Viva la resistance!

I know it's been a while since I've been able to post an article. Things are getting pretty dangerous around here. In my determination to bring to light the ugly truth about these wretched monster, I have put not only myself but the very people I love the most in mortal peril.

I know this is risky, but there is no way I can stop my efforts now. I won't be silenced. I won't be intimidated or threatened. The world has to know the truth, whatever the cost. This thing is way bigger than me and my own personal safety. It's even more important than the lives of my friends and family. If I let them subdue me and this blog, I may as well lay down and die. I actually might be dead by the time you read this. If I am, you know full well what has happened. Don't be fooled by the giraffe sympathizer media.

So far, several attempts have been made on my life. I'm finding myself in a steadily escalating war that I never asked for. All I wanted to do was bring the truth to light, to save even one person from the horrific fate that has befallen so many victims of these terrifying and ruthless predators. Now I'm a target. Last I heard, there's a bounty on my head. As of Monday, it was hovering in the area of one hundred thousand dollars. Somebody sure wants to keep me from spreading this word.

Giraffes follow me everywhere I go now. To the store, to the mall. I spotted the above pictured giraffe tailing me at Downtown Disney. They lurk around the building I work in. I've even seen them around my daughter's school. I've been involved in several near-miss traffic situations. Last weekend, I picked up my glass of water to discover it had the faintest odor of almonds, a sure sign of cyanide contamination. I've been sticking with bottled ever since.

I will continue to shout the truth from the rooftops, or in obscure corners of the internet. I will do whatever it takes to keep this anti-giraffe sentiment alive. You can do your part. Tell your friends, tell your family. tell total strangers. They can't silence all of us. And as for me? Well, if I never post another blog, you know that the giraffes have won.

Mormon giraffes in the Salt Lake City airport

On our way home from Reno this summer, we had a layover in Utah. I've never been to Utah before, and I was a little bit excited, even though we'd just be hanging out in the airport. A new place is always cool to check out, and to me, the air always feels different from place to place.

Naturally, our departing gate was about 14 miles away from where we landed. We had to haul our cookies all the way to the other side of the airport, which was freaking ginormous. We only had about an hour and fifteen minutes to get to our departure gate, and I was really starting to worry if we'd make it.

My husband was in the lead. He rounded a corner up ahead, and I hurried so as not to lose sight of him. The last thing I needed was to be lost and wandering by myself through the Salt Lake City airport, crying like an abandoned toddler at the grocery store.

BAM! I ran full speed into some dude, and we were both knocked off of our feet. My purse hit the ground, spilling its contents all over, and this poor guy I'd run down had dropped a whole sheaf of papers, scattering them. "I'm so sorry!" I cried, and immediately began to gather up his papers.

He smiled gratefully and stood, straightening his ball cap and brushing himself off. It took me a moment to realize how tall he was. I couldn't quite make out his eyes behind his glasses. He reached for the stack of papers I had gathered for him. "Have you heard the word of Jehovah?" He asked me in a deep and somehow disturbing voice. Dude sounded like he gargled this morning with broken glass. I stared at his hand and noticed the distinctive spotted fur running up his arm.

"N..no," I sputtered, feeling a chill that seemed to seep into the very marrow of my bones. I was pretty sure this nice man, with glasses and a baseball cap and a big stack of papers, might actually be a giraffe in disguise.

He handed me a paper of the top of the stack. I glanced at it. Watchtower magazine? As in the same Watchtower magazine the nomadic crazies leave in our laundry room every week? I was equipped to deal with vicious, hungry giraffes, but Mormons? Mormon giraffes? Nobody's trained me for this. And furthermore, I would have been willing to bet cash money that giraffes pledged their faith to Scientology. Huh. I looked around wildly, hoping for any chance of escape. There was nothing.

My husband came rushing back to me. "We're going to miss our flight. Come on!" He sounded really annoyed as he grabbed my hand. We sprinted for our gate. I turned around and saw the giraffe begin to run after us. It was too late, we were too slow. It was going to get us.

We were completely winded by the time we got to the ticket counter. The airline rep scanned our tickets and warned us to run, or the plane was going to leave without us.

I heard the distinct sounds of a scuffle behind us. "Sir! You can't go in there without a ticket!" I turned around just in time to see three airport cops wrestling the giant, angry beast to the ground. It snarled and snapped at them as they struggled to get its flailing hooves cuffed behind its back. I smiled in spite of myself as I settled into my window seat while my husband wrestled our carry-ons into the miniscule space available in the overhead compartment.

Another close call, I reflected as the plane took off. My run-ins with these nasty monsters seemed to be growing exponentially. My smile slowly faded as I realized that statistically, it was only a matter of time before I became a delicious, satisfying meal. How many more times would I get lucky?

Giraffes - 0, Jennifer - 5

Seriously, even my calendar isn't safe?

Friday, August 20th, the year of our lord two thousand and ten. I got out of bed much as I do every morning, eyes mostly closed, and stumbled into the bathroom. I washed my face and brushed my teeth and emerged to get dressed and go running. There was nothing at all to indicate that this wouldn't be just another ordinary morning, no feeling of impending doom in the air, nothing.

As I do every morning, I ripped yesterday's page off of my cute-of-the-day calendar. My heart thudded in my chest and lodged itself somewhere in the area of my throat when I saw the horrible gargantuan beast pictured above leering out at me.

I backed away, moving slowly and deliberately as not to startle it or provoke an attack. I took my eyes off of it for a moment and scanned the room looking for something, anything I could use as a weapon to defend myself and my home. There were a lot of books and clothes and shoes, but not much else. I could brain it with a copy of Harry Potter or bludgeon it with a high heel. Great. My husband snored delicately, mercifully unaware that he was probably about to wake up to find his wife in 42 pieces scattered around the bedroom.

The giraffe advanced slowly, menacingly. Its razor sharp teeth dripped with thick, ropy saliva as it snarled ravenously at me. Its eyes glowed with a dull, angry scarlet light.

I backed up even more and found myself almost to the door when I saw it. A green lighter on my husband's bedside table. Neither of us are smokers, but we do like candles. Flattering boudoir lighting is a must to keep things romantic, especially after the honeymoon is over. What the hell good is a lighter going to do? You gonna light its tail on fire and hope it goes up like a Christmas tree?

My eyes moved past the nightstand to the bathroom door. I understood what I needed to do. The giraffe was still coming right at me, but slowly, like it had all the time in the world to savage my perfect, graceful body and feast on my creamy, baby soft flesh. I lunged for the lighter and then into the bathroom. I grabbed a can of my husband's Axe body spray off the countertop.

I suddenly remembered a recent exchange with my husband: I wish you'd try Old Spice bodywash instead of that Axe crap. Why smell like Spencer Pratt when you can smell like Isaiah Mustafa ? I couldn't for the life of me remember his response. Didn't matter, what really mattered was that there was a perfectly good can of flammable aerosol within my reach, whereas a bottle of Old Spice body wash, while tantalizingly masculine, probably wouldn't get the job done.

The giraffe, sensing its impending immolation, revved up its evil laser horns. I could see the electricity crackling between them. I knew it was ramping up to make its move. Too late, bastard giraffe.

I flicked the lighter. The flame, so tiny at first, became a deadly weapon as I sprayed the Axe body spray into it. I wielded my makeshift flamethrower proudly, and for a moment I was just as savage as the insidious monster in front of me. Impressively, the giraffe did, indeed go up like a Christmas tree, with a rather satisfying whooshing noise that warmed my heart. When the flames died down, only ashes remained. Exhausted yet triumphant, I set about cleaning up the disgusting layer of giraffe ash all over our bedroom before my husband woke up.

Try harder next time, bastard giraffe. I'll be ready for you.

Giraffes - 0, Jennifer - 4

Giraffes at McDonald's, or, how did they fit that giant fiend into my Happy Meal?

The actual giraffe I found in my Happy Meal.

As much as I hate to admit it, I've been known to enjoy McDonald's from time to time. It's the french fries. They call to me, voices full of salty, delicious promise. It's nearly impossible to resist their siren song, but I do my best to limit myself to a Happy Meal every now and then. (Yes, I am fully aware of how fattening and gross McDonald's food really is. No, I haven't watched Super Size me. No, I don't ever intend to. And no, I don't want to know what's really in hot dogs, either. Stop e-mailing me.)

My favorite thing about Happy Meals, besides the fries, are the toys. I don't collect them or anything, but I totally unwrap them and play with them while I eat. It soothes my soul.

My most recent McDonald's experience started out like any other. I drove through, they got my order right on the third try and my change was (mostly) correct, give or take two bucks. All seemed well until I got home.

I tore into the plastic wrapper on my toy, all psyched to to play while I savored my McNuggets and fries. Abruptly, I was knocked off of my adorable, perfectly pedicured feet by the giant fiend pictured above. How the hell did they fit that enormous beast into such a tiny box? I mused. It was incredible, but there wasn't any time to contemplate further. I had a freaking giraffe running amok in my living room.

I had to find a way to lure it back into its tiny plastic wrapping and discard it. Stunningly, the ravenous monster paid me no mind. I deduced it must be a baby giraffe, abandoned or separated from its mother before she could teach it how to properly hunt. That or all the time spent wrapped in plastic must have somehow damaged its brain. Either way, luck was on my side as it ran back and forth across the room, slamming into first one wall, then the other.

Most people don't know this, but in addition to tasty, bloody, raw flesh, giraffes also love to eat cookies. More specifically, sugar cookies with M&M's. They find them absolutely irresistible. Know who else loves these toothsome treats? My husband. Which means we always have some on hand.

I rushed into the kitchen as the crazed brute smashed our couch, then careened into the Ikea shelving unit that had taken my husband and brother in law the better part of a week, and 37 cases of beer to assemble. As soon as I opened the cookie jar, the giraffe stopped, nostrils flaring. It turned towards me and began  advancing slowly, following the intoxicating scent of sugar cookies with delicious chocolate bits. I dropped the cookie at my feet and the giraffe bent its creepy long neck and began to eat.

Careful not to distract it, I threw the plastic wrapping back over its head and quickly taped up the bag it had come in. Stupid thing didn't even struggle, it just went on placidly chewing on the sweet morsel. By this time I was completely ravenous. I ate the crap out of those McNuggets and fries, savoring their fatty deliciousness while puzzling over how to discard said giraffe.

Glancing out the window, inspiration struck as I saw the neighbor's kid out riding her tricycle while her mom looked on. I ran outside. "Here," I said, handing her the plastic wrapped giraffe. "I got this in my Happy Meal and I don't have any use for toys."

Both her and her mother beamed at me as I walked away, whistling.

Be on the look out...for giraffes

Here thar be giraffes.

I want to start by saying I normally use pictures I have taken myself for these articles. However,I do have eyes and ears all over the northern hemisphere. I receive hundreds of pictures each and every day from concerned citizens, sharing their encounters and helping me on my mission to make the truth known. Once in a while, somebody will send me evidence that is so startling, so terrifying, and so undeniable that it absolutely has to be discussed.

Study the above photograph closely. My dear friend Ron, who resides in New York City, sent this to me late last night. This picture was taken on the sidewalk in front of his apartment. To the casual observer, it would appear to just be a dirty, discarded splotch of gum on the sidewalk. On closer inspection, it is most obviously a warning of giraffe activity in the vicinity.

Should you see a mark like this anywhere you happen to be, you need to be very aware that you may be in real danger. A small faction of enlightened individuals, who operate in the utmost secrecy, have been using these subtle yet unmistakable warnings as a way of alerting those in the know that giraffes have been spotted nearby.

The best thing to do in a situation where you see one of these symbols is to run, don't walk to safety. Your very life may depend on it. If you do choose to ignore the warning that a small band of brave rebels has nobly risked their lives to post, you'll probably be eaten. And while I do so love being right, especially when it means somebody else is wrong, I'd still hate to see anybody eaten if it can be avoided.

Giraffes at the OC Fair, or, God is definitely pissed off about the fried butter.

The Orange County Fair descends upon Costa Mesa for 23 days every summer. For over one hundred years, millions of people have flocked to the fairgrounds to eat ridiculous fried food, ride the crazy, rickety rides, and watch the pig races. The OC Fair is actually the 9th largest fair in the United States, and attendance has grown steadily with each passing year.

Annually, the Heart Attack Cafe unveils some new deep fried abomination guaranteed to tempt the most deviant souls. 2010 was no exception. When I first heard the rumors of deep fried butter, I felt sick to my stomach. It sounded absolutely abhorrent. What kind of person would even think of such a thing? Oh, the humanity!

My husband and I decided to hit the fair one sultry August evening for a nice, quiet date night. We had purchased tickets to go see one of my childhood favorites, Weird Al Yankovich. I was really looking forward to a fun, uneventful night under the stars. But that cruel mistress fate had other plans for me, as she so often does.

One of the first things I noticed at the fair was the people. All around me, people were stuffing their faces with things they normally wouldn't even consider edible. The air itself smelled like it had been dipped in batter, wrapped in bacon, and fried. I was both revolted and enticed at the same time. We set out to find some dinner before the show, preferably something that wouldn't fill me with weeks of self loathing.

As we turned down the second stretch of food stands, I saw them. There, not 30 feet away from me, stood a small group of tall men holding handwritten signs with such charming slogans as, "Repent!" and "God hates fried foods!" and "Death to fats!"  They appeared to be congregating right across from the Heart Attack Cafe. I looked at my husband to see if he noticed these freaks, but his attention was elsewhere.

Feeling unsettled, I excused myself to run to the ladies room. Pushing my way through the throngs of sweaty people, all happily chomping on their deep fried Mars bars and twinkies, the air was redolent with anticipation. Something was definitely going to happen...but what?

As if on some cue, several tall men in the crowd stepped forward, including the creepy guys with their creepy signs. In unison, they all removed their sunglasses, then their baseball caps, to reveal those hauntingly long lashes and deadly laser horns. There were giraffes all around me. The crowd was surrounded by about 19 of the fiercest predators on the planet. My first instinct was to run away and hide somewhere, but my feet were definitely not connecting with my brain. I couldn't move a muscle, I just watched, helpless, as the scene unfolded before my disbelieving eyes.

The giraffe nearest me leaned down and, in a movement almost too quick for me to follow, tore the throat out of a man not 3 feet from me. I watched in mute horror as his half eaten deep fried Oreo fell to the ground. Moments later, a woman's head fell next to it. Her mouth was still full. Everywhere I looked, my eyes befell some fresh horror. It was like watching Saving Private Ryan all over again, without the delicious buttered popcorn.

It ended in moments, although to me, it felt like two lifetimes. 46 people were ripped to pieces in less time than it took to eat a whole piece of fried cheesecake. The ground was slick with blood and unidentifiable body parts, and as quickly as they had arrived, the giraffes were gone.

Several police officers arrived on the scene first, followed by dozens of men in suits and sunglasses. They cordoned off the area and began to herd eyewitnesses into big, white vans nearby. I knew if they caught me, I wouldn't be seeing Weird Al that night or any other. I took advantage of the chaos around me and slipped away like a ninja, catching up to my husband outside the Australian Battered Potato stand. He looked at me, questioning, "Want to try these? I know how you love potatoes."

I grabbed his hand and shook my head. "Let's go find some chocolate dipped strawberries."

I may never know why I was spared, but I do have a theory. Something about the fried foods seemed to have roused the giraffes to a frenzy. I think maybe they had been trained to seek out and destroy the ingestors of any and all fried monstrosities, but I'll be damned if I can even speculate as to what end. Looking back, I can't help but feel I was spared for a reason, a purpose that will some day make itself known to me.

Giraffes - 0, Jennifer - 3.

5 things the government doesn't want you to know about giraffes.

This is one of the only photographs in existence of the winged giraffe. Long assumed by many to be a legend, others have posited that it is the result of government experimentation.

Here is something that you might not know: the United States government doesn't want you to know the truth about giraffes.

In my research for this story, I have come across some startling and frankly rather frightening information that suggests that anybody who has tried to educate the general public about giraffes and their intentions has met a bad end. Some have gone missing. Some have found themselves charged with outrageous crimes in scandals that effectively discredit them. Some have had "accidents".

I do not scare easily. OK, I scare pretty easily, especially when spiders or clowns are involved, but that's besides the point. I am willing to risk my personal safety and that of my family, to bring you the truth about these vicious vertebrates. If this saves even one person from falling victim to these wretched beasts, it will have all been worth it.

1. Giraffes are masters of disguise.

But Jennifer, you may ask, how on earth can an animal that is 6 feet tall at birth possibly disguise itself? Well, you would be surprised what a fedora, pair of sunglasses, and a trenchcoat can do. Suddenly the fearsome giraffe becomes a tall guy named Geoffrey. Giraffes are more effective at changing their look than any other animal on the planet. Because they lack any real natural camoflauge, over the years giraffes have had to find newer and better ways to stay hidden while they stalk their unsuspecting human prey. A scarf and snowcap can do remarkable things.

So how can you identify your enemy if it so brazenly disguises itself and walks among us like it has a right to? There's no foolproof way. Virtually any tall person could be a hungry giraffe in disguise. The best thing to do is to keep your eyes open, and be wary of tall people, especially those wearing hats and scarves.

2. Giraffes are more venomous than blue ringed octopi, poison dart frogs, and box jellyfish combined.

It's true. As of right now, there is no antidote for giraffe venom. Death comes within seconds of exposure, and it is a horrible way to go. Basically, you begin to hemmorhage so hard that blood shoots from every orifice on your body like a freaking geyser. It even comes out of your pores, it's pretty gross.

The U.S. government has been experimenting with giraffe venom in a multitude of black ops experiments. They want to use it as a bio-weapon. Fortunately for us, giraffe venom is so unstable it breaks down in a matter of minutes once it is ejected from their fangs. Giraffes will not use their venom every time they strike, and once the toxin is released, they die pretty fast. Not as fast as you will if they poison you, but still relatively quick.

God help us all if the government ever figures out a way to prolong the lifespan of this lethal poison.

3. There really are winged giraffes.

See the picture above if you want proof. Plenty of government scientists have no qualms about playing Frankenstein. The winged giraffe is one of their few triumphs. What's better than a lethal killing machine? One that flies.

4. Giraffes killed the dinosaurs.

Forget this meteor story. Several fossilized remains of assorted dinosaurs (including but not limited to Tyrannosaurus Rex, brachiosaurs, and triceratops) show evidence of giraffe attacks. Markings on the bones have been matched to the giraffe's distinctively shaped teeth.

In 1982, renowned paleontologist Mitchell Sajor published several papers theorizing that giraffes essentially ate dinosaurs into extinction. He was subsequently the center of a scandal involving several teenage acrobats, a Russian prima ballerina, and a hijacked shipment of Chiquita bananas. His wife left him and took his children, and he took his own life in late 1983. His papers have since vanished, and the theory is virtually unknown at this point in time.

5. Giraffes can shoot laser beams out of their horns.

Yes, I know they're not really horns. The horny looking stumps on a giraffe's head are actually called ossicones. For years, scientists have stated that they don't really have a purpose. That, my friends, is exactly what the government wants you to believe, because the truth is absolutely chilling.

Fact is, giraffes actually shoot laser beams out of them. Little is known about when or how giraffes developed this skill. Published research on the subject is virtually nonexistent.

One of my sources (who spoke to me on the condition of utter anonymity) has confirmed that the United States military facility in the Nevada desert at Groom Lake, better known as Area 51, is actually a highly classified testing habitat. Giraffes are brought in from all over the world and given rigorous analysis. My source could not or would not divulge what exactly goes on at said facility, but it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out. The military is obviously helping giraffes to improve their aim for maximum carnage with each shot.

I know there are many who will scoff at and dismiss this article as the ramblings of an insane (although incredibly good looking) kook. That's fine. If I get through to even one man, woman, or child, then my work here will have meant something.

Airport Giraffes part 1, or, danger lurks in the airport bookstore

I hate traveling. Well, to be fair, I love going places, but I hate the process of actually getting there. For some reason, the traveling aspect of traveling just stresses me right out. Airports in particular make me feel super wonky. I find airport security to be quite intimidating, and knowing I'm about to clamber onto a giant chunk of heavy metal that will soon be miles above the safety of terra firma makes my stomach tie itself into knots.

Recently, my family and I went to Reno. We took off out of the John Wayne Airport in Orange County. With some time to kill before our flight, I decided books and beverages were neccessary to calm my jangling nerves.

We browsed the typical airport bookstore. It was filled with the typical airport bookstore goods: candy, nuts, magazines, dramamine, those awesome little neck pillows I always want but can never seem to bring myself to buy. All seemed well.

Until we went to the register to pay.

I found the monster pictured above hidden amongst a display of 3-D bookmarks. At first it seemed like we would escape his notice. My husband paid the nice lady and she bagged our items while I desperately tried not to breathe. Giraffes can smell fear as surely as any other great and fierce predator can. This one was no exception. I saw its nostrils flair as it sniffed the air. It blinked its beautiful long lashes and began to scan its surroundings, zeroing in on the delectable scent of my utter terror. I trembled as its eyes landed squarely on me.

Please, baby Jesus and Tom Cruise, I prayed. If you get me out of this alive I will devote my life to educating the masses on the very real dangers of these magnificent and ravenous beasts.

At first it seemed like the sweet baby Jesus and Tom Cruise had better things to do than listen to the prayers of one unnaturally beautiful young woman. I saw the giraffe tense its heavily muscled  haunches, preparing to leap. The lady behind the counter, unaware of the danger, slowly counted out our change. My husband put his wallet away and I began to slowly inch away from the rapacious fiend before me. I didn't dare take my eyes off of it, I knew if I did I would be dead before my gorgeous, defiled body hit the filthy airport ground.

My husband turned and walked away, heedless of the precariousness of our situation. It took him several steps before he realized I wasn't at his side. "You coming or what?" he asked me, holding out his hand to me. I squeezed my eyes shut, sure this was the end of me, and stepped toward him, turning my back on the insatiable brute.

I could almost feel its razor sharp teeth slicing into the creamy, nubile skin of my back. The sheer weight of it as it fell on me would break all of my ribs. My last seconds, I knew, would be agonizing and indisputably terrible. Maybe it would leave my perfect visage unmarked so my family could at least have the blessing of an open casket funeral, that they may gaze upon my noteworthy beauty one last time.

But the anticipated blow never came.

As we scurried out of the shop, I turned to see the giraffe strike like a cobra at the woman who had been in line behind me. It bit savagely into her throat, again and again. She didn't even have time to scream as we hurried to our gate.

Giraffes 0, Jennifer 2

That was too close.

Giraffes at Target, or, how I survived to wash another load of laundry.

My husband and I go to Target a lot. I have a love/hate relationship with the place, it's not just a black hole of my money, but it's one of the biggest timesucks ever for me. I go for toothpaste and end up spending $180.00 and 2 hours.

In our local Target, the baby stuff aisle is directly on the way to the laundry detergent. Imagine the terror I felt as I strolled through the store, innocently heading to get detergent, and then WHAM. This freaking thing just hanging on the wall. Staring at me with its blank, soulless eyes. It was obviously hungry, ravenous for the tasty taste of my young flesh. I was paralyzed, immobilized with fear and revulsion. I knew if I made one false move, I would be on the menu tonight.

What could I possibly do? It was laundry day, the clothes were piling up and we had nary a drop of laundry soap at home. Would dish soap work in the washing machine? A risky solution at best, and potentially costly in the event it didn't work out. I was in a quandary. Which was more important to me, self preservation or the clean clothing my entire family so desperately required?

I steeled my resolve. The need for fresh linens and clothing won out over my instinctive fear of becoming a snack pack for the brutal, slavering monster before me. I stared into its unfathomably malevolent eyes. It stared back, unblinking, unmoving. Was it hypnotizing me? I felt my legs go weak and knew I had to make my move. Now or never. Live or die.

I ran desperately for the household goods, ignoring the stares of shoppers around me. Why were they just standing there looking at me? Didn't they sense the danger of this fearsome predator lurking nearby? No matter, they're not my concern. It's every man for himself here in the wild aisles of Target. The law of the jungle. There is no think, only do.

And I did. My hand grasped the bottle of liquid detergent, and I clung to it like a kid at fat camp clings to an illicitly obtained cupcake. Victory was in my reach, I had attained my goal and was triumphant. I did decide to take the long way around to the registers. Better to lose some time and live to fight another day.
Giraffes 0, Jennifer 1

I may not be so lucky next time.

Jennifer, why are you so afraid of the nice giraffes?

Here's why:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C7HCIGFdBt8

I used to love giraffes. I thought they were so sweet and gentle, with their graceful necks and long, pretty eyelashes. Then my husband and I were watching some reality clip show and came across this footage of giraffes fighting each other. I was horrified. They were so vicious, so powerful. They were freaking terrifying.

I went to bed that night, and had horrible nightmares, about being trapped in a chain link enclosure, surrounded by stalky, intelligent looking giraffes. Their movements were like the velociraptors from Jurassic Park, very fast and jerky. I woke up terrified. "But Jennifer," I told myself, "Velociraptors are extinct, and Jurassic Park was just a book."

That's when it hit me. Giraffes are very real, and most definitely not extinct.

I had a few more unsettling nightmares involving giraffes after that. And suddenly I began to see a strange trend emerge. Wherever I went after that, I began to see giraffes. At the grocery store. At the mall. In the effing airport in 3 different states.

I started to take pictures and post them in an album on Facebook as I came across them. And the album has grown bigger and bigger. So I figured I could use this space as a place to share the truth about giraffes with the world. They're vicious, bloodthirsty fighting machines. They're wolves in sheeps clothing. And they're everywhere.