Category Archives: Random Crap

Amazon knows me too well and it’s insulting and also costing me money.

You know how Amazon recommends stuff to you based on stuff you’ve bought or liked?  Well, here are a few things Amazon thought I’d like this month:

A pillow with the words “HORSE PENIS” on it.

It comes in eight different  colors and on the bottom of the pillow it says: “The words ‘horse penis’ upon a pillow.  Ten letters.”  Even more confusingly, the amazon description says “Dog Penis on a pillow, it makes a great gift” and “Defined as ‘it’s a dog penis'”.  So am I getting a dog penis on a pillow or a horse penis on a pillow?

Answer:  Neither.  Although now that I think about it it would be pretty fun to be like, “Hand me that horse penis.  I need to get comfortable.”

I am my own worse enemy.


Spider doll who also has nipples for some reason.


Ridiculously enormous sock monkey.  From the description: Now you can say “My sock monkey is bigger than your sock monkey.”

I mean, finally.


Sun-dried Googley eyed porcupine blowfish.  “ONLY 7 LEFT IN STOCK.  ORDER SOON.”


So this is what $300 worth of flesh-eating larvae looks like.


Liver in a pickle jar.  Description: “This plastic specimen jar contains a Biolike2 model of a cirrhotic liver floating beside a pickle”

Customers who viewed the pickled liver also viewed the cat butthole purse, lactating incense burner (That’s not how smoke works?) and this thing that is supposedly a soft plush pillow but is clearly a crudely drawn penis frosted like a birthday cake.


Sexy Princess Leia costume, which I appreciate just for this review alone.  (Strong nipple theme emerging here.)


Octopus specimen.  With “Octopus” written on it in case you don’t know what an octopus is?


Creamed Possum.


12 foot beach ball.  “It’s just like a classic beach ball, only gianter.”


Slow Farts.  “More than 25 farting sloth coloring pages.”


Pet ponytail.


Pants that make you look like you shit yourself.  “ONLY ONE LEFT IN STOCK.”


Fake human skin for practicing face tattoos.  Or for making a Silence of the Lambs style skin jacket.  No judgement.

Okay, some judgement.

PS. As always, I’m using affiliate links that help fund the annual James Garfield Miracle so if you do end up buying a bunch of shit pants or human skin or horse penises you’re totally buying them for children.

That came out wrong but you know what I mean.

I don’t know how things work, part eleventy thousand

I bought a lipstick at the drugstore but when I got to the car to try it on I couldn’t  pull the lid off so I tried using my teeth but there were two guys sitting in a truck next to me and one of them was staring at me weirdly so I rolled down the window and explained, “I can’t open my lipstick,” and he was like, “Oh.  Want me to try?” and then I felt like I was breaking feminism by letting a man open lipstick for me but I also wanted lipstick so I let him try but then he couldn’t open it either and I yelled, “I GUESS THE PATRIARCHY CAN’T FIX EVERYTHING HUH?” (but only in my mind) and the guy was like, “I think this is busted.  You should go get another one” and then his friend got out of the car and was like, “Dude, what are you doing?” and he tried to explain and the other guy laughed at us and took the lipstick but he couldn’t pull the lid off either and then he was like, “DUDE, THIS SHIT’S BUSTED” and the other guy was like, “YEAH WE ALREADY KNOW THAT, KEVIN” and he rolled his eyes at me like:

…and then the cashier from the store walked out toward his car and the two guys yelled, “HEY DUDE, THIS LIPSTICK IS BROKEN” and the cashier looked baffled at being confronted by a parking-lot gang of angry makeup failures who’d been bested by lipstick, and the cashier was like, “May I?” and Kevin handed it to him and said, “Good luck, buddy” but then the guy easily opened it because it was apparently a screw top (?!) and he looked at us all like we were insane, and the two truck guys stared at each other for a hot second and then they started hooting and pointing at each other for being shown up by the cashier and then I took my lipstick back and drove away.

That was the longest run-on sentence I’ve written all day and all that to say, how many men does it take to unscrew a lipstick?

Three.  It takes three.


I’m having a weird day, y’all.

I think I found what I want on my tombstone.

A series of unrelated things to catch you up on:

1. Apparently there was thing years ago where people replaced the vowels in their names with “oodle” and I guess I missed it but from now on please refer to me as Joodle-Noodle.

2. This happened on twitter and when I wrote the second tweet I thought “Wow,  that would be a great thing to put on my tombstone”…

And actually now I’m even more convinced I want it on my tombstone because it’s both poetic and horrible at the same time and it makes terrible but imaginative people like us accidently laugh in the middle of a graveyard and then feel bad for laughing and then laugh even harder because of the awkwardness and then run away and that sort of sums up my whole life.

3.  OPERATION DESTROY MY HOUSE AND SANITY is still going strong.  It only took a week of destruction and severe water damage for me to finally achieve the minimalist look that everyone on instagram seems to so easily have:


4.  I forgot what four was.

Why are there penises all over the garage: an attempted explanation

In the last week a series of weird things happened and it’s hard to for me to write right now because there are a million (4) people in my house tearing out cabinets and walls because of the flood damage so I just put it on instagram but people were still very confused so I’m taking a second to update you on how I defended my house from snakes with penises.

First, this from a week ago:

Jesus. Christ. You guys.

A post shared by Jenny Lawson (@thebloggess) on

Later that day a lovely person on twitter was like, “Hey!  You got the bag of dicks!  They were a gift, not a threat.”  (And in fairness they are lovely to squeeze, especially when you’re silently glaring at some dude who is being a total asshole.  Also, they don’t have that weird chemical stink like most of them do, which is nice.  (The squishy toys, I mean.  Not penises.)  And they were so awesome that I stuffed a handful of them in my purse to give to a friend, but before I saw her this happened…

(Trigger warning: If you have a fear of danger noodles just skip to the caption.)

And then I clarified in the comments that it was very small and nonaggressive.  And then I had to clarify again that I was referring to the snake and not the penis.  And also that I was lightly whacking the snake, not the penis.  And if I’m being honest it was actually several penises that I left behind me in a trail as I chased it out through the garage because my purse was stuffed with them and it was open and I was dropping shit out of it while I was whacking, like I was Hansel & Gretel if Hansel and Gretel used adorable severed penises instead of breadcrumbs.

PS. A breakdown of responses to my Instagram video: 70% said it was a helpful snake that would kill pests. 30% were like, “BURN THE HOUSE TO THE FOUNDATION AND SALT THE EARTH SO NOTHING EVER GROWS AGAIN. 1% wanted me to adopt the snake, and if I did I would have named it ‘Hisstopher Columbus’ because he didn’t seem to give a shit that SOMEONE ALREADY LIVES HERE, DUDE. Almost everyone thought I’d buried the lede and just wanted to know more about the penises.  You are welcome.

PPS. Apparently they’re called dindings and you can buy them here.

PPPS. Hisstopher Columbus is fine and I saw him this morning in the yard but he was next to the tree that always has that owl in it and now I’m afraid for it but I don’t want to pick it up so I just stood outside stomping my feet really loudly to scare it toward a safer part of the yard and my neighbor drove by and it totally looked like I thought I was pretending to be Godzilla and I wanted to explain that I was just trying to save Hisstopher Columbus from himself but I figured that would just make things worse.

Break all your legs.

Hailey: Today we’re performing our play in front of the school.

me:  McBeth?


me:  Which word?  McBeth?

Hailey:  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?  It’s considered very bad luck to say the name of that play.  It’s worse than saying “Good luck.”  You’re supposed to say “The Scottish play.”

me:  But you say “McBeth” in the play over and over.  He’s like the main dude.

Hailey:  OMG STOP SAYING IT.  And it’s fine to say in the play.  Just not before.  And it’s especially unlucky to say the witches lines.

me:  YOU ARE LITERALLY THE WITCH IN MCBETH.  I’ve heard you practice those lines a dozen times.

Hailey: You’re just saying the name now to mess with me.

me: I am but I’m not spelling it correctly in my head so I don’t think it counts.  Also, I just looked it up and says that if you do say “McBeth” you can fix the curse by going outside the place where it’ll be preformed, spinning around three times, spitting and uttering a vulgar Shakespearean insult.

Hailey:  That can’t possibly be right.

me:  That’s what it says.  If you want I can spin and spit and yell profanity outside your school but I think I have to do it for each time I said “McBeth” so it’s going to take me awhile.  Worst exercise routine ever.

Hailey:  You know what?  It’s fine.

me:  I’ll do it.  “THOU ART A RUBBISH BANDWAGON!  ABORTIVE BULL’S-PIZZLE!  THOU LOATHSOME SCURVY DOG!”  Wait…that last one turned piratey.  I’ve gotta do some research.

Hailey: Please don’t do that in front of my school.

me:  I’m pretty good at it.

Hailey:  Weirdly so.

me:  Fine.  Break all your legs, my little witch.

Hailey:  Break all your arms, you big weirdo.

me:  Fair enough.

PS. I found a Shakespearean insult generator in case you’re looking to expand your repertoire:

Someone get me a monkey

First off, Dorothy Barker has recovered from her allergic reaction and I have recovered from accidentally eating one of her dog pills because I couldn’t split it in half so I used my teeth.  I figured I would either get really healthy or die but neither happened so it was basically a very anticlimactic superhero origin story.

Secondly, this weekend I made an investment in an organ grinder out of spite and wisdom.  My parents came over and I felt bad that the house is a mess but they’re very nonjudgemental and I considered cleaning up the stacks of stuff because probably your parents worry about you if you have a toilet seat on the kitchen counter but it was a brand new toilet seat still in the package so technically it was more like I was bragging about my new purchase and that seemed like a good way to reassure my parents that they didn’t need to worry about me because I was obviously doing pretty damn good if I had unused toilet seats to spare. Victor didn’t see it the same way but Victor’s family are a bunch of Rockefellers who I guess go through new toilet seats every week like they’re disposable.

Aaaanyway, we went to this antique sale in a barn and this guy had an organ grinder for sale and I asked to listen to one of the music rolls and some lady loudly whispered to one of the owners of the booth, “Don’t you hate it when people want to try out all the things and never buy anything?” and then I was like, “FUCK YOU, LADY.  I’M BUYING THIS PIECE OF SHIT” but I just said it with my eyes (and all of the money in my purse) and then later I realized she probably works for them and provoked me on purpose.  But I still won because I got a super cheap organ grinder with 10 cobs of music and the organ almost works and is only 80% out of tune and filled with silverfish.

I took it home and realized most of the roller cobs aren’t labeled so I decided to go on instagram and play the tunes and see if people could help me identify them but I didn’t realize this app I’d signed up for was sharing all of my instagram stuff on Facebook and twitter so basically I flooded my twitter stream with a dozen videos of me playing horrific organ grinder music and that’s exactly how you lose followers and/or punish people who love you.

Except that actually a ton of people were like, “This is not the worst Sunday night I’ve ever had” and we identified several of them, including one song that’s famous for being loudly hummed by one of Jack the Ripper’s victims right before her murder and if it sounded half as terrible as the organ grinder version I’m not sure he would be convicted.

The good news though is that my arm is getting a great workout and I think I gave myself carpel tunnel syndrome and I’m pretty sure this is how you get a service monkey.  The monkey grinds the organ, right?  (Ew…phrasing.)

I’m not sure how it goes but I am sure that I have an opening for a monkey that needs to be filled.  (Again…phrasing.)  And the super good news is that when Victor is like “What will I get Jenny for Xmas?” the answer is “BINGO – MONKEY!”  He says that’s not how that works but I’m pretty sure he just doesn’t want to ruin the Christmas surprise.  But Victor is awful at picking out presents and instead of a cute monkey that can hide under my hat on planes he’ll probably get an eat-your-face-off chimpanzee so I sent him a list of premature baby clothes and he was like, “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?” and that’s how I knew he was thinking of the wrong size of monkey because it’s pretty obvious if I send you a shopping list of preemie baby bonnets and sailer outfits that they’re for Dr. Zaius.  Also, Dr. Zaius is what I named the monkey I don’t have yet.  And it’s nice because doctors can be girls or boys so it’s gender neutral for all monkeys and also because when I don’t want to go to a party I can say, “I’m sorry.  I can’t go.  I have to see my doctor.”  And I do.  And he lives under my hat and watches horror movies with me and holds my hand when I’m having a bad day and grinds my organ and throws shit at assholes.  EVERYONE WINS.

PS. Victor says he’s not getting me a monkey because they are not pets and it’s cruel to keep them as such and technically I know he’s probably right and that’s fine and I accepted it with grace because what I really want is a tiny, tiny owl.  One the size of a beet that doesn’t fly and just lives in the yard and is too little to carry away Dorothy Barker.  Because I’m a responsible pet owner y’all.

PPS.  After listening to WAY too many videos of me playing an instrument that sounds like a haunted accordion making popcorn I was flooded by comments so perfect that I have to share them here.  A few of my favorite responses to “What’s this song?”

Sounds like My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean (possibly with Satan) 

Sounds like my 6th grade band performance.

Sounds like you summoned a ghost and we’ll all soon be murdered in our beds.  

Sounds like someone’s trying to murder that song.

Sounds like “Don’t go down to the basement without your Louisville Slugger wrapped in barb wire.”

Sounds like pain.

Sounds like you’re playing it backward.

Sounds like music from a old timey funeral home.

Sounds like a drunken Confederate harmonica player with severe depression.

Sounds like your popcorn is about to burn.

They all sound like the same song to me.  That old favourite, “I Truly Wish That I Was Deaf.”  

I love you guys.  Sorry if I murdered us all with this cursed machine.  Send help.  And by “help” I mean, “a small backyard owl.”



Life is complicated.

I was going to write a very funny post today but I took Dorothy Barker to the vet for her annual shots and she had a very severe allergic reaction to one of them and the vet has been observing her for several hours now and thinks she’ll probably be okay but I’m a mess so I’m not funny.

Also, I spent most of the morning watching my kid have an ultrasound because apparently fucked up stomachs run in our family and the ultrasound tech spent an inordinately long time photographing her gallbladder and since mine and Victor’s both tried to kill us I suspect this does not bode well.

Long story short, I need a distraction so please tell me about a celebrity encounter.

I’ll start: One time I got lost in a parking garage with Dan Rather.  He was very nice.  It’s not a great story.  Sorry.  My head’s weird.



UPDATED X 3: The vet gave Dorothy Barker a giant hump on her back because they pumped her up with a lady lump of fluids and meds and now she’s like a quasi-Quasimodo if Quasimodo was a dog. She’s feeling much better though and they didn’t even charge me to hump my dog, which is a sentence I never thought I’d have to write. Thank you for the well-wishes. Fingers crossed this is the last time I have to edit this.

Follow up

First up…

Secondly, it’s weird how many of you asked for a “Long-distance diarrhea sorcerer” t-shirt.  Mainly because I’m not sure how it doesn’t already exist.  But it does now.

Third, I’m going to Book People this weekend to sign books so if you want one personalized just go to their website, pick some books and type in whatever you want me to write.  And yes, I will draw cats or penises in your book.  But not cat penises.  That would be weird.  They have Furiously Happy, Let’s Pretend This Never Happened and You Are Here and they ship all over the world. Ω

Do you see that sign at the end of the last sentence?  Ferris Mewler walked on my keyboard and that just happened.  I DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW TO DO THAT.  Cats are magical assholes, y’all.

And finally, I need some book recommendations.  Young Adult books that are so awesome you love them even as a grown-up.  Go!

What did I even write?


Apparently Furiously Happy is in Turkish now because I just got a copy of a Turkish psychology article about it, but I don’t read Turkish so I put part of it into Google translate and it gave me this:


I’m not sure if this is an insult or just a poorly translated way of saying “so funny you’ll shit yourself” but either way, “Experience the subtle line between laughing and abdominal pain” is my new favorite blurb.

Also, Furiously Happy is being translated in Bulgarian and I was like, “It’s so strange to think that my stories will be read in Bulgary” and Victor was like, “Yeah.  Especially Bulgary isn’t a place.  It’s Bulgaria.”  But my way sort of makes sense because Calgarians are from Calgary so it would follow that Bulgarians are from Bulgary, but he must be right because spellcheck keeps changing “Bulgary” to “burglary” because even spellcheck is like, “What is even wrong with you?

Answer:  Lots.  But on the plus side, I can give Turkish people abdominal pain using only my words, like some kind of long-distance diarrhea-sorcerer so at least I’ve got that going for me.

I wrote this whole post and didn’t once make a joke about getting a little head. YOU’RE WELCOME, WORLD.

me: What did you get me for Valentine’s Day?

Victor:  Nothing.  What did you get me?

me:  ALSO NOTHING.  This is why we make such a good couple.  Because we get matching gifts for each other literally without even trying.

Victor: High-five.

me:  So since you didn’t actually get me anything…

Victor:  And here it comes…

me: …I was just thinking that I found something I want and it’s only $25 so if you want I could buy that and it could be my Valentine’s present.

Victor:  And it’s?

me:  A human head.

Victor:  *sigh*

me:  But it’s a fake one.  See.  LIKE, HOW DO I EVEN CHOOSE THE BEST ONE, RIGHT?

Victor:  JESUS.  By “best” do you mean “least likely to eat your face while you sleep?”  I think I’d rather you get a human head.

me:  You can’t get a human head for under $25 unless you go out and make one yourself and you know how much I suck at arts and crafts.

Victor:  So what do I get Valentine’s Day?

me:  The joy of making me happy without having to do any work?  The shared ownership of a cool-ass doll head?

Victor: *more sighing*

me:  A frugal wife who isn’t making homemade human heads at the kitchen table?

Victor:  Hard to argue with that one.

me:  No one ever has.