things and setting em loose to possibly come back and never be etcetera. So me and cul-de-sac crew hold farewell proceedings down enda Camden Crescent. Mark Thompson, Little Ryan, Patrick, Caroline, Toddy Takahashi, we’re all there and each giving solemn speeches and sacrificial homages as I unscrew the lid and shake him out. Sorta slops down onta his back on the grass, in amongst my continuously nutritious jarpaste. Prospects don't smell promising. But I look close and the S.O.B. is still breathing. Couple pokes and he’s slow-kicking legs but disoriented. So I place him down in shallow corner of the ditch. He’s blinking a bit. Finally sorta starts swimming out into his new life. Free. We’re all clapping, I’m crying, my little guy is heading off on to roll oats etcetera.

But then I see a Darkness. Slow-motion, black and white, no sound. Something's caught his leg. We lock scramblestrained eyes as oily spike-matted fur swamps up all around him. Teeth, gutfroth, uncoiling jigglepink blackmaggot tail, razorback. I see sound: see the pig-axe Wretchsqueal; Slaughtercry. Skin peel neck snap. Ditch Rat. Thing stares me down while sinking backward into the gurgle sludge. Surface tension wobbles. Surface tension restored. Debris settles.

I see the frog corpse and grab it. Torso yields. Bonepaste inside cold skinsack. Snotweb guts spill into my hands. Top of head scooped out, no eyes.

Three minutes of silence then we mount a Revenge Squad. Caroline whips out some safety scissors and snips off everybody's rat-tails. Between the lot of us we had two and a half Nerf Bow n Arrows. The old man hooks us up with a bucket of gasoline, carefully demonstrating how to dip the foam arrows in the gas, then load em up; one guy draws the bow, one guy lights the match. Simple. We tried to smoke that Rat Bastard out of every tunnel within a 2 mile radius. Thompson's mom called the cops.

Never did find the Rat though. Guaranteed he’s bigger than me now, and about 24 years old, to boot. When I find him: it's on. I’m swarming him no hesitations. I will chomp down on that shit-pumping jugular. Vengeance shall boil through mouthful of black sewage. Through grit teeth I speak into him:

“I kiss frogs.”


“I kiss frogs man.”