MFM Minisode 439

This is exactly right.

How could popular Mormon family vlogger Ruby Frankie end up being convicted for child abuse?

The answer to that question is Jodi Hildebrand.

But Jodi's manipulation extended far beyond the Frankie family, seemingly leaving a trail of victims in her wake.

This ID documentary event features never-before-seen interviews from survivors who found the courage to expose her systematic abuse.

Ruby and Jody, a cult of sin and influence, premieres September 1st at 9 p.m.

Eastern on ID.

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Hello

and welcome to my favorite murder.

The mini soad.

So cute.

So mini.

Little.

Quick.

It's like a little Lego.

Easy.

Fun.

What do you want to do?

You want to go first?

Do you want me to go first?

I'll go first.

Okay.

The subject line of this email is, who do you call when your dad's in a cult?

And it just starts, there's no time for pleasantries.

I have three young kids and barely time to type this email, so away we go.

I knew my mother was raised for many years in a pretty strict evangelical religion.

However, it wasn't until recently that she made a joke about that cult I was in while I grew up that I realized she was actually in an honest to God motherfucking cult.

Turns out she was raised as a member of a doomsday cult called the Worldwide Church of God, which was founded by radio and televangelist Herbert Armstrong in 1968.

He preached that the world would end in 1975 due to World War III, and the doctrines were such that strict Sabbath was observed.

Homosexuality, divorce, and remarriage were not acceptable, and medical treatment could only be sought for broken bones.

And then in parentheses, it says, weird line to draw on the sand, if you ask me.

Yeah,

that is pretty like just that.

Appendix, fuck off.

Yeah.

The church church required hefty tithings and forbade the celebration of birthdays and pagan holidays.

The services were two hours long every Saturday, and my mom had to travel.

I know.

And my mom had to travel two hours one way to go.

I bet the drive was way more pleasant than the fucking sermon.

For real.

Every Saturday.

Yeah.

One of my mom's memories from this time was always having to raise her hand at school as someone who wasn't allowed to participate in classroom celebrations for birthdays or other holidays.

Oh, that's so heartbreaking.

It's awful.

But at least they got to go to public school, like regular school.

Instead of Catholic school.

Instead of the cults where they were.

Oh, yeah, yeah.

You know.

Yeah, that's right.

And just get taught some weird shit.

Dinosaur bones were buried by the devil.

Or aliens, yeah.

Or aliens.

Someone.

So the person had to raise their hand, basically saying no holidays, no birthdays, Christmas included, because according to Armstrong, it had devolved into a pagan holiday too.

My mom always felt embarrassed and singled out.

She remembers desperately wanting to dress up for Halloween just once, but was never allowed.

Now, this will surprise exactly none of you, but it turns out Mr.

Herbert Armstrong was a total piece of shit.

After his wife died while he was in his 80s, he married a 38-year-old woman from his congregation and subsequently divorced her.

He was operating conversion therapy camps for queer and mentally ill children and teens that reportedly employed physical torture in addition to the emotional and mental torture that goes along with it.

Jesus.

And this train never comes late.

He was an alleged pedophile who molested his own daughter for years.

Never held accountable for any of it.

And he died at age 93.

I'm not sure, and neither is my mom, what finally led my grandparents to break away from the cult, but they did while my mom was in high school.

In fact, my grandparents were never involved in another religion ever again.

My grandma Dee was a badass who worked her way to a master's degree in education while raising three kids.

Wow.

Taught special needs children, adopted three sibling teenagers in need from one of her classes, became a school board member and was a court-appointed special advocate for kids in the foster system for years.

Oh my God, she's making up for lost shitty time.

Yep.

She was like, fine, I'll just be a living saint then.

My grandpa Bob never went past an eighth grade education, but he started his own extremely successful heavier equipment repair shop, fixing equipment like bulldozers, and was an incredibly loving and involved grandfather and father.

I lost my grandmother to cancer and my grandfather to Alzheimer's, and I miss them both.

And I still can't wrap my mind around what my grandparents must have been like during those years, and I was never able to talk to them about it.

My mom and her siblings all turned out to be badasses, just like their post-cult parents.

None of them ever joined another cult, so I'd call that a success.

100%.

Yep, just the one, and you're out.

All it takes is don't join a cult.

Again,

stay sexy, and maybe just leave your kids out of it if you join a cult.

S.

Wow.

That's just legit, like exactly what, and they made it out and they're okay.

Yeah, they did.

They did.

Yeah.

Incredible.

So sad when it's that thing of like, I don't celebrate that.

I overheard a little kid, like there was a little kid messing around in line at the pharmacy over the holidays.

And there was a lady talking being like, and what are you going to ask Santa for Christmas?

He's like, we don't celebrate Christmas.

And I was just like,

like, we don't celebrate holidays, he said, because it was.

Oh, holidays.

Okay.

Well, I was like, oh, that's so sad.

I'm like, wait, I don't celebrate Christmas.

No, I know.

It was basically like, we don't get to do that.

And then it was just this like feeling of like, ugh, that just.

There's this post on Instagram.

I'm sure you've seen on TikTok where it's like this little like, it's this like Christian family.

We don't celebrate.

They're all dressed up as like the Wizard of Oz.

And it's the caption says, like, we don't celebrate Halloween because it's a pagan holiday.

However, on this day, we do like to dress up and have candy.

And the comments are like, That's fucking Halloween.

That's the only, that's the only thing that Halloween is.

Yeah.

Literally, you're celebrating Halloween.

And directly pagan or whatever, I think Celtic or something.

You're right.

Okay.

Okay.

Mine's called Classic Hometown plus Manson Family Connection.

Hello, Karen in Georgia.

My family has always lived in Southern California.

Irvine may not be for Georgia, but I sure love it.

I mean, okay.

No, it's, I get it.

It's a beautiful, beautiful place that I hated.

It's solemn, the experience.

Yeah.

My first story takes place in San Luis Obispo about 10 years ago, where my husband's uncle Ron found himself retired after many years of being an attorney.

He hung up his suit, threw out his hair, and became quite the free spirit.

He joined a golfing forsom that would get together weekly.

One of the dudes in their forsom had some weird vibes, so much so the group decided it would be best not to invite Weird Vibes Man back the following week.

Yeah.

I'm picturing Vince and Chris Fairbanks.

Who's who in this story?

Heading to the course that day, Uncle Ron left his wallet at home.

He turned around to retrieve it, followed by him arriving at the golf course a few minutes late.

As he parked, he saw the Weird Vibes Man running out of the pro shop into his car in a hurry.

He was confused as to why he was even there, but headed inside to meet the group.

Turns out Weird Vibes Man had found out about their scheme to not include him, so all caps, he showed up to the course to shoot the other men in their foursome.

Holy shit.

That's a, yeah, it's a reaction.

When Uncle Ron walked into the pro shop, the two other men were on the ground with gunshot wounds.

If Uncle Ron hadn't forgotten his wallet that day, he would have certainly met the same unfortunate fate.

The men recovered and the weird vibes shooter man was apprehended and Uncle Ron lives to tell the tale at family functions.

God.

Side note, my grandma's cousin dated Leslie Van Houten in high school and knew her.

Leslie Van Houten is a former member of the Manson family and was convicted of the LaBianca murders in Los Felas, California.

They attended Monrovia High School together with my grandma and even ran away together at 17 years old.

They broke up after high school, but he regularly went to visit her in prison after being arrested for the murders.

Wow.

I know.

He passed away a few years ago before being able to see Van Houten released from prison in July 2023 and placed on parole.

Sharon Tate's sister was quoted then when she was released saying, quote, is she a nice girl?

No.

Is she an animal?

I think she was then, and I fear that she still is.

Thank you for keeping me company on my long commutes to work and your continued advocacy for mental health and well-being.

Stay sexy, skip the country club and retire in peace and don't get murdered.

Riley, she, her.

Wow.

That's wild.

Yeah.

I'm so glad that those people survived.

Yeah.

I thought that was like a massacre story.

Totally.

And the thing about high school too, like I have a friend friend who's one of closest friends in high school killed someone and they went to prison.

And it's that grappling thing of like, are you the person I knew before it happened?

Or are you the person after?

Or is there some combination of the two?

And what do I do with that?

Yes.

You know?

Yes.

Were you hiding behind a mask and the truth is that you did that?

Or was that just a weird break and it wasn't you at all?

Totally.

Totally.

I mean, like, it was, yeah.

Yeah.

Yeah.

That's heavy.

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Let me lighten it up with some trash dad fun times, which is the subject line of this email.

Okay.

And happy Father's Day to all the trash dads and all the regular dads, but not to the good dads.

They get enough of that.

They really do.

All those mugs they get.

God.

This email starts.

Hi, yes.

Hello.

Let's dive right in, shall we?

It was the late 80s in Winnipeg, Manitoba, parentheses, Canada.

My sister and I were four and five, and my mom was great at coming up with fun things for us to do that didn't cost a lot of coin.

My dad decided it was his time to shine with a new idea, birdie rides.

To be fair, it was one of our favorite activities until that one fateful day.

What is a birdie ride?

I'm glad you asked.

Here are the steps to set up the birdie ride.

Number one, lay a beach towel flat on the floor and have a child lie on their tummy across the towel so that the kid in the towel form a plus sign.

Okay.

Such a bad start.

Oh, I'm like, I'm picturing like, is someone getting swung around?

Someone's getting swung.

I knew it.

That means I've done it.

Let's hear it.

Number two, dad then grabs the two short ends of the towel together and lifts into the air, picking up the kid in the towel and swinging them around in the air.

All caps.

We

oh my, I have a sense memory of this somehow, you know.

Yep.

And it says, What could go wrong?

Now for some background.

Money wasn't something we had a lot of as my mom was a stay-at-home mom, which she rolled at.

We lived in a little side-by-side with two bedrooms, which meant my sister and I shared a bedroom.

It was no biggie because we were close in age, only 14 months apart.

I love to say that my younger sister was an accident, to which my mom always replies, She wasn't an accident.

She simply wasn't planned.

We always wanted two children.

Mom, shut up.

Don't get into it.

You're ruining this.

She wasn't an accident per se.

My mom always says, you are a surprise.

Not an accident.

Why are we talking about this?

In that shared bedroom, we had a twin bed and a stilt bed that our grandpa made with his own two hands.

For those not familiar, a stilt bed is exactly how it sounds, essentially a bunk bed without the lower bed.

Okay, so now back to birdie rides.

One day, my dad thought he'd step up his birdie ride game, and rather than spinning us around the living room, he took us flying through the house.

My sister's turn ended in our bedroom, then it was my turn.

Can you see where this is going?

I was flying around the bedroom, and on the third spin, boom, my head went straight into the side of the stilt bed, which was at a perfect height.

And then it says, Nice job, Craig.

Craig, I love it.

Craig, my mom officially banned birdie rides in our house.

The mom was so pissed.

The mom was like, what in the fuck are you doing?

And the mom you know had worn in the past.

Craig, you're going to hurt one of them.

Craig,

Craig, that's not funny.

Craig, broken bones are the only reason we can take the kids to the hospital, so you better be careful.

Please.

It says, we took this band more seriously than the Simpsons band she came up with.

And then in parentheses, it says, we'd sneak downstairs and watch it in the basement with my dad.

Cute.

Full disclosure, I've had to go to the hospital twice from head incidents.

The second time was when I once fell down cement stairs.

But I'm fairly certain that the post-birdie ride hospital visit was the one where hospital staff took me into a separate room from my family and asked me questions to ensure I wasn't being abused.

Yeah.

I really wish I had witnessed my parents explaining to the doctor what a birdie ride was and how everything is an accident.

The birdie ride incident eventually led my mom,

eventually led to my mom and dad's divorce.

I'm sorry for laughing.

I didn't see that coming at all.

Oh, no.

Oops.

Oh, no, wait.

It says JK, JK, they've been happily married for four years.

Good one.

You got us.

I did not.

People, please feel free to take advantage of the fact that I often scan these quickly and don't read them all the way through.

That was really good.

And then it just says, love you with all these you's, Caitlin, she, her.

That is

fucking hilarious.

Can tell you're the youngest because that was hilarious and fun and funny.

Good job.

Not harmful.

Good job.

Painful and funny and wonderful.

All right.

My next one is called.

It's either called My Emu War featuring Trash Dad, Trash Uncle, or My Emu War featuring Trash Dad, Trash Uncle, depending on who you are and where you are.

Depending on your zone.

Does it literally say that?

No.

But I think I'm traumatized now.

Yes, of course.

Okay.

This This just starts.

I wheeze laughed through your episode on the great emu war because I am all too familiar with emus, their weird calves, their dinosaur eyes, and their ability to jump over anything, and their unkillability.

Not a word.

I knew I had to finally write my childhood emu story.

You have a childhood emu story that you never thought you'd write into a fucking true crime podcast.

And here we are.

It's pretty great.

This is like, and if you have a childhood emu, raccoon, or possum story.

Right.

Worms.

Snails and snails.

How about one of those weird worms that show up when it rains?

I think I'm proud that our legacy is that we got, we allowed people to tell their weird ass family stories, no matter what they were in the end, you know?

Yep.

Okay.

When we lived in a suburb of Dallas, Texas in the late 90s, my dad and my uncle Mike, who is the husband of my maternal aunt, also not his real name because I adore him and some possibly non-legal things might have occurred in the story.

That was all in the

each bought, so dad and the uncle Mike, each bought an emu from an emu farm in texas at the time there was a health craze for emu oil for use as a moisturizer i don't know health fads are always bizarre anyway i think my cheapest fuck always bargain hunting dad found them for a really good deal and my uncle decided to go along with it question mark

i'm guessing there were some Miller lights going on for real you know it'd be cool come on look at it it'd be cool

it's unclear to me how they plan to make money off of them.

It's just emu something.

That equation of emu plus question mark equals money.

But they don't know what the question mark is.

You know what I mean?

It's unclear to me how they plan to make money off of them, but it's also possible that they didn't plan to, as my dad will put down perfectly good money for something that he does not need if it's a good enough bargain.

Yeah.

Here's the catch.

We lived in, all caps, the middle of a city.

LBJ Freeway slash 635 roared past behind our house, just one street over.

But we happened to live on about one acre of land, so our yard was bigger, and we got to keep the birds, which meant, of course, that my mom and older sister,

I was about nine, so she was about 15, had to feed and take care of what you correctly stated are basically velociraptors with feathers.

Being in the middle of the city, we were not allowed to keep animals that size in our yard, but city ordinances have never kept my dad from doing anything.

So, of course we kept them for at least several months, possibly longer.

I don't remember.

I do remember how they would regularly jump over the very tall fence my dad built for them and chase our chihuahuas and chickens around the backyard.

Oh God.

Cookie would be so freaked out if she saw a fucking emu.

I still remember one of our chihuahuas barking and snapping at one of the emus heads as the emu's body ran in circles around it.

Yes, you read that right.

The emu held its head still, glaring at the chihuahua while its body ran in circles, like a fucking cartoon, around the chihuahua so it couldn't get away.

Insane.

Although they weren't as malevolent as some emus clearly are, it was still an adrenaline rush to go into their pen to feed them.

At some point, my dad either got sick of buying feed for the emus or the city got wind of them.

One day, my uncle showed up and it became known amongst myself and my four other siblings that the time had come.

I stayed inside, but my brother, who adored to relay bad or traumatizing news of any sort, informed us later that it was quite an involved and taxing process to catch and slaughter the emus.

Oh my God, they were going to kill them.

Oh my God.

And gentle reader, we were to eat those birds.

No.

Ew, I don't even.

No.

Thank you.

I'll have Vegemite.

I'm vegetarian now.

Remember how Georgia talked about their large calves?

Think turkey drumsticks times five.

Ew.

So gross.

Into the freezer they went.

In hindsight, the meat just tasted like a dry, stringy roast beef, but I didn't care.

No.

Despite having no real affection for the birds, my siblings and I were miserable whenever my mom cooked it, and we all spent lots of time staring at our plates of emu enchiladas until we found a way to either choke it down or throw it away unnoticed.

God.

Enchiladas.

No.

Eventually our supply was used up and my family moved on to eating other horrifying things my dad picked picked up at bargain prices like cow tongue,

which is actually delicious.

I will fucking tell you right now.

No.

As a Jewish person, it's so fucking good.

But it just looks terrifying.

I tried tongue when I was like 12.

Yeah.

And it felt like a tongue on my tongue.

Because there are taste buds on it.

It's so, it's not just like gross.

It's the most upsetting thing.

Except for when my friend tricked me into trying eel at a sushi restaurant.

I love eel.

What?

Are you kidding me?

Oh, it tastes like a cave.

Oh my God, it's one of my favorite foods.

Eel sushi is one of my favorite foods in the world.

Well then you like

a cave?

Yes.

It tasted exactly like an undersea cave.

It was disgusting.

That sounds delicious.

No, it's

so

specific.

Okay.

All right.

Nowadays I live in Alaska and we'll eat almost anything, including bear meat, which is actually delicious.

But I still say, let the emus run free.

Grace.

God, Grace.

Grace has eaten bear.

Yeah, that's quite something.

I've had reindeer before.

Ooh, what'd that taste like?

It was good.

I mean, it was made into a little like empanada, so it's fucking delicious.

You could put anything in an empanada and it's great.

Well, if you like tongue, would you eat emu?

I'd take a bite.

Yeah, I'd try an emu taco or something.

An emu taco?

Yeah, taco.

Taco?

Taco.

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Goodbye.

Bye.

Here's my last one.

It says, my klepto family.

Hi, Besties.

I'll get right into the story and save my gushing for the end of the email.

I like to save up a bunch of episodes to binge, so I just listened at Minnisode 418 from early January.

I heard your call for klepto family stories and felt compelled to write in again.

Yes, thank you.

My husband and I moved to North Carolina from Michigan in the early aughts, and my mom, Pat, and my grandma, Sophie used to fly down together to visit us.

We took them on a road trip to Wilmington, North Carolina, on the coast on one visit about 17 years ago when our older daughter was a baby.

There was a Carrabas restaurant near our hotel.

Have you heard of that restaurant?

I've definitely heard of it or seen it, but I've never, I don't know anything about it.

Two R's, two B's, Carabas,

starting with a C.

Near our hotel that we chose for dinner because we were all tired and hungry.

At dinner, we commented on the salt and pepper grinders on the table, the small ones that are sold in the spice section in the grocery store.

Oh, yeah.

Because a salt grinder was not something we saw very often in a restaurant.

After dinner, as we were getting in the car, my mom and grandma were laughing hysterically like they were crying and holding each other up.

My mom stole the cute little olive oil pitcher from the table and showed it to my grandma, who then pulled the salt and pepper grinders out of her purse.

No, I love it.

They thought it was funny, but I thought my husband was going to march them back in to apologize to the restaurant and return the purloined items.

The next time we visited my parents' house, I discovered that they had nearly a full set of steak knives stolen from Outback Steakhouse and other restaurants.

I love it.

They also have many suspiciously unmatched forks and spoons in their silverware drawer.

My grandma Sophie turned 96 this year, so I think she's left all her petty thieving behind.

Happy birthday, Grandma Sophie.

96.

Amazing.

My mom and stepdad claim they have as well.

Thank you for all you do to bring awareness to and break the stigma surrounding mental health issues.

I'm an early MFM listener, and it's so hard to believe it that it's been nine years.

Y'all are my favorite podcasters, and I'm loving the rewind episodes.

And then it says, stay salty and don't steal the condiments, Lori.

She, her.

Oh, and then it says, P.S., we should have known grandma had sticky fingers.

The year before this incident, we took mom and grandma to Savannah, Georgia for a few days.

Many of the shops sold pecan pralines and had trays of samples out.

Grandma would take as many as she could get away with and stash them in a napkin in her purse in every store.

She was passing around around purse pralines days after we left Savannah.

But then it said, but I was pregnant, so I didn't really mind at all.

Yeah,

that's so cute.

I can't wait to be an old lady.

Little old lady, I'm going to steal so much shit.

Fucking go to Costco and just stand there eating every sample and become a bank robber.

Okay, this one's called My Hometown Feral Dachshund Story.

Love you ladies, love your stories.

Here's mine.

I'm a suburban mom with quite the cast of characters in my backyard.

Deer, raccoons, possums, squirrels, and all kinds of birds.

But one day, there was a new kind of creature, a dachshund.

This was a time when I didn't always have a phone in my hand, so I looked for my camera, but by the time I found it, the dog was gone.

Now, I knew most of the neighbors' dogs by name, but I didn't know this one.

On my daily walks with my own dogs, I tried to figure out which house this mystery dachshund belonged to.

No luck.

Over the next few weeks, my short furry friend appeared in my yard several more times, but no one else in my house ever saw him.

If I saw a stray dog, I would tackle it.

Like, oh my gosh.

My dream.

It's all I ever look for.

It's my favorite concept.

It's the dachshund?

Oh, my God.

Like,

just a little dachshund.

Like, but what's it zipping around, like getting away?

Yeah, it's like a feral dachshund.

It's hard to imagine that.

Oh, it's like the, what was the dachshund's name that was on the island in Australia by yourself?

That's, that's, yes, that's why they're writing this.

Yes, Valerie, I think, yeah.

That's so funny.

No one else in in my house ever saw him.

I wonder if it was a ghost dachshund.

And I was becoming increasingly concerned that this dachshund was homeless and in desperate need of my help.

My family, in particular, my husband, laughed over my concern for this, quote, feral dachshund.

It is not really a thing.

Finally, one fateful Sunday, my feral friend reappeared in the backyard.

But this time, he was wearing...

a bomber jacket.

Clearly, this dog was not in need of any help.

The entire entire family shared an enormous laugh over the evidently not homeless dachshund.

But oddly enough, I never figured out where that cute little guy ever lived.

SSDGM and watch out for feral dachshunds in bomber jackets.

Ann Marie.

Did he live with the Cunningham family up over their garage, like just like the Fawns?

Because it sounds like he was the Fawns.

Right.

Oh, that's so cute.

That's hilarious.

He's wearing outfits.

Well,

happy Father's Day, everybody.

I think

we just gave the fathers of America every possible type of story they could want to hear.

I mean, yeah, play that for your dad on the road trip to go to Cabreros.

What was that restaurant called?

Cabreros, yeah, yeah, play that for him.

Thanks, dads.

We love you.

Yeah, we're big fans of our own.

Yeah, great job.

Our dads, whatever job you would like to get a tribute to your dads, that's on you.

Yeah, you don't have to.

We're, yeah, we support all trash dads and all trash.

Stay sexy and don't get murdered.

Goodbye.

Elvis, do you want a cookie?

This has been an Exactly Right Production.

Our senior producers are Alejandra Keck and Molly Smith.

Our editor is Aristotle Aceveda.

This episode was mixed by Liana Squalachi.

Email your hometowns to myfavorite murder at gmail.com and follow the show on Instagram at MyFavorite Murder.

Listen to MyFavorite Murder on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

And now you can watch us on Exactly Right's YouTube page.

And while you're there, please like and subscribe.

Goodbye.

Bye-bye.

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Amen.

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Goodbye.

Drew and Sue and Eminem's minis.

And baking the surprise birthday cake for Lou.

And Sue forgetting that her oven doesn't really work.

And Drew remembering that they don't have flour.

And Lou getting home early early from work, which he never does.

And Drew and Sue using the rest of the tubes of Eminem's minis as party poppers instead.

I think this is one of those moments where people say, it's the thought that counts.

M ⁇ Ms, it's more fun together.

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Have it all in the heart of it all.

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