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.