I saw this years ago… Actually was handed on to me by the nutcase himself whut made it. Well, it’s back. Thank the stars for Google Video. I just stumbled across this tonight by sheer luck. Now all things stupid, inane and blasphemous will survive through the magic of the internets.

Check out the Farting Preacher. You have been warned.

More Farting Preacher on Google Video

Addendum: the asshole in these vids is late ’80s, early ’90s televangelist swindler Robert Tilton. Turns out, now that I’ve looked deeper, that this bastard was one of the prime take-downs of Ole Anthony, the televangelist hunter (himself an Xian, but a different breed altogether) that I blogged about a while back.

Below is a lengthy excerpt describing how Anthony took this guy out. Brilliant detective work. Sad part is, Tilton is back in action as of 2003, finding a new crop of suckers.

Tilton had the fastest-growing ministry in the country by then, with more than eighty million dollars a year in donations. He owned or had personal access to several lavish “parsonages,” one of which was worth four and a half million dollars, and a hundred-and-thirty-two-thousand-dollar yacht. Yet his ministry, like any other church, was exempt from most federal and state taxes.

Anthony tried to complain to the National Religious Broadcasters association and to the district attorney’s office, but he was told that religious claims—however cynical or extravagant—are strictly protected by the First Amendment.

With no budget for surveillance equipment and no legal access to his targets’ files, he could only follow the paper trail. Much of Tilton’s success had come through direct mail—Trinity, ironically, was on his mailing list—so Anthony asked Guetzlaff to trace the letters to their source.

Two months later, Anthony showed up at the offices of Response Media, Inc., the marketing firm in Tulsa that handled Tilson’s mailings. He had sent the firm a proposal that he had written for a talk show on the Fox network, and told the staff there that he needed some help with the mailings.

At the same time, he had been in contact with Diane Sawyer, the co-anchor of the ABC news show “PrimeTime Live.” Sawyer had become intrigued by Tilton while watching his antics on cable one night. After vetting Trinity, she had agreed to collaborate on an investigation.

On the day Anthony went to visit Response Media, he was accompanied by two “media consultants”: a cameraman from “PrimeTime Live,” who had a video lens hidden in his glasses, and a producer for the show, who had concealed a microphone and a video recorder in her purse. For the next two hours, they documented just how well the psychology of direct mail—with its crude manipulation of curiosity, expectation, habit, and obligation—was suited to religion.

“New names is the key. Just think, New names,” Jim Moore, the president of Response Media, told Anthony. The firm began by gathering the addresses of hundreds of thousands of Tilton’s followers. Then ghostwriters put together a series of direct-mail packages. Some packages contained prayer cloths (a red one for healing, a blue one for miracles, a green one for financial breakthroughs) that Tilton promised to anoint if they were sent back to him. Others contained plastic angels and outlines of Tilton’s feet for donors to stand on while praying.

Whenever someone sent in a pledge and a prayer request, he received a personal reply from Tilton, mentioning his problem specifically and promising to talk to God about it. Then he received a bill for the pledge. As the letters from donors poured in, they were bundled together in Dallas and sent to a bank in downtown Tulsa, Moore explained. But he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, say what happened next. How did Tilton handle the prayer requests—thousands of them a day?

Anthony and Guetzlaff made fourteen trips to Tulsa over the next thirty days. They rented rooms in a fleabag motel and began raiding Dumpsters behind Response Media, Tilton’s lawyer’s office, and the bank downtown. At the bank, they found a series of deposit slips that led to a branch bank in a Tulsa suburb. From there, they tailed a delivery van to a company called Internal Data Management, and yet another Dumpster.

Every night, they hauled an average of sixty bags of garbage back to the motel. “At first, I had Harry sleep with it,” Anthony says. “Then we finally got a room just for the trash. The televangelists call me a garbologist, and to do garbology correctly is an art.” Sifting through the pizza scraps, crumpled invoices, and coffee-stained spreadsheets, they slowly pieced together Tilton’s “Wheel of Fortune,” as Anthony later called it.

The letters made their way from Dallas to the main bank to the branch bank, where they were opened and stripped of donations. The prayer requests were then read by Internal Data Management employees, who summarized their contents with a simple code (”JBS” for “job needed,” for instance, or “BAR” for “barren wife”; “PCA” for “rebellious child” or “FON” for “Bob, pls call me”). The codes were entered into computers and used to generate personalized form letters from Tilton. Anthony and Guetzlaff found thousands of prayer requests in the Dumpster behind the branch bank. One of them, which Anthony keeps in his wallet, was from a woman whose son had lost his job. If he didn’t find work, she said, he might commit suicide. “I couldn’t believe the callousness of this whole mechanized operation,” Anthony says.

“PrimeTime Live” aired a series of exposés on Tilton, based on Trinity’s research. The minister fought back from his pulpit and on his own show. He sued ABC and Trinity, accusing the network of yellow journalism and calling Anthony a liar, a drunkard, and a womanizer. He said that he had never preached poverty to anyone—”I ain’t supposed to have nothin’? Get that religious garbage out of your brain!”—and that handling his donors’ letters had become hazardous to his health. “I laid on top of those prayer requests so much that the chemicals actually got into my bloodstream, began to swell the capillaries,” he said. “It got into my immune system, and I had two small strokes in my brain that brought about some numbness in my body.”

Less than two years later, Tilton’s show was off the air and his wife had divorced him. In 1999, a decade after Anthony’s investigation began, Tilton’s Word of Faith Family Church was sold. “And I’ll tell you something, you pastors and parishioners,” he had warned on his show. “You don’t know when Ole’s going to get after you.

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