Category Archives: bizarre

Huh. Well, that was…unexpected.

I just got a surprising friend-request on facebook.  From my stuffed monkey.

The internet’s a weird place, y’all.

UPDATED:  Please stop emailing me to ask me to approve your friend request to Copernicus.  I swear to God that’s not me or Victor and I honestly have no clue who it is.  Judging from the disturbing -yet vaguely cheery- updates, it might actually be the real Copernicus.  Stranger things have happened.

Knock-knock, motherfucker. Giant metal chickens revisited.

Yesterday when I was driving home from the grocery store I passed a shop that sells lawn ornaments and rustic furniture.  This, however, was new:

This is not an optical illusion. It's an eight-foot metal chicken.

I almost drove into a mailbox, and when I got out and asked the clerk about it he said that his boss had just bought it because “apparently lots of people have been calling and asking about big metal chickens all of a sudden“.  Then I said, “How very odd. But, do you have anything larger?” and he looked at me like he was considering calling the police.  I probably wouldn’t have bought it anyway, but I do kind of love the thought of Victor driving up to see a metal chicken peering angrily over the roof of our house from the backyard.  I’d return it the next day though, probably.  Because my home owners association is an asshole.

PS.  In surprisingly related news, this morning Victor opened the door to find another Beyoncé on the porch.

It's Beyonce. But travel-sized.

Fortunately this one was only 2 inches tall.  It’s an exact, 2-D replica of the Beyoncé statue (with the flying pig on his head) that I had made in resin.  For Victor’s desk.

PPS.  If you want your own tiny Beyoncé statue you can buy it right here for under $20.  You’ve gotta add your own caption though.  I added mine with a piece of a post-it note, so that I can change the saying every time I hide Beyoncé somewhere else.  Like tomorrow I’m going to leave a note on it that says “WHERE THE TOWELS AT?”  And this morning I’m leaving Beyoncé on the pile of laundry on the bathroom floor with a note saying “Really, dude? Is this where the dirty clothes belong?”  Because Beyoncé is a teaching tool.

UPDATED: Victor says Beyoncé would be more effective if the dirty clothes on the floor weren’t all mine.  I think maybe Victor just doesn’t understand how passive-aggressive chicken-notes work.

How did the hamsters even *get* jet lag?


Just got back from Utah.  More on that later, but right now I just want to say that my blog and email have been ill for the last 24 hours, but I’m moving to a bigger server so it should be fixed.  Also, I am severely jet-lagged so I have nothing funny to say.  Except that I just looked up “jet lag” on Wikipedia and it said that scientists have helped hamsters recover from jet-lag by giving them viagra.  Which means that at one point there were a bunch of people flying hamsters with tiny erections to exotic locations in the name of science. Which I think is just proof that scientists are high all the time.

Also, I’m pretty sure cancer still exists, right?  Meanwhile, people are bringing drugged, involuntarily-aroused hamsters on planes, and I’m not even allowed to bring my diet coke through security.  This is exactly the kind of thing I’d take a stand against if it wasn’t for the fact that I don’t even know what the hell I’d write on that picket sign.

PS.  The study also notes that the hamster study “is considered an off-label use by the drug’s manufacturer“.  Which seems like a lost opportunity, because who doesn’t want to use erection meds to cure your hamsters of jet-lag?  Apparently the people who make viagra don’t.  Because they hate your hamster.

PPS.  I can afford the upgrade so no worries, but if you want to help me pay for the bigger server you can buy something at my horrifically inappropriate store. Or you could send me a briefcase of unmarked bills.  Or get me a grant for hamster-erection studies.  Apparently there’s a lot of money in that.

I just paid to have someone beat me up

I just had my first ever Swedish massage and it was awesome, except for the parts when I thought I was going to be murdered.

Halfway through the guy told me to “smell” I was all “What?” and I opened my eyes and his hands were over my face like he was just about to smother me and I yelled “WHAT?” and he said, “I said ‘smell‘” and so I did and it was eucalyptus. I assume that’s some kind of aromatherapy but I have to think that the relaxation gained from smelling eucalyptus is not worth the stress you get from thinking you were going to be smothered.  Maybe it’s just me.  Then he rubbed the eucalyptus into my body.  Except by “rubbed” I mean “punched.”  I smell like I got beaten up by a koala bear.

Then he started pulling on my limbs and pushing them back in and it was kind of like if a class of kindergartners were told to kill you using only their hands and feet.  Then he tried to dislocate my arm.  Not on purpose, but he kept doing this thing and my arm was getting crunchy(?) and so he pushed harder and then I realized that he was trying to align my shoulder-blade except that I’m double-jointed and so he was trying to fix something unfixable and so I’m all, “Oh, it’s supposed to be like that.  You can move on”

Then he asked, “Um, have you ever had an allergic reaction to lotions or essential oils?” and I was all “No, why?” and he told me that my arm was really red and I was all, “Oh, that’s because YOU JUST TRIED TO DISLOCATE MY SHOULDERBLADE” but I didn’t say that out loud because at this point I was a little afraid that he was going to murder me, because who enjoys inflicting that much pressure on someone?  Sadists, that’s who.  But then it turns out that I am allergic to the oils, or that maybe I’m just breaking out in hives from the stress of my stress-relieving massage.

The only good part was when it was over and the guy was all “Make sure you drink a lot so you can flush your body of the toxins” and so I was all “Hell yeah” but when I got home and poured myself my second booze-slushie Victor said, “Water.  You’re supposed to drink water” and I was all “He was not specific“.

And that’s why there are so many typos in this post.  Because I’m therapeutically drunk and sort of bruised and dislocated.  That was not relaxing at all.  Next time I’m just skipping straight to the drunk part.


If you strive for constant vigilance the way I (and most of the readers of this blog) do then you are already aware that the Center for Disease Control has finally released recommendations on how to prepare yourself for the  zombie apocalypse.  Most of their tips are fairly good but their list of suggested supplies are embarrassingly silent on the need for riot guns, swords, suspenders, and flame-throwers.  And this is why today I agreed to be interviewed by The Washington Post about the impending zombie apocalypse.  To pick up the slack of the CDC.

It’s all right here.  You’re welcome.

PS.  I just want to point out that I never get invited to go on Oprah or The Today Show to discuss important world events, but I have become a media darling regarding zombies, pissing off William Shatner and using taxidermied boar heads to save Christmas.

Mission accomplished.

Me, as I assume I will look two months into the zombie apocalypse. But not because I've been eaten. More likely because I'll accidentally cut off my own arm. I'm just really clumsy.

If my t-shirt got your baby stolen then I apologize (on behalf of the t-shirt).

Ok, so last week I made this shirt for cats to wear.

I made it for cats who don’t want to wear your damn shirts.

But they didn’t have any cat models at my online store so instead I used a baby but then I photo-shopped my cats face on it for my blog because I was like “Who is going to find this shirt without first going through my blog?  No one, obviously.”  But turns out that “Shirley from Florida” found it and was not amused and went to the trouble to look me up, which honestly is probably not that much trouble considering that my store has my picture and name all over it.  She was actually quite nice and explained that this shirt was terribly inappropriate and I was all “Okay, technically you’re right because it’s labeled as G-rated even though it clearly has lots of profanity on it, but the target audience for the shirt can’t read anyway so I’m not too worried.  Plus, it’s less of an ad for a shirt, and more of an ad about why you shouldn’t buy that shirt” and then she explained that she was more concerned with the fact that I was selling a shirt for babies that told people to undress them and also said “Please steal me” on the back and that’s when I realized that she had no idea this shirt was for cats (even though it CLEARLY says it’s for cats in the title).  Still, she had a point and I don’t want to be responsible for someone accidentally buying a shirt for their baby that promotes them getting kidnapped so I went back to the drawing board and found out that zazzle totally does have pet clothes.   Which would be awesome except they don’t have any cat models and they only let you write stuff on one side of the shirt so I can’t even get my whole message across because dog bellies are too small to write t-shirt slogans on, apparently.  Also, the item description written by zazzle goes on and on about the stitching on the “leg holes” and it’s a shirt.  I’m pretty sure shirts don’t have leg-holes, zazzle. Now we’re all confused.

Also, this shirt seems *way* too tight. This feels like an American Apparel ad and now I'm uncomfortable.

PS.  Victor says they probably wrote “leg-holes” because “dogs don’t have arms”.  And this is exactly why Victor isn’t allowed to pick out pets without me.  Because he’d come home with an armless dog and think that was totally normal.  I don’t have time to take care of an armless dog, you guys.  I can barely take care of myself.

PPS.  It is possible that zazzle doesn’t offer cat models simply because they agree with my initial idea that cats shouldn’t wear t-shirts.  So, I guess, touche, Zazzle.  Also, I want to point out that Zazzle does not pay me for all this advertising because I’m not a whore. Except that Zazzle is a company I’m using to sell merchandise.  So I guess I am a whore.  One that isn’t very good with business deals.

PPPS.  Dear Zazzle: You owe me like a billion dollars in advertising.

Wil Wheaton and I feel embarrassed for you

Remember last week when Wil Wheaton sent me a picture of himself collating so I could use it to cure the world of bad PR pitches?  If not, then you need to go back and read this.

Back?  Good.  Then you’ll be happy to know that I have started using the Wil-Wheaton-Feels-Sorry-For-You awesomeness to great success.  Just yesterday I created this particular page to send to the PR people who sent me pitches of pictures of Nina Garcia holding a blanket and of Kathy Griffin leaning near baby supplies.  It’s been incredibly fulfilling and I feel bad keeping all of this wonderful Wil Wheatoness to myself so I’m putting a link to the Wil-Wheaton-and-I-feel-embarrassed-for-you page right here so that if you get sent a terrible pitch you can just send the link to the PR person and maybe together we can slow the growing tide of thousands of bewilderingly inappropriate PR pitches using only the whimisical image of Wil Wheaton’s beguilingly smug smile.

Together, we can do this.

I’ll be available for hire next week if the rest of the chupacabra body goes up for sale

Last week I got an email from a lady named Sarah who founded Juice in the City.  You might be asking yourself, “What is Juice in the City and why are they emailing Jenny?”  I wondered the same thing but it turns out that they wanted to hire me as their social media consultant for the day.  Probably because they were all high.  Regardless, I immediately accepted because I wanted to expand my professional portfolio and also because Victor wouldn’t let me have any money to buy a chupacabra foot (more on that later).

Here is a slightly paraphrased version of our email thread, which will now serve as a warning to anyone considering hiring me:

Sarah: Juice in the City promotes local businesses while giving moms super cheap deals on things they specifically recommend.  We’re THE original mom-run, mom-sourced, locally-based deal site and every day it’s a different deal in eleven different markets.  It’s cool stuff.  Like recently we offered deals on vajazzling and lipo.

Me: That sounds like a terrible combination.  Your vagina rhinestones (vaginestones?) would be falling off by the time your lipo bruises fade.  I suggest not offering those two things as a package deal.

Sarah: Um…they weren’t a package deal.

Me: Awesome.  Then you’ve already taken the first step.  Next step would be to offer deals on things that people *really* want.   Here are my suggestions:

Victorian vampire hunting kits, taxidermied mice wearing small top hats, freelance ninjas (by-the-hour), zombie-defense consultations, time-share ponies….that sort of thing.

Also, time-share ponies is totally my idea so if you end up starting that business you need to pay me royalties.  In ponies.

Sarah: Explain “time-share ponies”?

Me: Everyone wants a pony but if you get a pony it’s hard to sleep because you’re thinking about all the pony-time you’re wasting when you’re asleep so instead you buy a time-share pony and when you’re sleeping or eating you let the other people who bought shares in the pony ride it.  That way the pony is in use 24/7.  Fully-efficient ponies. Except that now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure ponies need to sleep too.  God, all my ponies are going to die of exhaustion. Are ponies allergic to amphetamines?  I haven’t worked out all the kinks yet.

Me again: WAIT.  HOLD THE PHONE.  Okay, we’ll let people who have pony-phobia have the ponies during pony nap-time so that they can just sit near them and conquer their fears.  WE’RE CONQUERING MENTAL ILLNESS WITH PONIES.

Sarah: Once, a traveling partner I was with in Istanbul was offered a camel in exchange for me.  That is the closest I have come to timeshare ponies and it’s not even close.

Me: I don’t know what the exchange rate of camels is but it sounds like you were seriously undervalued.  But never mind that because OMG, I FOUND IT. I found the perfect thing for you to offer.


You get a dismembered hand AND three wishes for only $55. IT PRACTICALLY SELLS ITSELF.  Except that I don’t know how many hands she has to sell.  One would think at least two.

Sarah: Huh.  They do usually come in pairs.  I don’t know if this is quite what we’re looking for but I appreciate your enthusiasm.  Let me think about it.

And that’s why you should check out Juice in the city.  Because they could be offering amazing deals on monkey paws and time-share ponies any fucking day now. But until then you can check out whatever today’s deal is.  Like in Houston today they’re offering FIVE DOLLAR BOOZE, which is awesome, but not quite as awesome as time-share ponies.  But honestly…what is? Also you should check them out because they actually paid me for that consultation and I’m using that money to buy a chupacabra foot.

So technically I just got paid in chupacabra feet.

That shit is so going on my resume.

Who the fuck has never heard of a chalupa? (Updated. Now with more apologies.)

I wrote this post weeks ago but then I got distracted and never published it and now I can’t remember the ending but I’m super-hurty from an arthritis flair-up so I’m posting it like it really all happened yesterday.  I am the worst blogger ever.

So yesterday I spent the day with Maile, Rachel, Laura and Karen to help with Karen’s book signing and it was a strange whirlwind of sweatshops, igloos, tv appearances and possible house invasions and right now I am completely, inadvertently high so this post might not make any sense.  As always, it’s ripped entirely from twitter and my journal.  You can totally skip it if you want.

9am:  Arrived at the local NBC set to watch Karen being interviewed about her book.  I’m sitting in the green room with Maile and Karen and some guy from a fitness club and he’s all “I’m here today to teach people how to dance the zumba” and I’m all “Those robotic vacuum cleaners?” and Maile’s like “No.  That’s the Roomba.”  Then I decided to just be quiet but I noticed that the sign leading to the bathroom was also leading to the sound stage and I was thinking how fun it would be to sneak in there accidentally and Karen just gave me this look like “WHY ARE YOU EVEN HERE?” and I was all “I like your sweater” because I was trying to distract her.  Then the anchor came in and lead us on to the set and they let me and Maile (it’s pronounced Miley) stand in the back with Karen, and I introduced us as Karen’s entourage and I was going to say that I’m like a groupie except that I don’t do blow-jobs but Karen looked a little tense so instead I just said it on twitter and then everyone on twitter was like “Poor Karen.  You’re a terrible groupie” and I was all “You guys, I would totally give her a blow-job if she like NEEDED one.  Because I care.  But she’s fine.”  And then everyone was all “Well, have you even asked her?” and they had a point so I leaned over to Karen who was waiting for her cue and I was all “You don’t need a blow-job, do you?” and I said it while shaking my head “no” like I already knew what the answer was and she was all “What?!” but she had to whisper it because they were back on air and I was all “I’m just checking.  For twitter” and then she just stared at me and she was like “I’m. fine.”  And I was relieved but part of me didn’t even believe her because she looked stressed but possibly it was just because I threatened to flash her in the middle of her segment.  But I totally didn’t.  I love that girl.

Maile, Karen and my cell phone camera which needs a flash. True story: I'm wearing my pajamas here. PS. Arthritis makes your hands swell up so much that they look like they need to go on a diet. Awesome.

Then we went to eat and there was a tostada on the menu and Karen was all “What’s a tostada?” and I was like “Uh…it’s like a chalupa.  Obviously.”  And then she said (I’m not exaggerating) “Oookay.  What’s a chalupa?”  And I’m all “Are you fucking KIDDING ME?” and no.  No, she wasn’t.  Also, she’s never eaten an enchilada.  For real, y’all.  It was like having lunch with an Amish person.  Except that I’m pretty sure Amish people can eat enchiladas.  I don’t actually know that much about Amish people.  But I do know that being a grown-up and never having eaten an enchilada is a goddam tragedy.

Then we didn’t have anything to do and Karen was getting kind of testy about the whole chalupa thing so we asked Maile to take us to her factory where she makes her Epiphanie Bags except that it was more like Karen said “Put us to work in your factory” and I was all “I’ve never seen a sweatshop!” and Maile was like “It’s not a sweatshop and I’m not letting you work there” and we were like “WE WANT TO WORK IN YOUR SWEATSHOP”.  So we did.  Karen and I made 114 cardboard boxes and I was all “This is awesome.  And you can pay us in wallets!” but then turns out that Maile doesn’t even make wallets and so I stopped working and instead I built a giant igloo out of all the cardboard boxes AND IT WAS AWESOME.  I totally want to get paid in igloos from now on.

I look depressed in this picture but that's only because I couldn't figure out how to get my awesome igloo out of Maile's tiny sweatshop doors.

Then we went to Karen’s booksigning and I don’t really remember anything about it because she had it in a bar that specializes in chocolate martinis.  Also, instead of olives they used roofies.  Probably.  Then we went back to Maile’s house and she has one of those artistically beautiful houses that makes you think that she must not have children but then you find out that she has LOTS of children and you kind of hate her a little but then the next morning I went to turn on the bathroom sink and THE HANDLE FUCKING BROKE OFF IN MY HANDS.   And I just kind of sat there in a paralyzed panic watching the water pour out and I was trying to reattach the handle but it wouldn’t work and I considered just running out of the house but I knew that they’d know that I was the only person irresponsible enough to flood an entire bathroom without telling anyone so instead I called to Maile and I was all “Is it possible that I just got incredible hulk super-strength?” and she was all “Um…what?” and I was like “This is for you” and I handed her part of her own sink and she was like “Oh.  That was already broken”.  Then I felt relieved and also a little bit disappointed.

Then I went home but when I pulled up I saw that the front door was missing and instead there was a big black tarp covering the opening and there had been two home invasions in our neighborhood so I was all “OMG WE’VE BEEN ROBBED” and I kept calling Victor but he didn’t answer even though the car was in the drive and so I dialed 9 and 1 and then snuck around back to look in the windows and I saw a stranger in our house but I didn’t know if it was a robber or a policeman and then I screamed and fell down a little because just then Victor tapped me on the back and was all “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING OUT THERE?”  Then Victor explained that the stranger in our house was there repainting the front door and that he didn’t answer the phone because he was too busy trying to figure out why I was creeping around the backyard peeking into my own windows.  Also, he said I was very obvious and made a terrible stalker.  Awesome.

Maybe next time write something on the outside of the tarp like "Your murdered family isn't in here. I'm just painting your door. Also, I totally know what chalupas are. EVERYONE DOES." The last part is optional.

If I was a better blogger this would have an ending that wrapped everything up succinctly and with verve but I’m on a lot of pain medication so please just pretend that happened, okay?

PS.  I just spell checked this post and spellcheck was all “‘Chalupa’?  Did you mean ‘chalk’?”  It’s also telling me that “tostada” is not a real word.  Conclusion:  Spell-check is racist.

UPDATED: Apparently I owe Karen an apology because based on the comments the majority of you people have never even seen a chalupa and several readers from Mexico have pointed out that chalupas don’t even exist there. So I’d like to apologize for my incredibly insular viewpoint that was even more wrong than usual. I promise to never use the c-word to insult anyone again. Unless it’s that other c-word that is not food-related. I reserve the right to keep using that one.

Comment of the day: I first heard of the Chalupa in 1996 when the registers at the local Taco Bell started displaying the message “Try our new Chalupa!” The problem is that my local Taco Bell didn’t start selling Chalupas until 1999. So for three years I was left to wonder, “What the eff is a Chalupa?” Every month I would ask the manager. Every month he would solemnly shake his head and say “I don’t know, son. I just don’t know.”

Then in 1999 my girlfriend went to the bathroom for like a half-hour and right when I started to get really worried she came back out. With a Chalupa. I was like “What the hell is that?” and she was like “It’s a Chalupa.” and I was all “What the fuck is a Chalupa, and how did you get one in the bathroom?!”

It turns out that there was an outside door in the bathroom and she had just gone to Taco Bell, but I’ll never forget her Bathroom Chalupa. ~ Adam Jones

And then they asked if I’d like to interview Santa Claus. That happened.

A few days ago a PR agency asked if I’d like to do a live video interview with Santa and was like “You have obviously never read me. OF COURSE I’LL DO A LIVE, UNSCRIPTED INTERVIEW WITH SANTA CLAUS WHERE I CAN ASK HIM ANYTHING WITH NO REPERCUSSIONS” and then I felt a little bad for the company because it was pretty clear they had no idea what they were getting themselves into and I considered asking Santa all serious questions about healthcare reform and abortion rights just to see how he’d react but I don’t actually know enough about those topics to ask legitimate questions about them so instead I decided to just see if I could get Santa to say something vaguely inappropriate within the first four minutes and by minute two he was all “I. DO. NOT. watch ANYONE getting undressed, Jenny“.  And technically he was just saying that to defend himself, but still? I count that as a win.

There’s a video right here but it’s really hard to hear me so I’m just going to share my questions here:

1. When I was eight I asked you to kidnap my sister and replace her with a puppy and I got the puppy but I still have my sister. Do I need to send her to you or drop her off somewhere?

2. In an epic battle for world domination between zombies and unicorns, who would win?

3. Do you ever get mad that you have to share the spotlight with Jesus?

4. You know that song that goes “He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake”?   Are you also watching me when I’m getting undressed? Because lately I’ve been undressing under a tarp and it’s kind of uncomfortable.

5. Can you tell me about your sack? Just how big is it?

6. Do the elves mind if you call them “elves” or do you have to call them “little people?”

Overall, Santa handled it like a pro but Mrs. Claus looked a little pissed.  Probably because some strange woman was asking her husband to describe his sack.

PS. My favorite clarification from Santa: “If you’re being naughty naked, I’m not looking.”


I can't tell if she's clutching her pearls or pulling out a shiv. Either way, she scares me.