Stuff About Things

My Jury Hell: Part Four

ShenaniganJenn — Sat, 14 May 2011 04:24:36 +0000

We had a short day today, but it feels wrong to not share it with y’all, you know?

I’ve decided to give people ~code names~. The chances of my fellow jurors searching the internets, thinking one of their own is referring to them as Gollum, is pretty slim. I hope.

(P.S. It will help if you’ve read the first three parts of my, uh, continuing series.)

Gollum is wearing the shortest shorts I’ve ever seen. It’s a nice change from the sweatpants, yes, but I can see her panties. I’ve seen so many pairs of underwear in this jury room. It’s like the worst Showtime softcore porn ever. If anyone ever gets a pizza delivered, my Pavlovian response will be to immediately drop my pants.

Today’s court reporter is wearing ShapeUps. They are totally flat on the bottom. My assumption is that this means they have failed. Miserably.

One of our jurors talks nonstop about mozzarella and homemade pudding pops. She thinks she is Ina Garten. She totally is. If Ina mainlines Diet Pepsi, wears Crocs and has one constantly hard nipple.

Our foreman is an expert on Glee. By expert, I mean he knows nothing about any of the story lines and refers to characters only by their physical characteristics. There’s “the gay”, “the other gay”, “the fat faced girl”, “the black” and Darren Criss. Uhh…?

I pretty much stopped listening to everyone at that point and started drawing Care Bears.

I hate everyone. Everyone. I thought about standing in the corner and letting a single tear run down my face, Iron Eyes Cody style, but no one would appreciate it. Fuck it.

My Jury Hell: Part Three

ShenaniganJenn — Fri, 13 May 2011 03:23:22 +0000

Another day of emotional torture. I’ve heard there are people who intentionally try to get placed on jury duty. I wish I could find out who those people are. I would hate crime them so fast. Or maybe not. Because I now know what kind of people would decide my fate.

Unnecessary Break #1 -

We’ve been working for ALMOST 52 MINUTES and people were freaking out. We had to take a break. Again, 52 minutes. 52. Minutes. Fifty Two. Before everyone left the room, we were informed there is a cup full of candy canes on the back table “for our enjoyment”. It’s May. Jesus.

The mouth breathing never ending eater didn’t sit by me today. If this has anything do to with me counting each of the Cheetos he was eating out loud, I don’t know. I was just trying to assist him with portion control. He did, thankfully, sit close enough for me to document his entire morning snack bounty. He has: a can of Arizona iced tea, a FAMILY SIZE bag of wavy Lay’s (not baked? shocking.), a package of Red Vines, more Cheetos (…Britney?) & a container of low-fat yogurt. Seems like it might be a little too late to worry about that, yeah?

Our court reporter is a large, large gal and has leaned over approximately 74 times (it’s 8:53am). This wouldn’t be a problem, except she’s wearing a thong with “dirrrrty” in rhinestones across the top. I stare directly at it every time she moves. Is she dirrrrty? Are the panties? Is it a reminder for when they are removed? I don’t know. I NEED TO KNOW.

The group know it all (who informed us he is a professional pool and jacuzzi cleaner. of course.) has spent the last 10 minutes educating the people around him on the finer points of first time anal sex. Lube, never spit. In related news, the token hot girl (other than me, ok?) is chewing gum and making “nomnomnom” noises. It’s like sitting by a cheezburger cat.

The creeper who stares at me is staring at me again. She’s probably going to kill me before this is over.

Unnecessary Break #2 -

Our foreman is breaking down The King’s Speech. Apparently, and this is weird since I watched it pretty closely, it was about Prince Charles and Hitler. I openly stare at him, waiting to be invited into the conversation so I can tell him how fucking stupid he is. I don’t know how much weight my comment will carry, as unlike him, I do not “regularly comment on IMDb’s discussion boards”.

Another group is discussing ABC’s Castle. I would also like to join this conversation, but only because I want to share my erotic thoughts about the lead actor. However, everyone chatting is over (guesstimate) 87 years old and one is vehement in her love for the “tiny Mexican” character. Obviously, they are huge fans.

The woman who showed up in a man’s t-shirt, Juicy sweatpants and knockoff Uggs (again, it’s May in Arizona) is perched like Gollum and is trying to get the exact legal definition of bestiality from one of the attorneys. I wonder if she’s ever heard of Google. It’s actually pretty popular.

Lunch -

We had a ridiculously long lunch but the majority of us returned to the jury room to “chat it up”. How could I say no to fun times like that?

I’m amazed by how many people bring their lunches in brown paper bags. Like, their names printed in block letters with a thick black Sharpie and everything. Right now, I’m sitting (with my Starbucks frappuccino & pumpkin scone, so I obviously have a ton of room to talk) & watching these creepers and I don’t understand how some of them even survive. There’s a guy who has a full size bag of Easter peanut M&Ms. That’s his entire lunch. He brought it in a brown paper bag. With his name on it. It was stapled closed. It was in his backpack all morning. The level of security those M&Ms were placed under is amazing to me. We’re not even under that much security. And we’re people. The foreman has a freezer bag full of barbecued chicken wings. What makes a person think it’s a good idea to bring a bag of burned meat to gnaw on like a rabid badger in front of a room full of strangers? Because it’s not. It’s just… not.

Unnecessary Break #3 -

The oldest woman in our group noticed me on my “internet phone” and started screeching very loudly about perverts. Now, I did not know this, but it turns out, unless you have children, camera phones are used exclusively to take covert vagina photos and videos under the doors of restrooms. You are also in danger if you try underwear on in any department store. Camera phone perverts are hiding behind two way mirrors taking videos of your bare breasts and masturbating AT THE SAME TIME. Free advice: How to stay safe? Try on bras and panties over the ones you wore to the store. Preferably over your clothes.

I’m going back in tomorrow.

If Jesus doesn’t come back on May 21st to get me out of this, I’m gonna be so pissed.

My Jury Hell: Part Two – The Quotes

ShenaniganJenn — Sat, 07 May 2011 04:14:47 +0000

Because it’s going to take me a while to decipher my rage-filled scribbles, I’m posting some of the best quotes from today’s session.

Once again, I’m not posting any case information, these are all creeper comments overheard during breaks and at lunch.

I would give background, but I think they’re even better without it…

1. “No, my hair grows like this. Like a beautiful mushroom.”

2. “It was my most funnest gun. Even more than an AK-47. My wife wanted me to get rid of it, but I told her it was it or a samurai sword. I think you know what she chose.”

3. “No, it’s pure protein. I’ve heard it’s good for your hair, but I don’t know. What do you do with it? Use it like a leave in conditioner?”

4. “Can I ask you a question about your panties?”

5. “I’ve nearly perfected my crust. It’s not good for pizza or pie, and it’s too sour to eat plain, but I’m on to something.”

6. “At 39, she got a boob job and became a flight attendant. That’s a professional whore. A professional whore in the sky.”

My Jury Hell: Part One

ShenaniganJenn — Wed, 04 May 2011 04:02:47 +0000

I’m not great with people. What I mean is, I hate people. I hate them so much. I’m currently impaneled on a jury, so this is obviously an issue. I can’t give many details, as I’ve been told I’ll be arrested, sent directly to jail and slapped right on my whore mouth if I say a word about anything.

I wouldn’t make it very long in prison (without a sword, a double-barreled shotgun, at least two sets of nunchucks, a badass street gang, precision tweezers, great shampoo and lots of alcohol. maybe some meth. not for me. to sell for cash to buy treats in the prison commissary.), so I’m keeping my mouth shut.

ABOUT CASES. But everything else? I’m all over that. I won’t use names or any obviously identifying details, but I will add enough details so you can share in my pain. AND THERE IS SO MUCH PAIN.

I swear to all things good and holy, these people have been sent here to kill my spirit. And y’all know how beautiful and pure ~that~ is.

To begin, our two forepeople are powertripping hard. Remember, this is not a Tom Cruise movie. At no point will Jack Nicholson break through any of our many, many plywood doors to ask our advice on a celebrity mass axe murder case (although that would be pretty neat). We’re talking about, like, cockfighting and real life The Fast & The Furious cases. The job of the forepeople is to keep track of vacation requests. On a legal pad. They share a ruler to keep it neat. A wooden ruler. With the metal strip removed because it could be used as a weapon. This morning, one of them mentioned his travel coffee mug was empty. Two people jumped up to refill it. I was horrified.

We also, OF COURSE, have the class know it all. Anything any of us has a question about, he has the answer to, including, but not limited to, the approximate cost of the flowers at the royal wedding, DUI laws in Canada, Celine Dion’s career now that she’s ‘sold out’ and moved to Vegas, check fraud and the secret conspiracy behind Michael Jackson’s “death” (fyi- he’s not dead. news to me.). And that was all in the first hour.

I’m sitting next to a mouth breather who eats non-stop. I kept track and by 11:15am, he had eaten: a bag of Cheetos, a honey bun, a half liter of Dr. Pepper, a ziploc baggie of Cheerios, a bottle of carbonated iced tea (?!?), a bag of coconut M&Ms and a Fiber One bar. THAT IS TOO MUCH FOOD, OK?

There’s also a creeper who stares at me all day long (I’ve tried to talk to her, but she apparently prefers the monkey in the zoo approach. I do not.)

I’ve decided to make this a series. One, it will keep me blogging on a regular basis and two, I’m not going to give you all my goodies at one time. So next time? You get to meet the little lady who told half the group she would not be wearing shoes in the jury room and if anyone had a problem with it, THEY COULD CALL HER PROCTOLOGIST.

Yup.

Welcome to my world.

How Borders Gave Me Polio

ShenaniganJenn — Tue, 19 Apr 2011 03:46:39 +0000

As many of my Twitter pals know, I’ve spent a shocking amount of time and money at the Borders store closing sales. I like to think of myself as a normal, rational person with above average taste in reading material, however at 90% off? I bought Shannen Doherty’s book. Brenda Walsh wrote a book called Badass and not only did I buy it willingly, but I actually caused a distraction so I could take it out of someone else’s basket. Discount book shopper Jennifer is not a proud woman. (She was buying Sarah Palin’s book, too, ok? I am not in the wrong here.)

Last Friday, I stopped by my local store to scout it out for the weekend’s 4 books for $5 sale. I cannot properly convey in words how exciting this is for me. Or how bitter I will be, possibly for the rest of my life, any time I have to pay more than $1.25 for a just-released hardcover. I’ve already started studying up on the fine art of cat burglary OUT OF A BOOK I GOT FOR ONE DOLLAR AND TWENTY FIVE CENTS.

I had squatted down (or for you kids, dropped it like I was hot, which side note – I was. Just because you are in bankruptcy, doesn’t mean you can’t use the air conditioner, Borders.) in the Biography section and was making the very crucial decision of where to hide Tim Gunn’s guide to fashion so no one could buy it out from under me (I went with Christian literature. TOTALLY worked.), when a hand smacked me on the head. I look up, ready to leap, cheetah-like into a full-fledged physical altercation, when… oh, hello.

A man.

Although he didn’t apologize (huh), we launched into an adorable banter about Paulo Coelho and Twitter. After a few minutes, he said we should grab a coffee, but then got a call on his cell.

While he discussed workout options available to a new client, I applied lipgloss and adjusted my bosom. After he ended the call, he apologized & mentioned he was a personal trainer.

“Hey! We should work out! What are you doing next Saturday?”

Wait. What? What just happened?

I wanted coffee. Maybe a scone. Or a cake pop that I could eat ~erotically~.

I did not want to work out. No.

“Sure! Fun!”

No! Jennifer! No! Shut up!

“Ok, great! I work with the P90X system. Are you familiar?”

“Of course!”

What the fuck is P90X?

“Yeah, it’s so empowering, ya know?”

“Oh, I do! I absolutely know what you mean.”

Ok, work this out, Jennifer. P90X. P… P… it’s empowering. P… ussy? Pussy control? There’s no ‘X’ in control! That doesn’t matter! Look at The X Factor! That doesn’t mean anything! It totally stands for Pussy 90 Control! What’s the 90? 90%? 10% wild pussy? That seems logical. It’s a good balance. Fuck, this is so awesome. He’s ripped, so it must be some sort of unisex fitness sexy workout. Called Pussy 90 Control. Yes! THIS MAKES SO MUCH SENSE! We’re going to get married and have little babies and those babies are going to be born all ripped because of Pussy Control! Yes, I know what I did there!

We make plans to meet up on Saturday at 7:00am (this is early, yes, but this is going to CHANGE MY LIFE!).

This is going to be SO. GREAT.

I went home and Googled P90X, just to make sure I was on point.

I now have 5 days to catch polio.

Wish me luck.

I Want A Massage, That’s It. I PROMISE.

ShenaniganJenn — Wed, 15 Sep 2010 03:52:32 +0000

I went to Massage Envy this weekend. For a massage. Only a massage. Not any sort of manual stimulation and/or release. I NEED TO MAKE THIS VERY CLEAR BECAUSE SOMETHING WENT HORRIBLY WRONG AND ALTHOUGH I AM NOT ~NOT~ INVITED BACK, I SHAN’T BE VISITING AGAIN.

Everything started out totally normal. There was Enya. There were candles. There was that super creepy incense that smells like hot, rotten cat wiener. I noticed Tiffani didn’t ask me what type of massage I wanted, which I thought was kind of odd, but ok, whatever. There’s a reason she’s wearing a beautiful smock and I’m laying there in my panties: she knows her art.

So, there’s rubbing. Rub, rub, rub. Happy, happy, happy. She asks me about my plans for the weekend and how she’s going to see a movie that was released approximately 8 months ago and that I should check it out. I was in the middle of explaining that it has been many, many years since I’ve visited a dollar theater, so no, when she… yanks my fucking hair. Like, as hard as she can. Head right off the table. That, of course, shut me up. What happened? Did she snag it in her Swatch watch? Was there a lose hair and she was trying to remove it? I did not know. I did know I. WAS. TERRIFIED. I stayed quiet for a minute, thinking she would, I don’t know, die, maybe. She did not. The normal massage continued for a few minutes. Me in silence, Tiffani rambling on about “eyebrow threading and why can’t they do it on your public hair? I bet it wouldn’t hurt too bad. It doesn’t really hurt too bad on your eyebrows…” and YANK. What the fuck? What is going on back there? My eyes started watering. Do I protect myself? Do I protect my vagina? WHY IS SHE TALKING ABOUT MY VAGINA? Be cool, stay cool. Nothing weird is going on. Think about anything else. Do not cry. Don’t cry. No crying. Yank! Yankyankyank!

“Ok, hi. What are you doing? Why are you pulling my hair?”

“I’m releasing endorphins.”

“Right. Ok. It’s sort of hurting me. Because it’s attached to my head. Where my brain is. And you are making my brain sad. So….”

“I’m. Releasing. En. Dor. Phin. Sssss.”

“But. Ok, isn’t a massage supposed to relax you? Not, you know, get me all hopped up?”

“I went to school for this, so I think I know what to do.”

“Okay… (yes, I say “ok” a lot when I’m nervous) maybe you could just not pull my hair? It would be one thing if we were sexing it up, you know what I mean, but this is a massage, so….”

In hindsight, yes, I know this was not the right thing to say. But I did not burn her with a candle or a blow torch or flames shooting directly from my vagina, but from the way she reacted, you would have certainly thought I did.

However. The rest of my massage? Totally silent.

Other than my manic tip calculation whispering.

And tip I did. So, so much tipping. SO MUCH.

Stop Looking At Me, Food!

ShenaniganJenn — Thu, 09 Sep 2010 03:58:28 +0000

I have approximately 174 different email addresses. Like 165 of them are for dick scouting. I DON’T FUCKING JUDGE YOU.

So, today I was clearing out an inbox on my MSN (again, stop judging) account when I noticed a message with the subject line, “Dirty Dining: Don’t Become A Victim”.

What could this be?? Spam? Probably. Porn? Maybe. Fetish porn? FINGERS CROSSED.

But… what if it wasn’t?

I couldn’t take the chance. I eat out a lot and I don’t need some place getting busted for filthy carrots and me not know about it. I opened it. This is what it said…..

“Rats falling out of the ceiling, a deep-fried mouse found in a bucket of chicken, chewing gum discovered in a taco. It seems everyone has a tale of something revolting that has happened at a restaurant. It’s enough to make you rethink ever eating out again. But considering that about three-quarters of Americans eat at least one meal out a week, it’s unlikely that you’ll never visit a restaurant again. Here’s what you can do to reduce the likelihood that you find a cockroach in your next burger.”

What? Fucking what what? WHERE ARE THESE PEOPLE EATING? “Everyone” has one of these “tales”?!? No. No, they do not. I don’t. How do I know? Because I would have to be committed to an institution for the rest of my life after pleading insanity for burning the restaurant to the ground if I ever FOUND A DEEP FRIED FUCKING MOUSE IN A BUCKET OF CHICKEN.

My dog is the size of a large rat. I would notice if he were, I don’t know, baked in the middle of a pot pie.

I am never eating again.

(That is a lie. I’m eating crackers right this second. But so help Nabisco if I see an actual chicken head looking back at me from my Chicken in a Biskits.)

Now it’s your turn. Make me feel better. I want your gross food stories! I know you guys are out there reading… I check my little blog numbers obsessively and I see you. I SEE YOU! So tell me: what sketchy stuff have you found in your food?

Working An Angle

ShenaniganJenn — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 04:17:33 +0000

I had a request to write a blog on how to be a slut. How… to be… a slut. I’m not entirely sure I should be complimented by this request, but I like to think of myself as a Sex Yoda. I know everything about hardcore boning. Including, but not limited to, romantic sex terminology.

However, in my quest to not sound like a total and complete whore, I’ve decided to tell you all a story.

A story about… how I’m a total and complete whore. Fuck it. I tried.

I have this friend. I’ll call this friend John. Yes, I know I’m writing about whoring it up and I’m calling my male friend “John”. THIS IS WHY I AM AN INCREDIBLY WITTY BLOG WRITER WITH TENS OF TENS OF READERS AND YOU ARE NOT. So this John. He and I have known each other for a few years. He’s not really a friend with benefits, because I don’t really like him as a person. He’s not a booty call, because I would never be rude enough to call someone in the middle of the night for sex. How exactly does that work, anyway? Do you just call someone and say, “let’s fuck”? Does the caller, I don’t know, at least stop and pick up a Wendy’s Frosty for the callee? It would seem polite to bring something. And Frostys are fucking delicious. That leaves, I suppose, a dude I have awesome, meaningless sex with, whenever we’re interested in it and not busy, uh, boning other people.

The best thing about this set up is that we are both able to get creative (oh, I think y’all know what I’m talking about), without any of the creepy awkwardness of “you didn’t want to sleep over, did you?” or “maybe you could warn a girl before you try to put that there”. It’s pretty fantastic to wave a ripped out page from Cosmo and say, “we’re doing this” and not have to talk about feelings or our day at the office beforehand. Not that there isn’t a time and a place for that; I’m not anti-relationship by any means, but sometimes you just need to not think.

Maybe that’s being a slut, maybe that’s being a whore, maybe that’s just being an adult woman who knows what she needs.

And, so, dear Rory, what does this all mean for you? It means you don’t get to be a slut. Yet. At least not a slutty slut-slut. You get to stay a lovely young girl and one day you’re going to meet a wonderful young man and, once he flies to the US and I approve of him, you will get married and get to slut it up alllllll the time. And it will be awesome.

Versus

ShenaniganJenn — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 06:32:53 +0000

I’ve had a lot of people ask me about the differences between Real Life Jennifer and online ShenaniganJenn, especially the people who don’t know about my Twitter account.

There aren’t a whole lot of ways to explain my… generous usage of cunt and fuck and deep, deep hatred of John Mayer while still ~keeping it classy~. I like to think they are both equally me, but if that’s really the case… if that’s even possible, I don’t know.

Jennifer? She can be a total. fucking. downer. (yeah, read a couple of my emo posts. gah.) ShenaniganJenn? Would you want to hang out with that bitch? YES, YOU WOULD. DON’T ACT LIKE YOU WOULDN’T, LIAR.

Jennifer? She’s trying to get a group of women at the office to dress as Disney Princesses for Halloween. ShenaniganJenn? Doesn’t even LOOK at a costume unless it’s a “Sexy ____”. She knows Halloween is code for ~dress like a whore~ and is totally fine with it.

Jennifer? If she sees you are having a bad day, she will tell you she’ll say a prayer for you. ShenaniganJenn? You’re having a bad day, huh? She’ll pray you get hit by a bus. And if you fuck up her commute with your splatter? Oh, man.

So, I found these two videos. I’ve decided they pretty much totally sum up my two sides. If one of you could figure out a way to combine the two? SWEET CRACKERS. I’ll probably give you an awesome beej.

I mean, ShenaniganJenn will. Jennifer is probably busy praying for your immortal soul or something.

Jennifer

(just be glad I’m not making y’all watch the creepy version with a dancing ’80′s Bruce Willis)

ShenaniganJenn

(they can open doors, you guys!)

“Sore In The Vicinity Of My Ass”

ShenaniganJenn — Sat, 28 Aug 2010 04:23:37 +0000

I’m probably going to be spending a lot of time writing about Target. Because I love Target. If you aren’t ok with that, you should probably leave now. You should leave this blog and then go kill yourself because you have no soul.

Still here? Cool.

I believe most problems can be solved by a trip to Target. You’re out of Downy? Go to Target. You must know exactly who John Mayer is boning this week and Google is acting up? Go to Target, buy In Touch. (I, of course, know what John Mayer is up to at all times, but that is just because he’s my archnemesis. more on this later.) Need a last minute gift? No, fuck you. It is not that easy. You are a bad person. You don’t buy gifts last minute, you dick.

Anyway, I stopped by Target after work this evening to buy a new shower liner. I like to change them once a month. I need them to be crystal clear so killers hiding in my linen closet can’t sneak up on me when I am naked and vulnerable and adorable. While roaming the aisles, noticed that people seemed to be saying oddly awesome things. Maybe it was because I left my cell phone in the car for once, maybe it was because I am a nosy, nosy bitch, I started listening in on other people’s conversations. Yes, I have shame, just not about things like this. IF PEOPLE DIDN’T WANT YOU TO BE LISTENING TO THEIR CONVERSATIONS, THEY SHOULD NOT BE TALKING IN PUBLIC. After the third or fourth “why am I not tweeting this?!”, I shuffled over to the school supplies, grabbed a notebook (maybe I paid for it, maybe I used it and tore out a page and put it back when I was done. Cool out, Target Police!) and walked around until I found my future murderer.

This is what I do for you people.

And so, I present you with…

”Overheard At Target On A Friday”

Two teenage girls, very Miley Cyrus-y, in the aforementioned school supply section:
“No, it was before werewolves came into being. It’s ~science~, Jessica.”

Mid-30′s female on cell phone in kitchen electrics:
“Juicing vegetables is, I don’t know, against natural selection. I can get on board with the fruits, but zucchini? I don’t think it even makes juice. Like eggplant. Oh! Quesadilla maker!”

Mid-20′s couple with a registry gun:
“I don’t think you can scan gift cards.”
“Why not? If we got gift cards, we could buy Tide and toilet paper and stuff we actually need.”
“No, it’s tacky. You know people will give cash.”
“Would you… allow… me to scan… toilet paper?”

Very pretty female, late teens to early 20′s at the pharmacy counter:
“No, it’s sore in the vicinity of my ass. Like, the surrounding area.”

Two females, early twenties, wildly unattractive baby approx. 1 year:
“It’s pretty much unisex, right? Boys can wear flowers. Like in Hawaii.”
“Bitch, no. Not roses.”

Super suspicious male, mid-40s playing with the demo PS3 and talking, very calmly, on a bluetooth (I fucking hope):
“I could kill you and no one would ever know, you know.”

And with that, I paid for my clear-because-of-dudes-like-this shower liner and left.

I have, like, 27 days before he kills me through a grubby liner.

Pray for me.