Category Archives: Sometimes I get Top Gun and real life confused in my head


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Dear Stephen Colbert.


Last night, as a huge fan of your work, I was watching your show when I heard your opening joke at 4:10:  “They say every time God closes a door he opens a window.  That’s why Heaven has such huge air-conditioning bills.

And I had to agree that yes, they do say that.  If by “they” you are referring to “Jenny and her husband a week and a half ago.”

Excerpt from this blog, week before last:

On the way home from our vacation/hospital-stay, Victor and I ended up traveling with a very well-meaning man who wouldn’t stop talking about how God put me in the hospital on purpose because apparently He hates me.

Stranger: Well, God doesn’t close a door without opening a window.

Victor:  Well that explains why our electric bill was so high.  Because God doesn’t understand how expensive air-conditioning is.

Stranger:  That’s...not what that phrase means.

me:  I bet Jesus has to deal with this shit all the time.  God’s always leaving the windows open at home…accidentally letting Jesus’ cat out.  That sort of thing.

Victor:  Right?  And then Jesus would be like “Dad.  STOP LEAVING ALL THE WINDOWS OPEN. WERE YOU BORN IN A BARN?”

Religious stranger:  *stunned silence*

me:  And then God would point out that Jesus actually WAS born in a barn.  BURN, Jesus.


You probably don’t know this but my husband is a staunch Republican and I am an ardent Democrat and so Victor immediately stood up, pointed at the TV screen and shouted “BETRAYER!  CALL THY LAWYERS, COLBERT!”  I, on the other hand, remained calm and pointed out that the well-meaning religious stranger we’d baffled on the plane was probably you in disguise looking for material.  Nice mustache, by the way.

Also possible?  We share one mind.  For example, you use footnotes in your book (which I bought as a first edition, in hard-back, at full-price) and I use footnotes in my book (which isn’t out until next year but will probably be shoplifted by one of your minions so that you can steal all my jokes about my first period.)  That was a joke, by the way.  I don’t refer to periods in my book at all.  Because that would be gross.  In fact, I’m so anti-period that the whole book is just one long run-on sentence.  I doubt it will sell well.

But here’s my point:  This aggression will not stand.  And yes, I’m aware that I stole that line from The Big Lebowski who stole it from George Bush Sr. but I’m doing that ironically, if “ironically” means “lazily.”  But you can make it up to me.  Because I love you.  Have me on your show to work this out.   And by “work this out” I mean “accept my challenge for a crazy-eye staring contest”.  You don’t even have to tape it.  I just want to sit at your desk and say I was on the Colbert Report, even if it’s just you and I silently staring at each other in an arched-eyebrow staring contest that you will no-doubt win because I have severe dry-eye syndrome.  Way to take advantage of the disabled, Stephen Colbert.

I still have faith in you, Mr. Colbert.

~ Jenny (aka @thebloggess)

PS.  While we sit here feuding over petty words our real enemy is out there taking advantage of our distraction.  I think we both know who that real enemy is.  Bears.

Do it for the children, Mr. Colbert.  Do it for the children who don’t want to be mangled by bears.

UPDATED:  1.  Within an hour, #OCCUPYCOLBERT was trending on twitter.  #OCCUPYCOBBLER was threatening to trend, both because of Auto-correct and the deliciousness of cobbler.

On the down side, we'd brought our common enemy together. (Image via @JentheAmazing)

2.  It was pointed out to me that the issue goes far deeper than a simple shared joke.  Stephen Colbert stole my ear.

Below is a picture of Stephen Colbert, and a picture of me celebrating International Star Wars Day last year:

That’s right.  Stephen Colbert and I share a wonky ear.  You might think that this would bring us closer together, but no.  Apparently Stephen Colbert thinks he owns ears.

According to sources: “Wonky ear refers to Stephen Colbert’s trademark distinctively shaped right ear.

YOU CAN’T TRADEMARK EARS, STEPHEN COLBERT.  I’ve had this wonky ear since I was born.  This is like when you were four and your uncle made you cry by playing “Got-your-nose,” except that your Uncle is Stephen Colbert and he’s trying to trademark your body parts.  And probably selling them on the black-market.  I don’t know that last part for a fact, but at this point I wouldn’t put it past him.

I’m still waiting to hear about that staring contest, Mr. Colbert.  You’ll have to talk into my left ear though, because apparently the right one is owned by you.

Not cool, Stephen Colbert.


My friend Swistle pointed out that she was able to find Colbert making similar jokes in January, June ,and again in July.  (Example: God never closes a door without opening a window. His heating bills must be outrageous.” ~ The Colbert Report, January 6, 2010.)

Conclusion: Not even Stephen Colbert is immune to having his jokes stolen by Stephen Colbert.

My God.

None of us are safe.



UPDATED: And then the PR guy called me “a fucking bitch”. I can’t even make this shit up.


I know I just posted a few hours ago, but I’m posting again because you all know how dedicated I am to writing about PR pitches (both good and bad) and this one just can’t wait.  I got a form letter email pitch (more than one, actually) about a Kardashian sister being spotted in pantyhose.

Actual line from email:

“The Kardashian’s once again show they are right on trend, and this is on (sic) Mommy’s are all going to want to follow.”

As I do with all unsolicited form-letters about celebrities-doing-shit-no-one-cares-about, I replied with my usual, simple response:

me: And here’s a picture of Wil Wheaton collating.

I got a response from the woman who sent the original email:

Hi there,
That wasn’t very nice. We send certain pitches out to people so they have the chance of getting more hits on their page. We’ll make note of this email in moving forward and remember if we have any advertising opportunities with any of our clients not to go through you.
Best of luck to you.

That sort of email might be threatening to a blogger who makes a living by getting advertisers who go through PR companies, but I’m not, and (as far as I know) neither are most people.  For the most part, my blog is supported by people.  People who are bloggers.  This becomes relevant soon.

I wasn’t going to respond, as she did have a point, but then a VP of the company (Jose) hit “reply all”.  With me on the reply-all.

Jose:  “What a fucking bitch!”

Wow.  I sort of felt bad for the guy (as I’ve accidentally fallen victim to the reply-all trap as well) and I considered just cowing down and remaining quietly chastened by this man, but then I remembered that this isn’t the 18th century and that I’ve never taken a high road in my entire life.

My response:

Hi. This is sort of why “reply all” doesn’t usually work well for
companies. Unless, of course, you decided that “What a fucking bitch” was
a great response from a public relations company. Personally, I preferred
the “Best of luck to you” one, which was much more honest and cutting,
while still being professional.

If you’ve read my blog you would know that a great deal of my blog deals
with the importance of public relations companies doing research before
sending form letters to bloggers. Specifically, I’m very vocal about
ridiculous pitches involving celebrities using products. So much so that
I made that actual Wil Wheaton collating paper page to combat this very
sort of thing in a quick and painless way. My blog has nothing to do with
fashion, the Kardashians or pantyhose…none of which I understand, to be
honest. Plus, you’ve sent me this form letter TWICE today. I only point
this out so you can delete this *ahem* “fucking bitch” from all of the
mailing lists you have me on, rather than just one.

Also, I apologize if you were offended by my email. Honestly, I’ve been
sending that thing out to PR people for the last year and this is the
first time I didn’t have someone respond with either a laugh, or with a
simple “No problem. We’ll remove you from the list.” In fact, many PR
companies have turned this entire thing around and sent really hysterical
exchanges to me, which I’ve used to promote their great work in
understanding (and working with) the unique personalities of the very
bloggers they’re trying to reach out to. Just a thought.

Jenny (aka “fucking bitch”)

I don’t know what I expected, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t this:

Jose: I get it and I was out of line by saying that however you put way too much effort
into your approach. A simple “I don’t cover this, no thanks” or “Please remove”
would suffice. To go out of your way to be snarky and rude is a little
inappropriate. Again, I should’ve been less harsh – but I also feel like your email
was rude and unprofessional as well. We will do a better job to research who we are
pitching but maybe you should be flattered that you are even viewed relevant enough
to be pitched at all instead of alienated PR firms and PR people – who are actually
the livelihood of any journalists business. Don’t be offended, you started the
cursing game so maybe we should all just laugh it off and plan not to work together
in the future.

Wow.  Jose was sticking to his guns.  Sadly for both of us, so was I.

My response:

“You should be flattered that you are even viewed relevant enough to be pitched at all.”
You sure know how to flatter a girl. Are you even in
public relations? Am I on Candid Camera? Because I’m kind of baffled.

Please stand by for a demonstration of relevancy.

And then I tweeted to @BrandlinkComm to let them know that one of their VPs just sent me an email referring to me as “a fucking bitch.”  And many, many of my 164,000 followers replied and retweeted in the most clever and hysterically awesome ways imaginable.

And it was beautiful.

PS.  The reason I post this is not to have everyone go all angry-villager on the company.  It’s to remind other bloggers that there are some amazing and wonderful PR companies out there who will do their research and will make your life wonderful.  And there are other PR companies that will try to shame you into posting their irrelevant spam and threaten you with talk of not using you in the future for when they’re doing advertising.  Those PR firms are assholes and you should probably question everything they say.

You are amazing.  You are relevant.  Your work is worth protecting and standing up for.  And you will find wonderful PR companies to work with over time.

Even if you are “a fucking bitch.”

UPDATED: I love you people. Really. Thank you for always having my back and for being so supportive during this weirdness. Jose has apologized, and I’ve been assured by the woman in charge of the company that they are aware and are handling it the best way they know how, so let’s give them some air and let them have the chance to do that. *deep breath*

Now let’s all go have a drink. Make mine a double.

UPDATED: SXSW…sort of.

The SXSW festival is an hour from my house but I never go to it because crowds scare the shit out of me and also because it’s super expensive and I don’t have enough xanax and/or facial hair to fit in there, but last week I got invited to some kind of SXSW civility luncheon thingie and I had to go because 1) it was being thrown by some of my best friends and 2) someone invited me to a GODDAM CIVILITY LUNCHEON, y’all.  How could I not go?

I usually write down shit as it happens and quickly write a post that day so I don’t forget what my notes meant but then Victor decided to shatter his arm and I got distracted and now I just have a bizarre bunch of notes that are confusing even to me.  And now I’m going to share them with you.  Because then you’ll know what it’s like in my head and it will make you feel better about yourself by comparison.

Bizarre notes I wrote to myself while getting mildly sloshed at a brunch designed to teach me about “civility & mobile etiquette”:

  • Awesome idea for an invention:  Tin cup (worn on a piece of twine around your neck).  You could use it for olive pits, used-toothpicks and for panhandling.  A tin cup on twine is the new waterproof pocket.  That would be our slogan.
  • I could probably save a lot of time if I just made a t-shirt that says, “I’m sorry for disappointing you”.
  • I’m at civility party designed to teach me about not using Twitter in public. I’m the only person tweeting right now. Awesome. *I’m* the asshole at the bar. Except this isn’t even a bar. My god I suck at this.
  • I just spent 10 minutes convincing Helen Jane that James Franco’s severed arm probably tastes like buffalo.  Made a really convincing argument of it and I’m fairly sure she was impressed.  Then some new chick came over and asked what we were talking about and I was all “James Franco’s arm tastes of buffalo”, but I wasn’t sober enough to remember my reasoning so I just left it at that and the new chick looked vaguely frightened and wandered off.  This is why context is important.
  • This is a civility luncheon about the rudeness of using mobile phones in public and it has a hashtag assigned to it.  #deeplyconfused
  • Overheard: “Do you ever have to please your man while texting?”  And suddenly this shit just got interesting.
  • Overheard:  “Ringworm is going to happen, but if your baby gets pinworms you just walk away.  Start fresh with a new baby, I say.”  (Disclaimer:  Does it count as “overheard” if you’re overhearing yourself say it to other people?  How about if you’re only saying it to see how eavesdroppers will react?  I say yes to both.)
  • Overheard:  “This would make a great heroin spoon.  Right?  Do they sell these here?  Someone find me a waiter.”  (Again, see disclaimer above.)
  • me at our table:  “Ooh!  Pistachios!”
  • me, seconds later:  “Oh. Those are not pistachios.  Those are olive pits.  No one eat those.”
  • me, two drinks later:  “Ooh!  Pistachios!”
  • *repeat*

Seriously. They *totally* looked like pistachios.

  • Things I learned: SXSW is pretty cool if you don’t actually get anywhere near SXSW.    Pistachios aren’t supposed to be damp.  I shouldn’t even be allowed to have a phone and/or leave my house.

UPDATED: By popular demand, “Sorry for disappointing you” shirts for socially akward bloggers are now available in men’s, women’s and toddler’s sizes.  I’m buying two.

(UPDATED: NOW WITH MORE WIL WHEATON) An open letter to Wil Wheaton

Dear Wil Wheaton,

Hi.  I’m sure you must be very confused about my insistent tweets asking for a picture of you collating, and about the fact that the I Blame Wil Wheaton shirt was given an award for being one of the most viewed shirts on zazzle.

First of all, let me assure you that I do not actually blame you.  I blame your secretary.  Or whoever is in charge of sending out photos of you collating papers.  She should probably be fired.

Secondly, I’m pretty sure that you haven’t sent me a picture yet because you’re not sure what I’m going do with it and that is a totally fair question and one I’d be asking myself if a sex worker was asking me for a picture of me collating paper.  In fact, I’d probably suspect that “collating paper” was code for some kind of weird sex act.  Like, remember back before the internet was invented, when “laying cable” just meant you were laying cable?  Me either.  But I assure you, “collating paper” here just means collating paper.

You probably don’t read my blog so I should explain that the reason I need a picture of you is because I constantly get emails from PR people offering me pictures of celebrities using whatever bullshit product I don’t actually care about and I’d like it to stop.  Most recently I wrote about my interactions with PR people who wanted to send me photos of Lou Diamond Phillips holding water, and of Selma Blair wearing a scarf.  (This is all true). I still get these emails daily and my plan is to get a picture of you collating paper so that when they offer me a picture of “Harry Connick Jr. standing next to yarn” I can say “Thanks.  Here’s a picture of Wil Wheaton collating paper” and then they’ll be like “Um…why would I want a picture of Wil Wheaton collating paper?” and I can be like, “EXACTLY.”  It wouldn’t actually stop PR people from emailing me thousands of pictures of people-with-things but I’d at least feel better about it.



PS.  It’s totally okay if you don’t want to send me a picture at all because years ago you commented on a post I wrote for a blog that doesn’t even exist anymore and now you get a pass for pretty much anything.  You wrote “Now you can scratch one off”.  I know because I kept the notification.  I can’t actually remember what the post was about but I’m fairly certain your response, though brief, was totally apropos.  Also, I emailed you to make sure it was really you and you responded: “It’s me”.  Seven characters.  It’s pretty clear you had a talent for twitter before it was even invented.

PPS.  I had the maid proof-read this and she just pointed out that “laying cable” is not a sexual euphemism at all and I was like “Who’s the sex worker here, lady? They sent me to Japan to write about sex ponies so I’m pretty sure I’m the expert here” but then I looked it up and it turns out that “laying cable” is code for taking a long, unbroken poop.  Apparently I was confusing “laying pipe” with “laying cable”and I’ve been saying it wrong for pretty much my entire life.  Awesome. Plus, now the maid is claiming that “writing about sex doesn’t make you a sex worker” so I had to pull up the pictures of me in the sex dungeon for proof and she was all “You’re fully clothed” and I was like “I think I have a picture of me naked in here somewhere” and then my husband walked in and was all “Why is no one working in here?” and I was like “Do you know where those pictures are of me naked but covered with hamburgers?” and the maid was like “It doesn’t count if you’re covered with hamburgers” and then Victor said that from now on I’m not allowed to be in the house on days when the maid comes.  Because apparently he doesn’t want me to have friends.

PPPS.  I found the hamburger pictures.  You don’t have to look at them though.  They’re really more for the maid, who I’m not allowed to talk to anymore.  I don’t blame you though.  I blame Victor.



Reason #307 why I love the internet.

Updated again:  It would be selfish to keep this to myself.  This page is for you.  You’re welcome, world.

I can’t tell if I won this argument or lost it. I’d feel better if I at least had nachos.

Conversation with my husband:

Victor: Look at this video. It’s about a company that invented a tool that lets you drive using only your mind.

me: Awesome. I’m so glad we’re making such huge advances in the field of driving-a-car-without-hands. It’s good that the scientists have a new priority now that they’ve found a cure for cancer.

Victor: The concept is pretty cool. You can drive all the way to work just sitting there.

me: They already invented a tool for that. It’s called a bus.

Victor: I think I want one. You could drive yourself to the grocery store and learn to play the flute at the same time.

me: I would kill myself in about 8 seconds in that car. What about all the times you think about driving off the edge of a cliff? Does it compensate for that?

Victor: Who the hell thinks about driving off a cliff?

me: Um…me.  And everyone.

Victor: *

me: You don’t imagine –for just a second– about driving off a bridge every time you drive over one?

Victor: Why would I do that?

me: Because it’s human nature. Everyone does that. You never actually do it but everyone thinks about it.

Victor: Well I don’t think about it.

me: Well then, maybe there’s something wrong with you.

Victor: Maybe there’s something wrong with me because I don’t think about driving off cliffs on a regular basis?

me: Or because you want a car so you can play the flute. Neither of those are particularly normal.

Victor: Okay, first of all, the flute was for you. Secondly, I think there’s something really wrong with you.

me: Probably.  I like how in the video they’re all “Don’t try this at home” because that disclaimer is totally the only  thing keeping me from driving my car with my mind right now. I mean, that and the fact that we’re out of brain sensors.

Victor: Just stop talking.

me: If I was driving a brain-car I’d make it go to Taco Cabana all the time and you’d be all “Where are we going? We don’t have time for this” and I’d be like “I’m not doing it! It’s the car. It must want enchiladas” and then I could get enchiladas all the time and you couldn’t yell at me about it because you couldn’t prove I was doing it on purpose.

Victor: When have I ever yelled at you about enchiladas?  WHY IS THIS EVEN AN ISSUE?

me: You’d totally yell at me if I suddenly veered off to get unexpected enchiladas. That’s why I’ve never even tried it. Because I know you. But just wait until we get our mind-control car. There are going to be unexpected enchiladas everywhere.

PS.  Then Victor said that I just proved that I can’t be trusted with a mind controlled car, which was kind of my point to begin with.  I win.  Except now I totally want enchiladas and I have no brain-controlled car to get them for me. Touché, scientists.  Way to create a demand.

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.

UPDATED: My new year’s resolution is to get you to stop asking me about my new year’s resolutions.

People keep asking me what my New Year’s resolutions are and I tell them that I don’t have any and then they get all pissy because they assume that I think I don’t need to change but it’s really just that I’m too bored with myself to invest any more time thinking about me, and also because “What are your new year’s resolutions?” is kind of code for “So tell me what you think is wrong with you.”

That’s why my new resolution for 2011 is to get into something so blatantly reprehensible that when 2012 comes I will have an obvious choice for what I need to give up next year and I won’t be sitting here trying to figure out which one of my many vices is the most obvious to everyone else.   And then I’ll be all “This year I’m going to shoot up less heroin!”  Or stop burning books.  Or stop burning kittens.  Or stop burning books about kittens.  I haven’t really decided yet.  Whichever thing seems more likely to have people remark about how brave I am, probably.

PS.  You never realize how many terrible life-choices are in front of you until you think about how nice it will be to tell people you’ve given them up.  This is probably why so many people are shooting up heroin right now.

PPS.  OMG.  I GOT IT.  This year I vow to start shooting up kittens with heroin.  It’s gonna be a brave, brave 2012.

UPDATED: As requested, I drew up some anti-kitten-heroin photocards that you could use to save money on birthday presents but no one bought any…

Click on the picture if you want one.

…so instead I made a whole different set of cards for people who want kittens to be on heroin…

Or you could really confuse people by giving them one of each.

But then it turns out that no one bought any of those either.  Conclusion:  Heroin-kitten awareness is at an all time low, probably because we don’t have a sexy spokesperson attached.  Someone contact Neil Patrick Harris.

Because some things are worth more than a box of cereal

Hi.  I’m about to overstep my boundaries.  You might want to back away slowly because I don’t usually do this and I might get blood on you.

Okay, I’m pissed.  Legitimately, ridiculously, slightly irrationally pissed.

A few minutes ago I got a pitch from a company who wanted me to write a review for their cereal on my blog.  And they would pay me.  In cereal. Two boxes of cereal, specifically.  Except that the cereal wouldn’t actually go to me.  It would be used as a giveaway.  To promote their cereal.  On my blog.  Because as a blogger I’m so desperate for material that I will happily regurgitate any commercial bullshit that anyone puts in front of me.  Apparently.

I’m really struggling with writing this because I fully believe that people should be able to write whatever they want but if you as a blogger are accepting a box of cereal as payment for helping to grow a commercial ad campaign then you are undervaluing us all.  Companies have advertising budgets and some of those companies spend that money on bloggers.  And those companies should be applauded for helping to grow our community and for giving bloggers the same respect that you would give to any other profession.  Other companies give their advertising budgets to PR firms who are paid quite well to get bloggers and other outlets to advertise the product in exchange for cereal.  I can almost guarantee you that none of the PR people who contact you are working for cereal.  In fact, let’s explore that scenario…

Cereal company:  Hi!  We need a large, professional PR campaign so we’d like you to contact everyone on your mailing list with a pitch about our product, where you can buy it, and also convince them to write all about it on their personal blogs.  For cereal.  And we’ll pay you!  In cereal.

PR Company:  What the fuck..?

Cereal company:  But you can’t eat the cereal.  You have to give it away to someone else.

PR company:  Right. Is this a joke?

Cereal company:  No!  It’s real!  You get two boxes of cereal!

PR Company:  Um…we don’t work for cereal.  We all have mortgages.  And…desk payments.

Cereal company:  The cereal is worth FIVE DOLLARS!

PR company:  Is there something wrong with you?  Because we’d like to tell you to fuck off but we’re afraid to because we think you might be mentally unbalanced.


PR Company:  Never contact us again.

*end scene*

Look, I’m not saying that there aren’t good PR companies out there or that if you review products you’re a bad blogger or that writing about a product that you honestly love is bad.  It’s great, in fact.  Write about what you love.  Write about who you are.  Write things that are worthy of you and of your audience.  Because your voice is worth more than a goddamn box of cereal.

And don’t let anyone ever tell you any different.

UPDATED: To answer your questions, yes, this was a totally serious proposal. And no, it wasn’t even for Cap’n Crunch. It was for some obscure, made-from-applesauce, marshmallow-less crap WITH NO PRIZES IN IT.

I might have actually considered doing it for Cap’n Crunch. But not because I eat cereal. Because I support our Navy.

Comment of the day: I got one of these the other day. They want to send me two bags of candy which I would then in turn send to other people. Which just seems like a huge waste of postage.  I am letting them send me the candy. And then I’m going to eat it. ~ Abi

For sale: Kristoffer Kristofferson. (The other one.)

I’m packing up to move but I really don’t want to move everything, so I’ve decided to sell some stuff on ebay since that worked out so well last time.  Except that ebay has a tendency to delete all of my auctions almost as soon as I post them so I’m also going to post the whole thing here to make it easier for me to keep relisting it.  Also?  Please stop fucking with me, ebay.  I am trying to make you relevant again.

Actual ebay listing:


For sale: (Possibly magical) wolf head puppet.   I bought this huge wolf-head puppet ten years ago at an old antique shop in West Texas.  The guy who sold it to me said the puppet was made by a street-performing hobo who’d used it in his “Peter and the Wolf” one-man-play during the depression.  I didn’t ask how he got it from the hobo because the guy at the shop seemed really odd and I suspected he might be some sort of mystical, unpredictable, hobo-killing gypsy but I totally fell in love with the wolf because he looked so damn enthusiastic and so I bought him even though my husband said that I was insane and threatened to hide all the credit cards from me until I could “start making responsible spending decisions” and I was all “Dude.  It’s a hobo-crafted wolf-puppet bought from a gypsy.  YOU CAN’T EVEN MAKE THAT STUFF UP.” And my husband was all “Not *every* long haired guy is a ‘magical gypsy. Sometimes they’re just hippies” but then when I tried to go back to the shop again a month later IT WAS GONE, y’all. BECAUSE IT WAS MAGIC.  My husband says it was because I’m bad with directions and that I was probably just on the wrong street but I’m pretty sure it was gypsy magic.  Or hippie magic. Which one smells like patchouli?  That one.

Anyway, I loved my Wolfie puppet and I named him “Kristoffer Kristofferson” and he was bad-ass.  He’s huge and takes two hands to operate and he’s made of tanned animal fur, felt, and I think his eyes are painted marbles.  His mouth moves and his eyes open and close and if you pull on the wires inside his head his lips lift up like he’s snarling.  Or smiling. It’s hard to tell with wolves.  That’s why they’re so mysterious.

Tragically, I soon discovered that Kristoffer Kristofferson was not made from wolf fur at all, but from rabbit fur, which I am totally f***ing allergic to.  It was a lot like when I was in 4th grade and all the girls in my class had rabbit fur coats but my family couldn’t afford one but then my mom found one at a garage sale for $5 and I totally wore it for a week straight and I even slept in it but then I broke out in a horrible rash and I tried to convince my mom that it was probably just heat rash (which is to be expected when you wear a rabbit fur coat in Texas in the middle of July) but she made me put the coat in the garage and told me that I could just “look at it from a distance whenever I was sad”.  It was like the worst antidepressant ever.

So Kristoffer Kristofferson has been living in my closet ever since he gave me a rash, which is a terrible waste because he’s awesome and also because he’s probably some really amazing folk art made by a murdered hobo and sold by a magical gypsy.  That’s why I’m starting the bidding at $20.  Because he’s worth it. Kristopher Kristofferson needs to come out of the closet and love you up big time.  Also, he likes cats.  To eat.

Disclaimer:  Kristoffer Kristofferson (the wolf) is in no way related to Kristoffer Kristofferson (the Grammy-award winning singer of “Jesus was a Capricorn”) although they both are bad-ass and might give you a rash.

Bidding is now open.

I have a weird sort of life

I just got an email inviting me to the inauguration of the Mayor of Malibu, who also happens to be Clint Eastwood’s stunt man and body double.  You remember him.  I met him that time I landed on that aircraft carrier in the middle of the Pacific ocean and accused everyone of being cylons and then ended up getting locked in the brig.

Actually, not the worst jail I've been in.

So I responded:

“Congratulations, J!

FYI, when I was inaugurated as Czar of Texas I got to keep my crown and my scepter but then some baby tried to steal them. True story.

Get your baby-kickin’ shoes on, Zuma Jay. They’re fucking everywhere.”

But apparently I accidentally did a “reply all” so that response went to all of the people who’d landed on the aircraft carrier with me and I know this because I immediately got a form-letter from Robert Scoble explaining that he did not have time to reply to all his emails and that if I wanted him to review a product I’d have to give him notice and so I decided to respond because I’d had too much to drink and no one was here to tell me this was a bad idea:

Dear Robert,

I completely understand your busy schedule but I know that you will be excited when you hear that I have a great product for you to review. It’s like a boombox, but smaller and you can use it to listen to your cassette tapes privately. It’s called a “walkman”. I call it that because a “man” can “walk around” while he uses it. Pretty awesome, right? I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “But isn’t that sexist? Will you make ‘walkwoman’s’?” And no, Robert, I won’t, because you and I both know that chicks aren’t into tech gadgets and I don’t want to waste my time and resources.

At only 8 pounds, the walkman is light enough that you can use the built-in plastic tab to hang it from your belt. HANDS-FREE, ROBERT. This is the wave of the future. Also, in the future everyone will need to be wearing belts all the time because if you’re wearing sweatpants the walkman will just pull them right down. I’ve personally solved this issue by wearing sweatpants with a belt. That way I can exercise AND listen to music. I’m not sure why no one has thought of this before.

If you are interested in reviewing it, please let me know so I can send you a walkman. I only have one so you’ll have to send it right back but I’m including my own mix-tape of cool songs I taped off of the radio, including the first third of “My Sugar Walls” before the tape ran out. That’s my only copy but if you give the walkman a good review I’ll see if I can make a copy of the mix tape for you. No promises, Robert.


Jenny ~ Inventor of the Walkman

Then Robert Scoble told me that he was not interested in reviewing my walkman but he put a smiley-face at the end of his email so I think we’re still cool.  Also?  Aside from the fact that I didn’t actually invent the walkman, every single part of this post is true. That’s the really fucked up part about this whole thing.  That, and the fact that I can’t afford to go watch Clint Eastwood get his crown and scepter, which is doubly disappointing because he’s the rare kind of guy who could totally pull that kinda look off.  The man is striking, y’all.

Comment of the day: Seriously. I have a Walkman. The little hinged door that covered the cassettes is gone and this thing still works. And. There is a mixtape in it. I think I just realized I’m a hoarder. ~ Apryl’sAntics