Jennings County's Granny Punkbuster

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Jennings County's Granny Punkbuster

Well, bless your heart! If you like sharp talk, small-town tales and a little mischief, you’re in the right place. Stay awhile and listen, sugar!

From the sheriff’s antics to Twitchy McTweak’s pancake debates, there’s always a story. Blocking isn’t censorship — it’s moderation of stupidity. This page shuts down propaganda, distraction tactics, and grown adults acting like playground bullies with Wi-Fi, especially officials and their tagalongs playing word games to mislead the public. Act like an adult. Pretend decorum matters. Stick to fact

s, skip the fallacies, and leave the grade school antics at the door. If a professional peer would cringe at your behavior, don’t bring it here. This Page Blocks Bullsh*t. No Refunds. No Apologies. Try Being Useful instead of a malignance. Again, just in case.. If you’re just here to derail, deflect, or dump nonsense, take it elsewhere. Warning: Satire heavy. If you're mad, you're probably taking it too seriously, likely because you're an overly uptight public servant or just plain stupid. Probably the latter or both really. Content on this page is for entertainment purposes only unless directly stated otherwise. No authorized use, reposting, or modification of our content will ever be given. Doing so will make you liable for any legal repercussions.

11/17/2025

You gave me the attic suite in your head, bless your heart, but I can't live like this.... clean it up scrappy, before I catch a case of the nonsense.

11/10/2025

The memory still breathes like yesterday… she was the sort of woman who filled a room without trying, laugh easy, shoulders steady, the kind of eyes that made you feel understood instead of judged. But life has a way of wearing a person down grain by grain. A slow erosion no one notices until the shoreline looks different.

It began with small things. Nights where sleep wouldn’t come. Days where the sun felt too bright and conversations felt too heavy. Old hurts she never spoke of started whispering again, and the bottle, sitting quiet on a shelf.. offered the only silence she could find.

One drink to steady her thoughts.
Another to keep past regrets from climbing out of the dark.
Another to keep the pain from them from echoing.

Before long, the drink wasn’t a choice. It was an anchor she mistook for a lifeline.

She told herself nobody would care if she vanished for a while, if she hid behind a closed door, if she numbed herself just enough to make the days tolerable. But behind those doors, a war raged. The kind of war most people never see, fought with shaking hands and hollow breaths. Some nights she’d stand alone in the kitchen, gripping the counter so hard her knuckles whitened, whispering to herself that tomorrow would be different.

She wanted to stop. God, she wanted to.
But wanting and knowing how aren’t the same thing.

Her family saw the cracks before she’d admit they existed. Her husband’s voice trembled when he called her name. Her kids learned to measure her moods by the sound of ice in a glass. They loved her fiercely, even when the whiskey stole the version of her they remembered. They fought for her, argued with her, prayed for her, pulled her back from the edge more times than she ever acknowledged.

But the weight in her chest kept growing, an ache that told her she was failing everyone, even when she wasn’t. Even when they hadn’t given up. Even when they still held onto her with both hands.

What she didn’t see were the quiet ripples of her existence. The high school friends who still mentioned her fondly. The coworkers who thought of her whenever a certain song played. The folks who smiled when they remembered how she used to stop and chat. Lives she’d brushed against without realizing she left fingerprints on their memories.

None of them knew she felt like a burden.
None of them knew how loud the nights had become.
None of them knew she’d been drowning in plain sight.

When the whiskey finally won, grief rolled through the town like a cold wind. People showed up... people she hadn’t spoken to in decades. They stood around her family with eyes full of shock and sorrow, all saying the same thing in their own broken voices:

“I wish she had told someone.”
“I didn’t know she was hurting this bad.”
“She wasn’t alone… she just didn’t know it.”

That’s the part that haunts...
not the bottle,
not the mistakes,
but the truth she never believed:

She mattered.
She was loved.
Her absence carved a hole bigger than any of her fears ever suggested.

And so her story is told for the ones still fighting in the dark. The ones whose battles leave no bruises, whose pain hides behind tired smiles, whose hearts feel heavier than their bodies can carry.

The world gets loud. Life gets messy. People get busy. But you are not forgotten. Your name lives in more hearts than you realize, and your loss would hit harder than your demons would ever admit.

Reach out before the night swallows you whole.
Not because you owe anyone anything...
but because you deserve the chance to stay.

11/08/2025

WELL I NEVER! Who in the name of burnt casseroles and wayward bingo cards made this ungodly, hilarious profile?! Captain Cow-f*ck?! Lord have mercy, I nearly dropped my readers in the toilet!

At first I thought, “This here’s the work of a heathen with no proper raisin’.” But then I snorted so hard I near-summoned a ghost from my sinuses. Mercy, I ain’t laughed like that since Earl glued googly eyes on the church defibrillator.

Don’t know who you are, sugar, but you’ve got the comedic timing of a squirrel on moonshine... unhinged, and somehow divinely inspired.

Carry on, Captain.

11/03/2025

Back on September 24th, whispers carryin’ through town like smoke from a brush pile blew onto the porch.

Allegedly, the sheriff and Ian McPherson got in a fuss and it had som**hin’ to do with child cases. Ian, no longer employed afterwards... that was all she wrote. Ain't heard a peep other than more folks starting to inquire about it.

Granny’s been watchin’ from her perch, sharp-eyed and stone still, like a hawk on a fence post waitin’ for that answer to twitch.

11/02/2025

Well now, grab a sweet tea and settle in while I spin y’all a yarn ‘bout the curious case of Clueless D. Loudnwrong, a man as slick-tongued and wrong-headed as a goose in a hailstorm.

This whole rigmarole kicked off in the hollers of Jennings County, where folks got their britches in a bunch ‘cause a local badge-wearer done allegedly siphoned off a scooch over $800 from the taxpayer's piggy bank. Now, that ain’t exactly Fort Knox, but it sure got tongues waggin’.

Enter Clueless D., hollerin’ from the holler, bangin’ pots and pans about how this fella “worked for free for years,” and we oughta be kissin’ his boots instead of callin’ the law. Said it wasn’t nothin’ more than pocket lint, and y’all were makin’ it out like he’d looted the town Christmas fund.

Well now, that stirred up Rantlin’ Keyboardton, who types like a possum on pixie sticks and don’t need punctuation to make his point. He came barrelin’ in with a verbal sledgehammer, shoutin’ ‘bout government, elected officials and how tax dollars ain’t some kind of Chuck E. Cheese tokens. Said Clueless defendin’ that cop was like sayin’ a fella who burns your barn down deserves a medal ‘cause he once watered your begonias.

Clueless D. kept ramblin’, callin’ folks dumb and squawkin’ about how “y’all don’t know the real story.” But sugar, when you’re waist-deep in manure, maybe quit claimin’ it’s just mud.

Then up chimed Judgey Righteouson, Snitchy McCanarypants, and Russ T. Cuff ‘Em, each swingin’ logic like cast iron skillets. Snitchy declared she’d sing like a bird if she knew som**hin’ shady, Judgey reminded us two wrongs don’t make a right, and Russ? Well, he just said theft is theft, even if it’s dressed in blue.

But ol’ Clueless dug in like a tick at a dog park, comparin’ felony theft & official misconduct to takin’ a bathroom break on shift. And Rantlin’ Keyboardton, he weren’t havin’ it. Said that’s like sayin’ a purse-snatcher and a window shopper both “like bags,” so what’s the diff?

Then came Christopher Wallywaitaminute, askin’ why Clueless kept chirpin’ if it “wasn’t his place to say.” And sure enough, Clueless gave a salute and slunk back into the underbrush like a raccoon with a stolen sandwich.

Now that, darlin’, is the full tale of Clueless D. Loudnwrong, a man who strutted into a FB courtroom with a kazoo wearin’ crocs and confidence, tried playin’ the national anthem, but ended up blowin’ out “Baby Shark”... off key, off topic and off his rocker.

11/01/2025

Well sit down and scoot in, sugarbean, ‘cause Granny’s got herself a hot cup o’ tea and a front-row seat to the drama parade known as The Ballad of Agnes Picklesnort. A tale so rich in irony, you’d swear it was canned in brine and sold at the Dollar General.

Now Agnes Picklesnort, bless her emotional outbursts and internet literacy levels somewhere ‘round the Myspace era, came stormin’ into Granny's inbox, yowlin’, clawin’ and swattin’ at shadows. She kicked things off with this gem:

“Please do not bring this up again. If you want to talk about the arrested former officer then fine. But to bring stuff up you know nothing about is disgusting. There are children involved in this situation and please have some respect.”

Which, mind you, it was a public news post and everything stated was in newspapers too with no mentioning of children anywhere.

Now Granny, no stranger to the digital rodeo, tipped her spectacles and gently replied:

“Did you tell that to the newspapers too?”

Ohh mercy. You could feel Agnes’ blood pressure rise through the Wi-Fi. She threw her clutch purse of righteousness onto the table and cried:

“Please just stop social media is a lot worse when it comes to people idiotic opinions bcz they are bored with their own lives.”

That sentence, if you can call it that, had the grammatical structure of a drunken raccoon doin’ crossword puzzles with mittens on. But Granny, just gave a polite curtsy of words:

“Literally news. No opinion. Plenty of opinions in the comments though... maybe start there?”

Well that just lit Agnes’s polyester britches ablaze.

“You posted it for comments and u know it. I’m sure there’s a lot of dirt in these people’s past they dnt wanna dig up and put on social media. How about yours? What’s your name I will look it up.”

Ah yes, the old “I’MMA LOOK YOU UP” defense. Nothing says you’re winnin’ a debate like threatenin’ a Google deep-dive while your CAPS LOCK key gasps for air.

Granny, unshaken and moisturized, sassed back with a wink:

“That’s a might fine opinion.”

Agnes, with steam comin’ outta her ears and likely typin’ with a single index finger, roared:

“Opinion of what?”

To which Granny replied, cryptic and delightful as always:

“The sequel’s gonna slap, sugar... bless it in advance.”

Now y’all, this next part? It’s where Agnes Picklesnort loses the last three marbles she didn’t already throw at the ceiling fan. She shrieks:

“Your a disgusting human being.”

And honey.... Granny did not let that fly. With a smirk that could curdle almond milk, she dropped the reply:

“If facts disgust you, sugar, that’s a you’re problem.” 😉

Now I want you to take a moment and appreciate the slow-roasted, corn-fed, fried-in-bacon-grease irony here: Agnes corrected someone’s humanity while usin’ “your” like it’s 1997 and she skipped 3rd grade grammar to watch reruns of Walker, Taxes Rangler.

But ol’ Picklesnort wasn’t done yet. She rallied with a long-winded, run-on tumbleweed of righteous indignation:

“You do not have all your facts so it’s not ‘facts’ that disgust me it’s the joy you get by posting stuff about people’s real lives and think it doesn’t affect those around them. Obviously you are a lonely individual who gets some kind of rush out of this stuff to just hurt people and keep stuff going. Your gross.”

Whew. That was a sentence so chaotic, it needed its own seatbelt.

Granny just rocked in her glider chair, sippin’ on som**hing that definitely wasn’t sweet tea, and said:

“Ain’t nothin’ finer than rage grammar tryin’ to drag reported facts. But do tell, sugar, which part isn’t factual? I’d love to hear these unreported facts, do tell.”

And just when ya thought she was done, she went and tossed out this ol’ chestnut:

“It’s not your business.”

Which, sugar, is the Facebook equivalent of yankin’ the fire alarm ‘cause you regret throwin’ the first match.

Now Granny, never one to let nonsense go unbroomed, leaned in real sweet and gave her the ol’ smile-through-the-shade:

“Nor is what I post when it's literally factual news.”

And boom, just like that, Agnes's last leg of the moral high ground collapsed like a card table at a county fair.

By that point, Granny was already halfway through a crossword and a slice of lemon bar, while poor Agnes was left typin’ in all caps from her phone with 3% battery and a bag of emotional Cheetos.

Moral of the story, darlin’? If you're gonna stir the pot, make sure you're not the one holdin’ a plastic spoon over a bonfire of receipts. And don’t come barkin’ "none of your business" after flingin' your business across the town square like Tupperware at a garage sale.

Amen, and someone call a grammar EMT. Agnes needs resuscitatin'.

10/31/2025

Shannon Grunden, once a reserve deputy with the Jennings County Sheriff’s Office, landed in a heap of trouble that’d been brewin’ for months before his arrest a few days ago.

Back in May of 2025, Indiana State Police detective S. Peyton sat down with the Sheriff and a couple other officers after a Facebook post from Grunden’s ex-wife raised some eyebrows. (Remember that doozy?) That little online bombshell kicked off an internal review. By the end of it, both Grunden and a female sheriff’s office employee had their walking papers. I'm sure many of you remember her from all her online tirades.

Now Grunden had been workin’ as a floating SRO since 2023, coverin’ shifts across the Jennings County School Corporation. But when they started diggin’ into his time logs, well, the hours he claimed didn’t match when he was actually seen at the schools. The sheriff’s office handed over a pile of records to state police and sure enough, he’d been paid for 29.35 hours in 2025 that couldn’t be accounted for at thirty bucks an hour. That’s over eight hundred dollars for ghost hours. And get this, they didn’t even check the books from 2023 or 2024. Go figure.

Detective Peyton tried to get hold of Grunden on July 3rd, but the call hit a dead end, number was either shut off, changed or lost to the wind. A few days later, Peyton stopped by Grunden’s place, left a card on the windshield of a North Vernon Police cruiser sittin’ in the driveway, but still no dice.

Next day, a text came in from Sgt. Austin Grunden with the North Vernon Police. Turned out, that was Shannon’s son. Peyton asked if he could pass the message along to his dad. By July 16, still nothin’. Silence like a snowed-in Sunday.

Then, on October 29, the hammer dropped. Shannon Grunden was booked into jail on charges of official misconduct and theft, both level 6 felonies tied to those same shady school hours.

How many arrested deputies does this make now? Granny's lost count.

10/31/2025

Nehemiah Petro, your debit card’s gone on a little adventure and found itself safe and sound at the local Family Dollar.

Looks like it tried to run off, maybe buy itself a plastic lawn flamingo and a can of cheese spray, but some kind-hearted soul with the moral compass of a Sunday school teacher scooped it up and turned it in.

Just a minor detour for your little rectangle of financial freedom. Head on over to Family Dollar behind McDonald's, where your card’s likely chillin’ behind the counter, swappin’ stories with expired coupons and slightly confused cashiers.

Ain’t that the sweetest surprise this side of payday? Just bring your ID. Family Dollar stopped doin’ the honor system after someone tried to buy snacks with a Blockbuster card.

10/24/2025

“Lemme Yell at Facebook Posts Real Quick”

A Dramatic Yelling of Misportrayal to Hide My Butthurt

NOW LISTEN HERE, FOLKS. I JUST SCROLLED PAST A LONG OL’ FACEBOOK POST, FULLA THEM SYMBOLIC NAMES AND CLEVER JABS, WRITTEN BY SOME CHARACTER WHO THINKS SHE’S REAL FUNNY. SHE AIN’T. I MEAN, WHAT KIND OF PERSON USES PARODY AND SATIRE TO TALK ABOUT THE TOWN? THIS IS AMERICA. WE SOLVE THINGS WITH ONE-MINUTE SHAKY VIDEOS YELLING IN OUR CAR, NOT LITERACY.

He wipes sweat from his brow, trembling from paragraph exposure.

WHO WANTS TO READ ANYTHING THESE DAYS, HUH? ALL THESE MADE-UP NAMES LIKE OL’ RUSTY CROCKETT OR MAYOR POSSUM BOOTS, POKIN’ FUN AT OUR VERY SERIOUS LOCAL POLITICS! WHERE’S THE RESPECT? WHERE’S THE TRANSPARENCY? IF YOU’RE GONNA MOCK THE SACRED COUNCIL OF OUR TOWN, YOU BETTER USE YOUR REAL NAME, LIKE ‘FreedomBacon1776’ OR ‘PatriotDadFromTheBackRow.’

Crowd gasps. A bald eagle weeps.

I MEAN, SURE, MAYBE THE PAGE CLEARLY SAYS IT’S LOADED WITH SATIRE. AND MAYBE IT’S BEEN AROUND FOR YEARS POKIN’ FUN AT BEHAVIORS EQUALLY OR PARODIES SOME ENJOY. AND MAYBE I’M NOT ACTUALLY NAMED, BUT I FELT NAMED, WHICH IS JUST AS BAD. SO I’M TAKIN’ A BRAVE SIT IN MY CAR, YELLIN' FOR ATTENTION!

10/23/2025

Seven Things Learned Growin’ Up in Jennings County
By Granny - Oct 2025

Fresh out of the subscribers-only vault for your viewing pleasure.

7. Who I Am (and Who I Ain’t)
I might read a few fancy words now and then, but don’t get it twisted, I’ve got more in common with a Lovett farmer patchin’ his tractor with duct tape than any slick talkin’ suit rollin’ into town for a photo op. My blood type’s black coffee and county dust. My most useful degree’s written in hard lessons and small-town nonsense.

6. It Takes All Kinds (and We Got Extras)
Jennings County’s like one of them quilts your great-aunt stitched together while half-drunk on communion wine. We got kind hearts, loud mouths and folks who can’t drive a straight mile sober or sober-adjacent. Somehow, this mismatched bunch keeps it together, mostly cause they're taxed to the point moving is unaffordable.

5. Life’s Funny - ‘Til It Ain’t
The best comedians I ever knew were sittin’ at a barstool or foldin’ church bulletins wrong on purpose. Even when the bottom fell out, we found som**hin’ to laugh about. That’s survival. Around here, if you can’t find humor in a power outage, a possum fightin’ your dog, or your cousin’s third wedding to an ex of yours, you’re gonna age twice as fast.

4. Rural America’s Hurtin’ (and Nobody’s Rushin’ to Fix It)
We’ve been bled dry by factories closin’, m**h rollin’ in, and folks in charge who couldn’t balance a checkbook if you spotted ‘em the decimal. The storefronts are empty, the hope’s thinner than gas station coffee, and the same five names keep poppin’ up on every board like a bad rash. But we endure, ‘cause we’ve been disappointed so long, we’ve turned it into cardio.

3. The “Community” Will Love You... ‘Til You Speak Up
Oh, they’ll hug you tight and call you family… right up until you ask why taxes are sky high with nothing to show for it but parks and 2 prettied up streets. Then suddenly, you’re “negative,” “divisive,” or “ungrateful.” Bless their little selective hearts.

2. You Can Leave, But It’ll Haunt You Anyway
You’ll think you escaped. You’ll pack up, move away, and just when life’s quiet then BAM, a faint whiff of pork burger grease and the sound of someone arguing over nonsense’ll hit you like JC-PTSD. Jennings County clings to your soul like cigarette smoke in your hoodie.

1. Loyalty Ain’t Dead, It’s Just Tired
I love this place... God help me, I do. But my loyalty’s to the folks keepin’ the lights on, not the ones siphonin’ the power bill. The real Jennings County ain’t sittin’ behind a dais or hidin’ budgets, minutes and memorandum in locked filing cabinets. It’s in the folks haulin’ scrap, feedin’ neighbors, and tellin’ the truth even when it stings like lemon juice on a paper cut.

10/22/2025

Granny Tried to Report a Broken Website… and the Website Broke Back

Well, I reckon ol’ Granny learned a valuable lesson today: if you try to report that the city’s e-notifications are broken, the city’s website will kindly remind you that it’s broken too.

See, I clicked that little “Report a Concern” button, thinkin’ I’d let them know that the confirmation link for e-notifications sends you straight to a “404: File or Directory Not Found” page.
Real helpful.

But lo and behold, the “Report a Concern” form doesn’t have a place to actually type a concern. Nope. It just wants you to upload a file. And not just any file, oh no, only JPGs JPEG and PDFs, because apparently, the city fears text fields to type in like vampires fear sunlight.

So, I guess if any of us got concerns, we better start takin’ pictures of our thoughts or enroll in “How to Convert into JPEG/PDF 101.”

Lord help us if we ever try to report anything they have listed you can report, probably gunna have to mail a Polaroid of the problem straight to City Hall.

Update: The "Report a concern" was fixed after tossing them an e-mail.

10/21/2025

They Thought Flattery Would Work, Bless Their Little Misguided Hearts.

Now I ain’t never been one for dramatics just for the sake of it, unless you count that one time a squirrel got in the pantry and I climbed the kitchen table screamin’ like I’d seen the Lord Himself in house slippers. But truth be told, there comes a time when a person’s gotta pause, stand tall and speak their mind clear as day, even if it ruffles a few feathers or burns the pot roast.

So let me say this clear: you will get upset with me. Not might. Not maybe. You will. At some point, I’m gonna say som**hin’ that hits you square in the pride like a goose to the face. You’ll blink. You’ll bristle. You might even throw a “Well I never!” my way, and I’ll just sip my tea and wait for your brain to catch up with your mouth.

But listen good now, it ain’t outta spite. It ain’t ‘cause I got a mean streak. I’ve just lived long enough to know that lettin’ folks believe their own nonsense is like handin’ a toddler a chainsaw and sayin’ “Go have fun.” You don’t do it if you care about ‘em.

See, I don’t play favorites. Never have, never will. Not even when it’d make life smoother than gravy on a paper plate. You could be my firstborn, my best friend or the neighbor who shovels my driveway without askin’, if you’re doin' wrong, I’m gonna say so. You better believe it. I don’t care if you once saved my life or baked me a peach cobbler so good it made me weep. If you’re out here actin’ a fool, I’m gonna call it like I see it.

Favoritism? Pfft. That’s a disease, sugar. Worse than gout. It whispers lies in your ear like, “Just this once won’t hurt,” or “But they didn’t mean it.” Next thing you know, wrong’s struttin’ around the house in its Sunday best, eatin’ off the good china like it paid rent.

Not on my watch.

I’ve seen what that mess does. It rots foundations, turns good folks into excuse factories and leaves people scratchin’ their heads wonderin’ how the whole dang barn caught fire while everyone smiled and waved. Well, I ain’t smilin’, and I sure ain’t wavin’. I’m hollerin’ “The barn’s burnin’!” even if it ruins brunch.

And let me tell ya, I’ve corrected people I love so much, I’d share my last Werther’s with ‘em. And that’s sayin’ som**hing. My kids, my friends, even the mailman gave it a whirl once, though honestly, I think he just got lost, tripped over my gnome and figured flirtin’ was safer than explainin’ himself. Point is: I don’t hand out hall passes for bad behavior, not even if you came from my womb or my wedding vows.

Now, folks sometimes act surprised. Like I’ve betrayed them by holdin’ ‘em to the same standard I hold everyone else to. They say, “But Granny, I thought I was special!” Well you are, sweetheart. You’re special enough to get the real me. Not the nod-along, grin-and-bear-it version. But the one who’ll look you in the eye and say, “You’re better than this, so act like it.”

That ain’t harsh. That’s love with its work boots on.

Look, I’m not in the comfort business, I’m in the truth business. And truth don’t always come with a side of warm fuzzies. Sometimes it shows up with curlers in its hair, a rolling pin in one hand and a tone in its voice that makes grown men apologize for things they might do next week.

But I promise you this: if you stumble, I’ll be the first to help you up, but I ain’t gonna pretend you didn’t fall. That’s how people grow. That’s how we keep our souls from turnin’ to soft cheese in a hot truck.

So yes, I will upset you. I might even offend you. But you’ll never catch me lyin’ to you, coverin’ for you or lettin’ you wreck yourself just ‘cause I care. I’d rather ruffle your feathers than bury your backbone.

I’m not here to be your favorite. I'm here to be your mirror, your reminder, your occasional spiritual slap to the back of the head, served with a biscuit and a hug if you’re still standin’ afterward.

With all the love in my wide ol’ heart,
Granny

(P.S. If this offended you, it probably applied to you.)

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1600 Granny Street
North Vernon, IN
47265

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If you need government, you’re already a failure as an American! The true secret to success isn’t Innovation. It’s ruthless exploitation, loads of lawyers, sweetheart government deals and knee capping your competition. Innovators get eaten every day.

Jennings County's Granny Punkbuster

11/17/2025

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The uneducated and/or easily offended will not have a good time here and should probably move on to their safe spaces.