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Water beetles can live on after being eaten and excreted by a frog

After being eaten by a frog, some water beetles can scurry through the digestive tract and emerge on the other side, alive and well.

Imagine yourself as an insect, a water beetle to be exact, swimming around searching for food when all of a sudden, a giant frog swallows you whole! What would you do then?

For Regimbartia attenuata, the only option besides accepting your fate and dissolving quietly is to search for the rear-end exit. Shinji Sugiura, an ecologist at Japan's Kobe University, discovered that these amazing beetles actively escape death by swimming through a predator's digestive tract and exiting from its butt, intact with no observable damage.

Regimbartia attenuata escaping from the vents of Pelophylax nigromaculatus and Hyla japonica (4× speed). Video credit to Current Biology

While rare, the phenomenon is not unheard of as certain snail species are known to seal their shells shut and await excretion to survive being eaten by birds or fish. However, what makes this particular research fascinating is that the prey (water beetle) is actively escaping the predator (frog) rather than passively waiting for the digestion process to be complete.

Hypothetical escape route of Regimbartia attenuata through the frog digestive system. Photo credit to Kobe University.

For further reading, you can click on the following link for the research article published in Current Biology on August 3, 2020.

Book Review: Informania: Ghosts by Christopher Maynard (2000)

Title: Informania: Ghosts

Author: Christopher Maynard

ISBN13: 9780744577105

Informania: Ghosts offers a brief introduction to everything ghost-related from ghost hunting to films about ghosts. Suitable for young readers and enthusiastic adults alike, the book is divided into five sections:

An abridged version of Algernon Blackwood’s “The Empty House”. Short but suspenseful nevertheless.

A scrapbook by famed ghost hunter Dee Bunker detailing her findings and favorite cases. Dee talks about her experience, her golden rules of ghost hunting, and more.

A tour booklet through the National Museum of Phoney Ghosts. Led by Sir Ghastlie Mones, visitors will see how some of the best ghost sightings can also be the worst scams imaginable.

A Fright Night film guide for all ghost-related movies. Not necessarily horror, but the listing is quite interesting no less, with line-ups like The Cat and the Canary (1927), The Ghost of Frankenstein (1942), and A Chinese Ghost Story (1987).

A handy reference guide to all things ghost-related such as a timeline of hauntings, a map detailing different variants of spooks, and even an internet listing for further reading.

The book itself is quite entertaining and good for early exposure to the world of the paranormal. However, since it was published in 2000, some of the information present within the book may be outdated.

Happy Hauntings!

A physicist, a mathematician, and an engineer are all found guilty of treason and sentenced to death by guillotine.

The priest reads them their last rites, then the king orders the executioner to kill the physicist.

The executioner offers the physicist two choices: would he like a hood on or off, and would he like to be executed face up or face down. The physicist replies, “I spent my whole life studying the heavens. I would like to face the sky, with the hood on like night!”

The executioner positions the physicist and drops the blade… … and it stops inches from the physicists’ neck.

The priest cries, “It’s a sign from God! This man is innocent! Set him free!”, so the king pardons him, and orders the mathematician executed next.

The executioner offers the mathematician the same choices: would he like a hood on or off, and would he like to be executed face up or face down. The mathematician replies, “They all result in an equivalent state, but hood off face down is the most elegant solution!”

The executioner positions the mathematician and drops the blade… … and it stops inches from the mathematician’s neck.

The priest cries, “It’s a sign from God! This man is innocent! Set him free!”, so the king pardons him, and orders the engineer executed next.

The executioner offers the engineer the same choices: would he like a hood on or off, and would he like to be executed face up or face down. The engineer replies, “I have always loved machines, and there is no more elegant a killing machine than the guillotine. I will spend my final moments marveling in its beauty!”

The executioner positions the engineer and, as he’s about to drop the blade, the engineer shouts:

“I see the problem!”

Apparently there's an evolutionary theory that the reason why Africa has so much wild big-ass megafauna while the big-ass megafauna on all the other continents went extinct is because they evolved right beside humans, and knew us well enough to not get hunted into extinction.

So while everything from giant koalas to giant sloths barely had the time to think "what the fuck is that" before getting pierced by a spear and getting their bone marrow gently fed to babies and the toothless elderly, Africa had elephants who had all the time in the world to learn to tell apart human languages and teach the next generations of their herd which human sounds mean that this tribe won't hurt you, but humans who make this kind of sounds are a danger. And hippos learned to conclude "I think I'll fuck up this two-legged weird shit on sight."

Imagine you're a writer, and there are people scribbling in the margins of your books, underlining their favorite passages, leaving makeshift bookmarks between the pages (subway tickets, library receipts, handwritten notes), reading excerpts out loud to their friends and lovers or to themselves just to feel the words on their tongue, memorizing quotes and then copying them in their notebooks, daydreaming about your characters and excitingly speculating about what's going to happen to them in the sequel, writing reviews in their school newspaper.

Cantao ocellatus

Kan- wa ma kan.

It was- and it was not.

It's how all the stories start. They tell you of what was and what wasn't, but they don't tell you which is which.

Perhaps you are seven. Perhaps you are eight. You ask the sweet, greying hakawati (story crafter) "but a'amu (uncle), was it real?" Your eyes bright with eagerness and hope. And he tells you, his smile never faltering, "kan wa ma kan, my child. It was and it wasn't. Perhaps it is real. Perhaps there were caverns and theives and treasure. Perhaps there were empires and warriors and charmers. Perhaps it was the land of mysteries- the very land that Shahrazad spoke of. And perhaps it was not."

You close your eyes to better imagine the stories the old man tells. What a wild thing it was, your imagination- and even wilder his was, for the stories he crafted were his own. Flying carpets. Music. Mercenaries. A king's banquet. A marid (jinn) to make your wishes come true. "But was it?" You ask. Desperately hoping it was. And more so wishing it is. "It was and it wasn't," your hakawati says smiling.

You can smell the sweet smoke from the altars that burn ever so steadily; consuming an offering to gods long forgotten. You can hear the echoes of music long since silenced. You see the dances of people long dead. You know their stories. "But was it?" You press further. "It was and it wasn't," the old man says, his smile never fading.

You're out in the golden dunes of Arabia. A glistening object catches your eye and you take hold of it- and you are knocked back by the force of the marid storming out. "Shobeik lobeik. A'bdak bein edeik. Your wish is my command." He says. But you have no desire for anything other than answers "was it real?" You ask, but he disintegrates into whatever nothingness he came from, leaving you asking yourself whether or not it was. Whether or not you are.

You are growing up. You are now thirteen. You have yet to stop asking "was it?" Your father says it was not. Your brother says it was not. Your friend says it was not. But you are wild and stubborn. You say "but what if it was?" And they laugh you off.

Four years later and you are seventeen; and the raging fire of the stories' magic within you dims to embers. Your hakawati has long since passed away. You keep his smile tucked into a fold so deep in your heart you nearly forget about it. And you stop asking for stories. You stop asking "was it?" And what is even worse, though, is that you start to believe that perhaps, after all, it was not. That it never was.

But I am here to tell you this; it was. You spoke to the marid. You heard the music. You saw the people dancing and you smelled the offerings to their gods. It might be so deep within you, as deep as your beloved hakawati's smile is buried. And I want you to know that you, now, have your answer.

A part of being an adult is living with regret and not allowing it to consume you. The older you get, the more mistakes you’ve made, opportunities you’ve missed, people you’ve disappointed. And every day you have to remind yourself to be kind and forgiving of yourself. You accept and love the you from the past and understand that it’s all a part of the process. Then you move on and live your best life, knowing now as old as you feel today, you’ll never be this young again.