POOP not GOOP: The True Spirit of the Holidaze

Gwyneth constantly reminds us how much fun she is.

Her GOOP guide to Christmas gifts runs from the sublime (Hermes Womens Cape Cod Watch - $1,850) to the completely stupid (Recycled Bamboo Utensil Set - From $24.74). She does at least call the watch a “dream” present (for us, the Poors)… and who wouldn’t want a bamboo fork for Christmas? Think of all the times you’re sitting, eating, and think, “Geez, if only my utensil were recycled bamboo! My tofu porridge would taste so much better!” If you’re going to get me something stupid and utilitarian, at least get me batteries for my vibrator.

Gwynnie also recommends giving the book Debretts Guide to Modern Manners, 11.99 GBP, with the comment “We can all brush up on our manners.” Nothing says I love you, or I respect you, like the gift of good manners. Apparently. Except we’re pretty sure if we got this, we’d think the gift was saying, “Hey schlubby asshole. You’re a pig. Learn some fucking manners for once and stop vomiting on my lawn when you’re drunk!” Hmmm. Maybe we could use this book. Sorry grandma.

We’re the type of people who don’t want practical gifts. Give us a pretty, shiny, wanty gift! Electronics, jewelry, rent money - you know, the dispensable things in life.

Our girl Gwen also helpfully tells us what the Holiday Spirit is.

Holiday spirit is a feeling of warmth, of togetherness, of connectedness. We get that by giving. … We get it by not getting riled up and potentially verbally abusive when someone steals the parking place we have been demonstrably waiting for (note to self -- it still counts, if you're alone in your car, cursing with the windows up).

She is a WAY better person than we are. We think the Holiday Spirit is not getting out of the car and beating the shit out of the parking spot stealer with the whiffle ball bat you got your kid. Cursing in the car does NOT count. So say we. Jeebus, Gwyneth, you must be on a pretty good dose of the Prozac to never get mad about anything. Usually we’re too drunk* when we’re driving to really get mad, but we’re just sayin’.

By the way, we should all pity little, stupidly named Apple and Moses, because Gwyneth offers exactly no gift ideas for children. I hope they enjoy playing with the $40 Magnetic Wooden Tongs she recommends. Something tells us they won’t enjoy the emergency room trip needed to fish those things out of someone’s nose. And plus - what the fuck are magnetic wooden tongs?

The Brutally Honest Babes' POOP Guide says the Holiday Spirit is:

Stealing the Christmas cookies left for Santa

Doing the best you can

Trying not to fight with your family (and if you do – drinking makes it better)

Not giving self-help books

Giving gifts out of love

Counting your blessings

Bribing your children with vague threats about Santa’s Naughty ‘n’ Nice list

Dressing up like a slutty elf for your significant other

Stealing the best gifts at the Grinch gift exchange without guilt

Dropping what you can into the bin of the bell ringer

Doing a kind deed

Loving yourself

Praying for a better world in 2009

* This is what we call humor. Don't drink and drive, kids!

Please Don't Chop Me Up and Put Me in Your Trunk, John Denver!

I have a new job.  I like it.  It's good.  Except for one thing.  My stalker.  He looks like John Denver.  Only alive.  I wear a name tag.  I don't know his name.  He doesn't wear a name tag. Everybody at work calls him "John Denver."  Only alive.  He called me by my name when we had not even yet met face to face.  I had only walked behind his chair.  And yet he knew my name.  He had been watching me.  When first I looked into his eyes, I got the "heebie jeebies."  "The creeps."  The "please don't chop me up and put me in your trunk"s.  Even though I am new at my job and not yet overly skilled, he always comes to me with his questions.  Even though I can't answer them.  He asked me on a date.  I evaded the question.  See?  Another question I did not answer.  Maybe he's harmless.  Maybe.  Maybe I overreact.  Maybe.  Maybe not.  Ladies, we get gut reactions for a reason.  I intend to trust mine.  And I intend to keep my guts.  I like them.  Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy. As long as my shoulders are still attached to my living, breathing body.  Oh, and as long as no part of me is bound with duct tape.  Except for my little boobs.  Duct tape is good for making cleavage, after all.

Unsolicited Advice: Ugh, For the Love of Your Deity of Choice, Put That Away!

So there I was, on the treadmill, walking my way upwards to nowhere, trying to not smell the guy who just got on the treadmill beside me. Really, this post could be about showering the month before you go to the gym – yes I’m talking to you Mr. I’m Not Even Sure HOW THE FUCK You Get to Smelling That Bad and Then Decide to Go to the Gym Man. But this post is about something else, something insidious and disturbing.

It’s about this:


1970s. Gym. Shorts.

Did you shudder? I know I did.

I innocently turned my delicate nose away from Mr. INESHTFYGTSTBATDTGTTGM and what to my eyes should appear? A cheeky middle aged man, probably a douchebag studio executive in this part of LA, wearing the above and smiling heartily at me as if to say, “Yeah little girl – you like these hairy legs, don’t you?”

No. No no no.

I reeled. I got a bit dizzy. My look of horror was palpable and horrible. Still in shock, I beheld another pair!!! ANOTHER PAIR! I’m not making this up. I write comedy, not horror.

The second pair was attached to another douche. FYI, the wearing of said shorts renders you automatically douchey. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars, go directly to douche. This second male person was younger, and in pretty good shape, and looking very proud of himself - just like old dude.

Now, many horrible things have come out of Los Angeles... leggings, Grey’s Anatomy, Dov Charney. TERRIBLE THINGS. But the 1970s gym shorts as modern male apparel might just take the cake. Actually, I think I can blame the shorts on Douche Charney, as they sell them at American Apparel.

Ladies, and gents of the homo persuasion, may we please all agree to take on this problem of monumental proportions Lysistrata style? If ANY MAN ever wears these shorts, ironically or not, they get NO SEXING. For reals. I MEAN IT! NO SEXING FOR THE DISASTROUS GYM SHORTS! This cannot be allowed to catch on! Think of the children! Won’t someone please think of the children!?

Thank you.

Lucy

POOP not GOOP: Gobble Gobble Edition

This week Gwyneth’s GOOP e-mail elaborated upon her... um... Martha Stewart’s favorite turkey recipe. Says Gwynnie:

This recipe is a smaller scale version
of Martha Stewart’s accurately named
Perfect Roast Turkey.

It’s not afraid of butter.

We’re pretty glad she’s promoting Martha’s turkey recipe, as we cannot imagine Gwyneth’s would taste very good. Gwyneth probably is afraid of butter. Of course, we cannot know this for sure, but our guess is that a horrible butter stick monster once made her gain a pound during puberty, and since then she breaks out in a cold sweat when confronted with any sort of fattening dairy.

We here at POOP have an even better turkey recipe than Martha Stewart. And, for the first time, we, Ethel and Lucy, will share it with you. Many people are scared of Thanksgiving dinner. Perhaps you don’t like cooking. Or perhaps you and the relatives you have coming over voted for different folks in the November 4 election and there’s some bad blood. Our turkey recipe will make Thanksgiving enjoyable for all – guaranteed.

Are you ready?

VICODIN TURKEY

Serves: Its purpose

Prep Time: Somewhere between 30 mins and 6 hours

Get up.

Take one Vicodin.

Get coffee.

Watch beginning of Macy's parade.

Wow, the parade is so neat! Don't you love Snoopy? I do. I could’ve been a Rockette if only I were 9 inches taller.

Wander into kitchen.

Take big bird thingie out of giant cold box and do... something.

Turn on oven.

Open bottle of wine.

Sing a Lionel Ritchie song to the potatoes. Repeat.

Open bottle of Vicodin and smashie smashie several pills. Doesn’t matter how many.

Dump oil over birdie and sprinkle pills on top.

Drink glass of wine. Repeat.

At this point, you may forget why you’re in the kitchen. The green beans will tell you everything you need to know.

Boil potatoes. In water.

Ask mother-in-law for help.

Leave kitchen because mother-in-law tells you to.

Giggle at Uncle Chester’s impression of Aunt Farty.

Watch Ben Hur. Take drink of egg nog (alcoholic kind) every time Charlton Heston over-emotes.

Wait for dinner. Avoid glares from mother-in-law.

Eat turkey.

Feel even better.

Entire family happy.

Remember to turn off oven so house does not burn down.


Stay safe kids! And have a very, very Happy Thanksgiving!

POOP not GOOP: We're So Amazing We POOP Art!

This week Gwyneth’s GOOP newsletter was very illuminating. She told us about something we had never heard of before – Art.

You see, apparently, “Art” is pretty pictures or nice paperweights that people assemble into one place, called a “Museum”. The many beautiful pictures she sent us were neato.

If you live in New York, London, Madrid, Los Angeles, Chicago or New Orleans, you can see some of this “Art” in the real lifes! If you don’t, well then screw you. You others can go visit the Crate & Barrel second tier shop for poors that she links to to see some water glasses.

Obviously, since we are hacks who write on the “internet”, we know nothing about this elitist, museumey “Art”. But we think Art should be for all the peoples, even those who live in Des Moines or Orlando, or some other horrible backwater. In this spirit, we introduce POOP ART, made by us, and accessible to all!

For POOP ART we thought… what inspires us? Ethel and I agree on this point. Hot men inspire us. Cute fuzzy animals inspire us. So, without further ado, we present.

POOP #1: Matthew McConaughey, With Lemurs. Digital, 2008.



POOP #2: Giant Panda, With Small Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje. Digital, 2008.



POOP #3: James McAvoy, With Kittens aka LOL JAMEZ. Digital, 2008.



and finally, the piece de resistance:

POOP #4: Daniel Craig, With Baby Elephants. Unicorns & Moonbeams, 2008.



Ethel and I hope you can enjoy the “Art” we have created to share with you. It’s not as “fancy” as that museum stuff, but it’s got a good beat you can dance to. Who knows? Maybe Gwynnie will be a fan some day!

Love,

Lucy

Unsolicited Advice: Ho ho ho Go Blow

Dear Retailers,

It ain't Christmas yet. It ain't even close. We Babes are dismayed, yay, disheartened by the fact that Christmas comes earlier and earlier every damn year (not that we're more than, say, twenty-six ourselves)--at least in your stores. Ethel was in large national chain drugstore two weeks before Halloween and guess what. The groovy Halloween masks and candy and crap had to share an aisle with effing Christmas shit! Before Halloween even! As Charlie Brown would say in It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, "AAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHH!"

Ethel is worried. Ethel is afraid she is going to get arrested. Ethel is afraid she is going to snap oh say maybe tomorrow and put on a big turkey costume and grab a cricket bat and go on a rampage knocking over too early fake-O Christmas trees that are already up in stores and smashing ornaments and beating up auto-animatronic singing Santas until they quit singing "Jingle Bells" over and over and over. Halloween. Thanksgiving. THEN Christmas. And maybe some other holiday or another in there somewhere depending on your heritage. Please retailers, nobody has any money to shell out on your shiny baubles this year anyway due to the economy/schmonomy. Please, for fuck's sake, can you at least hold off on the candy canes until maybe mid-November? please? Trick-or-ho ho ho and a bottle of eggnog.

Caught Between a Rock & Republic & a Hard Place

Dear E. Jean: I’m not the richest or most glamorous girl on the block. I’m not able to buy whatever I please on a whim, such as the Jimmy Choo bag I’ve been saving for, but I dress stylishly and receive lots of compliments. My best friend, whom I adore, means well, but she can drive me insane when she thrusts in my face the latest Gucci wallet she just bought. It causes me to feel inferior and to envy what she has. Not only that, I start to feel really competitive, and this puts a strain on our friendship. What can I do to fix this without going on a shopping spree that will put me in debt?—Trying to Chill

Dear Loco for Logos:

If you define your self-worth on the Paris Hilton Scale of Logos for Logos’ Sake, then you have bigger problems than your BFF. Why would you allow yourself to feel inferior over a wallet? Have you no talents? No brains? No accomplishments with which to fill your coffers of self-worth?

Really missy – you’ve made us put on our Cranky Grandma hat up in here! A true friend does not care what logos or expensive shit you have, and a proud female person does not define herself in that way. Put your enthusiasm to better use – read a book and educate yourself, read a newspaper and learn about the world, create something, volunteer for a bigger cause than yourself, seduce a sexy man who enjoys housework*. If you feel happy about yourself no matter if you shop at Target or Prada, then your beauty will shine - a beauty that has nothing to do with your purse or wallet.

* If you find this man, please reply back to us with his phone number.

POOP not GOOP: Masturbate Your Way to Health!

Lucy: My new best friend Gwyneth Paltrow e-mailed me today.

Ethel: She’s suing us for making fun of her? Bitch!

Lucy: No, no – she’s giving us more GOOPy goodness.

Ethel: Yay! Time for us to be full of shit then! Or POOP to be more precise.

Lucy: The Subject of the e-mail was “It’s Goop – DO”. It’s like she’s asking us to mock her. Do is one half of do-do which means POOP!

Ethel: Hahaha!

Lucy: She gives us advice from all three of her doctors: her New York doctor, her London doctor and her Los Angeles doctor.

Ethel: She needs three doctors? What the hell is wrong with her? Why are we taking advice from a dying woman?

Lucy: We’re not actually.

Ethel: Oh, Okay then.

Lucy: I only have one doctor – and she’s just the cooch doctor.

Ethel: Three doctors in three cities. Stars – they’re just like us!

Lucy: Okay – GOOP doctor number 3534321 says to sleep and exercise regularly. Well I learn that every month from lady magazines.

Ethel: Plus Vogue tell us about all the clothes we can’t afford.

Lucy: Yes! Fail, GOOP. Fail. POOP says sex is way more important than sleep, and that it also qualifies as exercise!

Ethel: POOP is pro-sex!

Lucy: Next, Doctor 234.5 says that everything everywhere will kill us because it’s toxic, so to not eat for twelve hours after dinner to detoxify.

Ethel: “Detoxify” to me means “Drink More Liquor”.

Lucy: Well liquor is cleansing.

Ethel: POOP says drink for twelve hours and then you’ll really clean yourself out! Plus, you need to drink to forget that everything everywhere is killing you.

Lucy: Win! We’re also not supposed to eat anything in a package.

Ethel: But Jeno’s Pizza Rolls come in a package, and I’m pretty sure those are the best food ever.

Lucy: Indeed. There seems to be a flaw in her reasoning.

Ethel: Gwyneth would not approve of the stew I am making. The meat is not organic. The mushrooms are from the bottom of my fridge and they were probably sorta bad as of yesterday. And the potatoes are white! And white foods are of the devil!

Lucy: Nay, I say! NAY! Potatoes give us chips, and potato skins with cheese, and BAKED potatoes! GOOP hates whitey, but POOP says all the food colors are beautiful, especially covered in cheese!

Ethel: I have my own method of detoxifying.

Lucy: Do tell!

Ethel: Have some tea, do a yoga pose or two maybe, and then go masturbate. You’ll feel better in no time!

Lucy: GOOP says follow a complicated menu; POOP says masturbate!

Ethel: I think our methodology is much more fun.

Lucy: Plus, POOP is fun to say. Hey – maybe she named this stupid website GOOP because it describes all the nasty shit that comes out of you when you follow her directions?

Ethel: But where does it come out?

Lucy: I don’t want to know. Let’s go drink wine.

Ethel: Poop yeah!

POOP: Oh, Sweet Mystery of Life At Last I've Found You!

Friends, when you find yourself in times of trouble, do you ever wish you could consult with one of the great minds in the universe and ask them advice? We do. Maybe Mother Theresa? The Dalai Lama? The crazy guy on your corner with “End of the World” signs and a tinfoil hat?

Even the Brutally Honest Babes sometimes need life advice so that we may, in turn, pass wisdom on to you, our five readers. One can feel so very alone on the great Internets, so thank the good Jebus that someone, FINALLY, is here to help us all. Gwyneth Paltrow.

Gwynnie has a new site called “GOOP” (www.goop.com). There’s not too much content yet, but what is there has inspired us to be like her. No, we can’t magically grow 10 inches, suddenly gain millions of dollars from our beautiful, Hollywood parents, or spontaneously pop out a fruit baby, but we can emulate her ability to give super neato advice.

So, in the spirit of GOOP – we give you POOP.

GOOP tells you to ‘Nourish the inner aspect.’

POOP tells you to ‘Get through the fucking day.’

GOOP says ‘I love being in spaces that are clean and feel nice.’

POOP says ‘I love being in spaces I don’t have to clean. That’s nice.’

GOOP advises ‘Make your life good.’

POOP responds ‘Really? Life is supposed to be GOOD? Thanks Gwynnie! We’ve been doing it all wrong!’

GOOP says ‘Invest in what’s real.’

POOP says ‘Thank goodness we’re too poor to invest in anything, or else we’d be living in a cardboard box now!’

GOOP tells you to ‘Read something beautiful.’

POOP tells you to ‘Read us instead!’

GOOP says ‘Whether you want… some thoughts from one of my sages….’

POOP says ‘If we want advice from an herb, it won’t be sage. Wink wink.’

GOOP: Over the years I have tried lots of different things. I have made lots of mistakes. But I have figured out some things in the process and I would like to share them with you.

POOP: We have no idea what we’re doing. We blog for free on the Interwebs to fill an empty place in our bitter little lives. But please keep reading so that we have some small validation!

POOP – Get Through the Fucking Day ™

Its Alive! ALIVE!!!!!1!

Hark, gentle readers!

Lucy and Ethel have been pounding on their keyboards writing a fictional novel! It’s totally not a rancid diatribe as some might suggest (thanks a lot, Mom!)

We have neglected you, and we apologize.

However, a new internet phenomenon has come to our attention which we cannot help but make ruthless fun of... er... comment upon.

Stay tuned….

I'm Hairy Noon and Night; Hair That's a Fright.

DEAR ABBY: Is there a rule of etiquette regarding how men should wear long hair? My boyfriend's hair isn't long enough to pull into a ponytail, but it's long enough that he is constantly sweeping or shaking it out of his eyes. If we were to go to a funeral or similar ceremonial (or formal) event, what should he do? I need some input. -- HAIR-RAISING QUESTION

Dear Hair Which Has Been Raised:

Boy, Abby is on FIRE this week. She recommended hair gel to you. Yum! Long, nasty hair gelled back into a… something… we don’t know. She just said to gel his hair. Is it 1987 where Abby lives? Judging by her picture, we think so.

We’re confused – it’s not that long if it can’t be put in a ponytail, yet he’s luxuriously shaking it out of his eyes. Is it some kind of horrible Jonas Brothers monstrosity?

OK, the curly Jonasseses aren’t that bad, but the straight hair one is, like, vom. But it looks like you can ponytail that crap. So, we’re just babbling confusedly really.

Maybe it’s an uggo Zac Efron thing? Douche-tastic!

If so, we’re sorry, but it cannot be saved without a cut. Many of the younguns like these new gorpy haircuts, but we are anti-gorp here at BHBs. The Harry Potter movie where all the boys sported that crappy floppy hair was a total bonerkiller. We recommend either a haircut or a commitment to grow the hair longer so he can be a ponytail guy. Ugh – kids today. Get off our lawn!

An "Alf" Shirt Would be Perfect...

DEAR ABBY: How do you tell friends and family that you're not interested in being fixed up? I'm a male, in my mid-40s, happily divorced for many years and have no desire to remarry.

I raised my children on my own, have a good job and many friends, but no desire to get into a relationship that could lead to more of a commitment than I am willing to make.

My life is good, but I'm constantly bombarded with questions like, "When are you going to get married again?" or, "Why don't you let me fix you up? I have the perfect woman for you." I don't know how to respond to this constant badgering. Please advise. -- THANKS BUT NO THANKS IN OHIO

Dear Too Popular For Own Good:
We have to laugh at the advice our dearest Abby gave you. Namely, to have a t-shirt made up with the slogan “Been There, Done That” on it. Ha! She was probably kidding, but we’re making fun of her so we don’t care. Actually, it’s a great idea, because who wants an aging asshole wearing a t-shirt with a hot 80s catchphrase on it? That tee is a great way to scare off the women. May we also suggest a “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” shirt and one with Urkel on it.

Oh noes! You are a straight, single guy in your 40s and all women are desperate to get married so they all want you. Ha! Just kidding. You’re probably reasonably good-looking, or no one would try to set you up with their friends. Can you really blame your nosy, irritating hangers-on for trying to hook you up? The dating pool is dismal, especially the older you get. But you’re having fun, cheap one night stands with drunken 22 year olds and you can’t give that up for a relationship. We understand.

Tell your friends to bugger off. Man up already and tell them how you feel. This isn’t a tough conversation*. You could tell them you have the scabies or something so they don’t want their women friends to touch you, but that’s extreme. Jebus, call us when you have a real problem, whiny.

*Now, telling all your nosy, irritating hangers-on that you’re a woman trapped in the body of a man who yearns to be free – that’s a tough conversation.

Unsolicited Advice: If You Are a Sado-Masochist, Take a Man to a Musical

We love musicals. Musicals are Mother's milk to us Babes. They are burning acid to our menfolk. Stage musicals, movie musicals, random adaptations of both--we laugh and cheer and sing along while in the seats beside us our husbands cringe and writhe in agony. While it is possible for us chicas to actually enjoy a shoot 'em up bang bang thriller or even a blood-n-guts flick every now and again, we must acknowledge that our menfolk simply cannot, repeat, CANNOT, enjoy say, Xanadu or Mama Mia or even Chicago (OK, maybe they would enjoy the black fishnet/thong/stilettos number). What we're getting at is this: ladies, if you see the wonder in a fairy tale, if you like big, fat, fabulous musicals--do yourselves and your significant others a favor. Buy your man a six-pack o' beer and hand him the TV remote and tell him he can watch whatever he wants and you're going to the movies with your girlfriends. Trust us. Everyone will have a lovely time. If your man actually wants to go with you to see, say, Thoroughly Modern Millie, um, he's probably gay. Gay guys do make great dates. If your man is hetero though, give him a break. Don't bust his balls. You need them too, after all. As ze French would say, "Vive la difference!"

Unsolicited Advice: Mommy’s Little Helper Helps Me, Too

It happened so suddenly. One minute I’m surfing the net, and the next the boy has planted a terribly sexy kiss on me while asking, “Can you make dinner, baby? I’m in the middle of stuff.”

Ugh. It’s 7:30pm, I’m tired from a rather long day, and I have important stuff to do, too! Like… reruns of Golden Girls (sniff… RIP Estelle Getty) and… um… deep political analysis. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Deep political analysis.

I’m trapped. He asked so nicely. And he befuddled my brain with sweet, sincere kissing and words of love. Damn him!

I turn to the only thing that gets me through housework. I can’t imagine why I didn’t discover it years ago. Is it meditation? Fun iPod music? No, friends. It’s liquor. Better known as Mommy’s Little Helper.

Scrubbing toilets, doing laundry, Swiffer-ing, cleaning the litter box, getting up in the morning – these are horrid chores which no sane person would enjoy. Booze injects a lovely haze of pseudo-fun on the activities.

In June of last year, Tulsa, Oklahoma unearthed a car they had buried in 1957 as a time capsule of sorts. From MSNBC:

“The contents of a “typical” woman’s handbag, including 14 bobby pins, lipstick and a bottle of tranquilizers, were supposed to be in the glove box [of the car], but all that was found looked like a lump of rotted leather.”

1957 Female Checklist:
14 Bobby Pins
Lipstick
Bottle of Tranquilizers

June Cleaver was high, bitches. There is no other explanation. Not even in the 50s was housework fun, no matter how many times the Home Ec. teacher tried to convince you it was. I would use tranquilizers, as a tribute to my sisters of yesteryear, only I must be the only person in LA who doesn’t have one of those doctors who prescribes Vicodin for a toe stubbing.

So our Brutally Honest advice for today, my lovelies, is to have a wee cocktail before vacuuming or cleaning cat vomit or doing your taxes. You’re allowed to – it’s one of the wonderful things about being an adult. I raise my glass to you! Or I would if it weren’t already empty.

~Lucy

PS: If any of my LA friends know one of those pill-happy doctors – you know where to find me. There’s a bottle of Boone’s in it for you.

From Russia With Love

Dear BHB's:
I also have a "sometimesy" friend. She stood me up for a lunch date last month and did not return my phone calls when I tried to find out what had happened to her. After many weeks of zero communication from her, she suddenly called out of the blue all chumsey-like. She vaguely apologized for the lunch mishap, saying she suddenly flew to Morocco--she is Russian and her husband Moroccan. In the midst of our phone call she got another call coming in and put me on hold, for like, 8 minutes, until I finally gave up and hung up. I made one vain attempt to call her back later; but when she did not answer I declined to leave a message. Is this some cultural misunderstanding, or is she just rude?
Sincerely,
Tired of All the Borscht-shit

Dear Have Some Vodka and Call it a Day:
We like the word "chumsey" too. Definitely sounds good with "sometimesy." We are a-feared that your friend is not much of a friend. Seems like she probably does inconsiderate crap like this all the time--probably not just to you. Culture-schmulture, true friendship knows no bounds. It is universally understood. Her brand of friendship is casual at best. No use in being offended, just take it or leave it. If you and she do have happy times sometimes, enjoy them. Just don't expect a phone call the morning after.

The One in Which We Adopt Made-Up Internet Words

Dear AskJohnQ.com:
ok what does it mean when a friend is sometimsey ? you know like when sometimes they you like sometimes they seem like they dont ?? I work with a friend that is like this . sometimes when I say hi she is all jolly and then there are those times she is like whatever I mean she says hi but she just different acting . sometimes lunch breaks she says hey go to lunch with me talk with me some days she just looks real crabby . I only go to lunch when she ask me wich is cool since I like being alone on lunch breaks anyway . really the lunch thing is fine I would rather be alone on lunch but I am not mean about it . then there was the time she begged me to go to the club with her I didnt wanna go but went anyway . when i called to meet up with her for going clubbing she acted like she didnt want me to go . why did she beg and force me to go then when I do go she acted like she didnt want me to go ?? well at first it was just gonna be me and her meeting another girl and she didnt wanna go alone and then her sister and cousin decided to go . so was it that she found other people and didnt need me to go ?? maybe she just wanted to use me ?? she is like this alot !! do you think she uses me ??

Dear Captain Grammar:
OK, we are totally adapting “sometimsey” as our new favorite word. That’s pretty much the only reason we picked out this question. Sometimsey we are like that.

Your co-worker only wants to hang out with you when there is no one better to hang out with. Sad, tough to hear, but true. We BHBs have both been there before, even though it might be tough for our adoring public to reconcile such, as we are so insanely awesome. But it’s true, and it hurts until you stop letting it hurt you.

You can either continue to hang out with Sometimsey and choose to not be offended when she snubs you, or you can drop her like Dorothy dropped Stan Zbornak after he screwed that flight attendant. Either way, this person is not really worth your time or consternation. Find a better, truer friend yourself and have fun good times with them. We all deserve better than a sometimsey. We all deserve a friend who is alwaysey. Except for Osama Bin Laden. Really, fuck him.

*Sigh* Insert Clever Title About an Asshole Here

DEAR ABBY: "Robert" and I have been married seven years and have two sons, ages 1 and 3. Something is bothering me that didn't before -- Robert's driving. My husband speeds, tailgates, honks his horn to make others go faster and uses racial epithets. If I say anything to him, he accuses me of not trusting him or says I'm looking for something to complain about.

I am concerned for our safety and the impact Robert's behavior has on our sons, not to mention my worry about road rage. If either of our mothers drove with us they would cringe. What can I do? -- ROAD BULLY'S WIFE IN SAN FRANCISCO

Dear I’m Glad You and Your Husband Don’t Live in My City:

We think we may have flicked off your asshole husband at one point or another! The quick but not so easy solution is to stop riding in the car while he drives, or allowing your sons to do so. Immediately. Now, your husband obviously has multiple issues – he’s an angry racist twat for starters. This will cause mucho bad blood we’re sure. But what’s more important, keeping Mr. Rage Pants mollified or your safety? It’s a no-brainer.

Once you make good on your threat to never drive with him, calmly explain to him that you are afraid for your collective safety. Google some accident statistics and show him why speed and tailgating lead to tragedy. Nowadays, even honking at the wrong person could get you shot. Does he get this angry off the road as well? He may need professional help. If he resists changing, then consider that his fits of childish piss and vinegar are more important to him than you are.

As for the racist insults, well, perhaps you want to have a long conversation with yourself about the guy you married and the kind of sons you want to raise.

Viva La Burrito!

No More Apologies.

Women apologize for many, many things they should not, but my rant today is about apologizing for food.

It seems a cake cannot emerge from it’s frothy pink box without some woman at the table beginning the ritual.

“Oh, that’s so baaaaaad!”

“I shouldn’t”

“I’ll have to work out so hard after!”

“It’s evil!”

On and on, ad infinitum. Usually every female at the table will say one of the above, if only to prove to all the other women in the room that she’s sufficiently body dysmorphic enough to be in The Shame Club.

The Shame Club, the Club people like Perez Hilton have convinced us we should be in, because we dared to be female, dared to turn 19 and still be alive, dared to have cellulite, and dared to not vomit today.

You know what’s terrible? I have some suggestions, and funnily enough, cake isn’t on the list!

“Oh, that’s so baaaaaad!” – BAD is Hillary Clinton’s thighs being discussed instead of her policies.

“I shouldn’t” – I SHOULD’T perpetrate girl on girl hate crime by bashing any woman’s looks and discussing them as if they were the end all be all of her personhood.

“I’ll have to work out so hard after!” – I’LL HAVE TO really think about the fact that today is the 89^th anniversary of the 19^th amendment.

“It’s evil!” – EVIL things are honor killings, cancer and racism.

NOT CAKE!

Say it with me: I will not make a negative commentary about anything I eat. If it’s so deplorable, I will not eat it. The end.

~Lucy

Speed Racer

Dear Brutally Honest Babes:
I just went on a date with a cute guy and basically had a good time, except he drives like a maniac. I was freakin' scared on the way to the restaurant. When I finally plucked up enough courage to ask him to please slow down, he just said, "I always drive like this." Then I found out he didn't even have his license on him because he'd left it at home. Other than the bad driving, I had fun. I'm on the fence about him. What should I do?
Peed in Pants on First Date

Dear Peed in Pants on First Date (We usually like to make up a new moniker in our response but yours is too good):
Sounds like Mr. Cute is so into being his manly self that he doesn't give a darn about your safety or even the fact that you asked him to slow down. Seems like that might be indicative of what your future relationship might be like in every aspect. He's basically saying, "Take me as I am and I don't give a darn about how you are." Pretty crappy. Pretty selfish. Driving speaks volumes of one's character. However; this cute guy sounds a bit like the famous Prince Harry. If in fact you find yourself in the car with Prince Harry, you'd better milk that cow!

P.S. Whore Moan

P. S. This be a bit of a post script to the Cramps blog. The birth control Pill is both a blessing and a curse. Just like ye olde "." Female hormones are a thing to be reckoned with. Stirring them up and swishing them around and adding and subtracting and "regulating" them via the Pill is scary business. Did y'all know that the Pill often has a drastically adverse affect on one's libido? OK, let's do away with that jackass Freudian stuff, he didn't know shit about the female orgasm. Take two: Did y'all know that the Pill often has a drastically adverse affect on one's sex drive?

Lucy and Ethel found that out first hand, but when Lucy mentioned it to Doc, Doc was stunned and amazed and had not heard of such a thing! Ladies, be warned. Do your own research, and be aware that going on or off the pill, or changing brands or dosages can make you CRAY-CRAY. For example, Ethel is about two weeks into a new type of Pill. It seems to encourage her either to be constipated for days on end or else trotting to the loo too often. "Trots," you know. She also is bloated (of course) and has an uncomfortable tingly/warmish sensation in her feet. Those are her outward physical side effects. Mentally, she's mental--i.e. alternately crying or screaming with little or no provocation. She also is not sleeping particularly well.

Here's a jolly Ethel tale: Ethel awakens one night/morning at four a.m. She is overly warm. Her heart is racing. In the darkness it comes to her. The reason for her constipation/trots/bloating/foot-problem/sleeplessness/etc. FRED. Fred must be slowly poisoning her. (Ethel watches a lot of crime scene drama TV). Of course he must have taken out a billion dollar life insurance policy on her without her knowledge--as he is even now snoring beside her, smug in his knowledge of her suffering and his eventual windfall! Yeah. After about an hour or so of tossing and turning and letting the poison have its way with her, she falls back to sleep.

When Ethel awakens, Fred has already jaunted off for the day. After her habitual cup of coffee (which she was careful to have thoroughly examined before consuming), Ethel comes to the conclusion that her four a.m. revelation might just be from her own Pill, rather than Fred's secret stash of Cyanide/Arsenic/Rat Poison. Since she's already seen the ghost of a departed loved-one, already had an "out of body" experience, and also been anally probed by any number of aliens (usually around four in the morning), she decides to give Fred the benefit of the doubt. For now. But she is looking to hire an Official Taster.

A Quiz: Whither Cramps? Or, How to Get Laid

Dear Mens:

We Brutally Honest Babes wish more sexing for the world. First, we think there would be less war, anger, terrorism, etc. if the world had more (carnal) love, sweet love. After all, if the jihadists who do terrible deeds just had their virgins in the first place, there would be no need to strap on dynamite jackets. Second, sexing is fun.

Mens, take our short quiz and learn.

Your woman says, “Ouch! Dear me, I seem to be experiencing beautiful natural cramping as a result of my feminine cycle. My lady flower is indeed wonderful, but sometimes ouchey, alas.” [May also be heard as, “Fuck me and fuck my fucking ovaries fuck!! Die die die!!”]

You:

A: Grimace at the word “cramps”

B: Say in reply, “Ugh – you’re not getting your period again, are you? Guess I’ll beat off to porn.”

C: Both A and B

D: Grab your woman a vicodin, a glass of wine, a hot water bottle and put “Atonement” on the DVD, remarking how Keira Knightley is too skinny, but how dreamy James McAvoy is and how he is a lesson in sensitive yet strong manliness.

If you answered A or B, I’m sure you enjoyed your evening on the couch.

If you answered C, stick a fork in you, you’re done.

If you answered D, you may not get sexing when your lady is all sore boobs and cramps, but as soon as she’s out of that, raise the mast, you’re off to plunder the depths! (And by “plunder the depths” we mean “get laid”. It’s just a nicer way of saying same. And more piratey.)

See, you might think that cramps are some kind of personal inconvenience to you, a ticket to bitchytown as it were. And as true as the whole bitchytown thing is, it’s not really about you. Shocking we know. Your lady is in genuine pain, and your reaction should be one of sympathy. Now, crotch bleeding does not give your lady a blank check to stab you with a spoon or anything, but give her a small break, OK? She’s bleeding out the crotch.

Think of cramps as an opportunity to build good will! And goodwill leads to sexing.

The Mystery of the Smelly Smell

One fine day, a woman worked and slaved and washed, dried, folded and hung up all the laundry that was to be done in her household, because her man needed clean clothes for his upcoming journey! The woman loved her man very much. While the man went off gallivanting, the woman dutifully stayed at home. She worked and slaved even more so that her home would look just as lovely and perfect as those in the Better Homes and Gardens magazine. OK, no, really, while her man was gone she actually just sat around the house eating frozen dinners and watching TV and letting the dishes pile up in the sink. Lord knows she needed a frickin' break from her daily grind of chores. She especially didn't do any laundry, because after all, she had just recently worked and slaved and washed, dried, folded and hung up all the laundry that was to be done in her household, of course!

One day after the man went away, the woman noticed a strange smell permeating the air inside her lovely home. "If I ignore it, it will go away," thought she. Another day passed. The smell worsened. "Oh dear, perhaps I should take out the garbage, even though that is the man's job and he is away." And so she did, even carefully spraying the trash can with Lysol for good measure. "Now my lovely home will smell fresh and delightful again!" the woman believed. Alas, it was not to be. The smelly smell persisted. Next, the woman cleansed and ran the garbage disposal in the sink, but to no avail. The sink was not the source of the smell at all. "A puzzlement!" exclaimed the woman.

Days and days passed. The woman grew despondent. She wandered the house searching, searching for the source of the disagreeable aroma. When, at last, she was ready to burn down the house and flee to a tropical island and take up with a good-looking native man and live in a hut that would surely house no mysterious smelly smells, fate intervened. She stepped barefoot into a fairly fresh pile of doggie poo on the throw rug in the entrance hall. One of her dogs had had an accident.

Now, gentle reader, think not that the poo was the original smelly smell. The poo was only a red herring. "Shit," exclaimed the poo-footed woman, "now I must do even more laundry!" She shook the large chunks of poo into the yard and prepared to wash the offending rug. Upon opening the lid to the washing machine, she gagged and nearly threw up. Then she smiled and laughed and rejoiced, as she had finally unraveled the mystery of the smelly smell! A strange blackish retention pond is what her washing machine had become. The smelly smell was amazingly icky. Within the icky water that filled it to the brim, there resided one pair of jeans, one shirt, two socks, and a towel. It seems that the man, regardless of the fact that all of his wardrobe was clean, had placed the one outfit he had been wearing the day before his departure and the one towel he had just used for his shower, into the washing machine, turned it off, and then left it all to ferment. Even though the man believed he was being helpful, the woman then had even more work to do to get the smelly smell out of the clothes and the washer and the house. The end.

The Amazing Disappearing Douchebag!

Dear "BHBs":
My ex-boyfriend also happens to be my manager at work. Though I endeavor to maintain a courteous work relationship with him, he is a total douchebag. If I casually say, "Hi" to him, he remarks, "I don't want your 'pity hi.'" He demands that I not speak of our break-up at work or to anyone we both know which is fine by me since I dumped him. However, he has blabbed of our personal relations to anyone and everyone who will listen. He also tells other people how "used" he feels because he claims to have pulled strings to get me my position in the first place. He already once asked me to quit, because seeing me is too "painful" for him. Thank God he does not have the authority to fire me. Oh yeah, and he is already carrying on publicly with two other women I work with. As uncomfortable as he now makes my work existence, I refuse to quit. I intend to stick it out, but how can I get him to leave me alone in the meantime?
Yours Truly,
Hostile Work Environment Ex

Dear At Least You're Not Still Dating the Douchebag:
Kill him. Quietly. Leave no evidence. Ha ha, just kidding! No, but seriously, we do recommend the following: Get yourself a new boyfriend, pronto. Preferably one with mob connections. Explain your dilemma to new boyfriend. Tell him you would like your "past mistakes" to disappear. When your past mistake conveniently does disappear, without a trace,
take over his position as manager and do your best to create a pleasant, productive work environment for your new employees. Oh, and you may want to institute a N0-Dating policy at work.

The Goodly Wife and the Goodly Anvil~A Morality Tale

Dear Brutally Honest Babes:
I think I read in some of your blogs that you Babes are also Wives. Being a married woman myself, I sometimes want to whack my husband upside the head with a 2 by 4 because of the dumb things he does. Is this normal?
Brutally Honest Wife

Dear-Sister-Mother-Sister-Woman-Sister:
Yes, we Babes, as Wives, often experience 2 by 4 husband syndrome ourselves (although we do recommend acting on that impulse only within one's private fantasy life!) For example, Lucy's husband, Ricky, will allow her to create a spiffy timetable and an order in which errands and appointments could feasibly be accomplished, only to (at the last minute) rearrange said order into something haphazard and inconvenient that often results in lateness and/or missed appointments as well as an eco-unfriendly expenditure of valuable petrol. Finally, once he has made his manly changes and realized that he has basically fucked up, he gets grumpy and grouses at Lucy for the rest of the day.

Ethel's husband (you know, Fred), takes great pleasure in using his new-fangled GPS device for the car. Even if Fred and Ethel already know directions to whatever their destination--even if they have been to that destination many, many times before--Fred still insists on listening to the directions offered up by the GPS with the disembodied sexy British female voice. Often the GPS will get confused and send them tooling about in interesting circles and loop-de-loops, and all the while Ethel knows exactly where they should be headed but musn't speak up or else then Fred will grouse for the rest of the day.

We know not what your husband's particular dumbness may encompass, but we feel for you. Our best take on the whole situation is merely to allow Husband his manly foibles so that you experience as few grumpy repercussions as possible. And have fun imagining the 2 by 4 scenario, the frying pan scenario, the anvil accidentally falling out of the window scenario . . .

Could You be a Victim of Date Poop?

Dear BHBs:
I have agreed to a date that I'm not sure I want to go on. You see, it happened like this, I was outside my apartment complex taking my dog for a walk when one of my neighbors approached me to chat. He seems like an OK guy, 20 years old (a bit younger than me, let me tell you!), Ukranian, and speaks little English. He said to me, "So, do you want to go to the restaurant?" I had on no make-up and my dog was pooping and I said, "Yes." Now I'm stuck. Did I do a bad thing? Should I try to get out of it?
Poopingly Yours

Dear Some People are into That Kind of Thing:
Well, we shall revert to our patent answer in this case. Go with your gut. Your female intuition should have told you by now whether this guy might be unhealthy for you. If you have any warning bells at all sounding in your head, then please please find a way to politely but firmly cancel the date. From your description of this Poop Date fellow, however; it seems like you think he's kosher, but maybe just not your type. If that is the case, why not let him buy you dinner at "the restaurant" and get to know him a little.

Maybe he is just looking for good, strong American female to make for wife for bringing of all relatives of Ukraine to U.S.A. Or, maybe he just likes you. Of course, if you opt to give him a chance, you may want to consider driving separately and meeting at the restaurant as well as leaving separately (although he obviously already knows where you live). Carry pepper spray.

Consider this, maybe you'll click with said foreigner somehow. Maybe you can live out Ethel's fantasy of hot sex with a good-looking non-English speaking stranger! Oh, just so you know, in Ethel's fantasy, there is no poop.

Coming Soon!

A Merit/Demerit Chart for Husbands is in the works and will soon be coming to a blog near you!

Unsolicited Advice: The Cure

God bless America. We have so much. We are spoiled rotten. Don't get us wrong, we Babes are grateful for the free country in which we live. Americans are so privileged--it seems that since we no longer have to grub and struggle for food or shelter on a day-to-day basis (come on, even minimum wage workers here eat and have an apartment)--anyway, it seems that since we generally don't have those sorts of problems, we have to create problems for ourselves. Many of our current problems really aren't issues in some other parts of the world.

Consider:

*Anorexia and Bulimia are not major problems in Ethiopia.

*Obesity is not an issue in Ethiopia (no crash-celebrity diets or stomach-stapling necessary there).

*Alcoholism is not really a big deal in Ethiopia (you pretty much need grapes or grains or some other sort of excess food-stuffs to make booze).

*Mid-Life Crises are practically non-existent in Ethiopia (how many people there even make it to middle-age?)

*High gas prices have little impact on a large portion of the Ethiopian populous who must rely on animal-power or their own feet for transportation.

In other words, Ethiopia is the cure for so many of our nation's ailments! If you happen to be a big fat middle-aged drunk with body dismorphia who is paying too much for gas for your brand new sports car, consider moving. To Ethiopia. Ethiopians know a few things we don't. They know the cure.

April's Fool

Dear Abby: When a person cooks a meal, isn't it also his or her responsibility to do the dishes when the meal is finished? If not, then who should? I think the cook should be responsible. – Boiling Over in St. Louis

Dear Will Not Work for Food:
You must be the recipient of the food, because we can’t believe the cook would write this.

We totally agree with you. They slaved over a hot stove to cook, and their responsibility does not end there. They should dab your face with your napkin as you eat, perhaps even cut your food into bite-size-pieces. After they are finished with the dishes, they should join you in the loo, so that they may easily wipe your ass as you divest yourself of the food they generously prepared. If any bits spilled on your clothes from out your slack-jawed mouth, the cook should immediately skip to the creek so they may wash them and beat them on a fucking rock as they sing “Old Man River”. Why should their job stop at cooking? It’s madness. If they are not burping you after the meal, they are hateful and you should go eat at some other person’s house. Not ours.

* Edited to add: Lucy wrote the above. Ethel pointed out that at a fancy dinner party, the guests should not do the dishes. Lucy totally agrees, but took the tone of the letter as more of a friend at friend's house kind of thing, as Boiling Over didn't say "dinner party". If it's a friends or family kind of thing, we agreed that at least offering to help with the clean-up is the right thing to do. That is all.

This is Why People Love Tivo

Dear Abby: My husband gets aggravated with romantic commercials on television -- the ones where men do sweet things for their wives, like putting jewelry on them while they sleep, or pulling out that special gift at the dinner table. He says the commercials try to make men feel guilty because they aren't like the ones portrayed.

I have tried telling him that men are, indeed, this way, but I couldn't think of any examples other than my brother and my father, who are very romantic.

There are more than two men who excel at romance, aren't there? Don't most men know how to sweep a woman off her feet?

Dear No Kiss Begins with Kay:
Your man is aggravated because he can’t be like the men in commercials on TV. OK. Yes, he is so very correct to be aggravated at them, because there is no way on Jebus’s green Earth he could ever do nice things for you. It’s impossible to leave a flower by your plate at dinner, or to rub your feet, or to draw you a bath with candles. Those things are like Unicorns and Michael Jackson’s dignity – they don’t exist! They are impossible! We get mad at commercials when they show a sparkling clean floor – our husbands suddenly think that such a thing is attainable and we are in deep shit.

Your husband could learn to do those things for you, but he doesn’t want to. That’s the bottom line. He’d rather get mad at the TV. There are men who try and do nice, romantic things. Do you want one?

LOLLost - I can haz?

So, the BHBs have been up to even more silly than usual (see regular activities such as shitty finger waves in hair, giggling about stupid romance novels starring people named Krondor, and talking about sex ad nauseum.)

We introduce you to a spontaneous contribution to the Universe - LOLLost. It started in the Jezebel commenters section, and is spreading it's benign evil forthwith. If you have no idea to what that refers, then you probably spend more time in life doing, you know, real things in the world that surfing on the internetz, and shame on you. LOLLost is inspired by the stupidness that is LOLCats.

A few of our humble contributions...


So visit the stupidity and make some of your own. You know you want to!

BOSS is a Four-Letter Word

Dear BHB's:
My manager habitually uses foul language during business meetings, and I think the jackass ought to be reprimanded. I ain't exactly a nun, but I do manage to keep my bad words to myself when on the clock because it's against company policy (hello! harassment!). I don't want to go to Human Resources with this, because if I do, somehow it will come back to bite me in the ass. Besides, I hate a snitch. What's your fucking opinion?
Fed Up With Foul Boss

Dear Fucking Fed Up:
Presumably these fucking business meetings involve a number of other employees who also bear witness to your manager's foul mouth. If you like your damn boss, then maybe you and several others can speak to him privately and express your concern over his shitty vocabulary.

If you fucking hate him, then get a mini fucking tape recorder and record him talking shit in one of your fucking shit ass meetings. Then, get your pussy ass friends to fucking buck up, and as a group present the shit to H.R.

Or, if you still can't stomach the tattletale thing, then just feel free to indulge in copious usage of fucking bad words, and encourage your pals to do the same, and fucking force your asshole manager to deal with the damn situation. Hell, if he tries to punish you, and/or your fucking cohorts; simply remind him of his own public indiscretions. I'm pretty fucking sure he doesn't want HIS boss to know what a fuckhead he really is, so probably that should put the whole damn affair to rest. Shit.

Koo-Koo-Ka-Choo

Dear Brutally Honest Babes:
I am about to graduate from high school. I have been dating the same guy for 2 years now. His dad hates me. My birthday is next week and I will be turning 18. My boyfriend is not quite a year younger than me. His dad said if we keep dating after I turn 18 he will call the police and I will be arrested for corrupting a minor or something like that. What can I do?
Troubled Teen

Dear Not Exactly Mrs. Robinson:
Well, that's a doozy. We regretfully inform you that while this whole situation really sucks for both you and your slightly less mature boyfriend, legally, his father could cause you a world of hurt if he so chooses. As much as we (OK, Ethel, at least) fancy younger men, we can only advise that you wait for him to grow up a little, for your own sake. Darn, that's harsh. But vaguely attractive middle school teachers and, of course, priests, have had to go and ruin it for everybody. The law is black and white. You may consider visiting a free legal advice website and inquire as to whether there may be some grey area surrounding your own plight, but on the whole, we think it might be wiser if you and boyfriend part for a time, while you start checking out college boys. Slightly older, beer guzzling frat boys might be a nice change of pace.

As Long as He Doesn't Look Better Than You Do In Them...

Dear BHB's:
What should I do if I found my boyfriend dancing around in my bra and panties?
Sincerely,
Baffled

Dear Baffled:
Did he look good? If yes, hey – dance with him and get lucky. A lay is a lay.

But seriously (actually, we were), a frank discussion is in order. There are plenty of hetero men who are into the nice, soft feeling of silky underthings against the skin. A little fetish can be exciting! If he’s a great guy, and a keeper, then put aside your gender role stereotypes and take a deep breath. After all, a hundred years ago the mens were horrified at the womens daring to wear pants.

Maybe it’s a deal breaker, but it might not be. A good man is hard to find. And a hard man is good to find. Even in Victoria’s Secret.

Daring Darling

Dear Mrs. Web:
My husband wants to go on a dangerous expedition. I am so afraid he will never come home. He has always been an outdoor lover and has taken many trips but this trip will tax him maximally. People have died. He says he wants to go now before we have children. What can I do to stop him?

Dear Married to Evil Knievel:
Take out a multi-million dollar life insurance policy on him immediately. If that doesn't stop him, then at least you will be a wealthy, desirable widow if he becomes lost or stranded in the Amazon or maybe on top of Mount Everest and draws the short straw and winds up as the appetizer for the all-you-can-eat-resorting-to-cannibalism-so-that-others-may-live buffet.

Or, volunteer to go with him. If he loves you enough that he doesn't want YOU to die anytime soon, maybe you can pull the old, "I cannot live without you and must be ever at your side" routine and therefore maybe, for your sake, he will relent but still manage to save face with his presumably thrill seeking and mildly retarded buddies. Maybe.

Or maybe he'll take out a multi-million dollar life insurance policy on you and say, "OK honey, let's go!"

Or, you could tell him how very lonely and horny you will be if he leaves you and goes on this trip, and maybe you could ask one of your male friends (who has a deep and sexy voice) to call your house at random when hubby is home and ask to speak to you. You then whisper desperately into the phone while hubby is still within earshot, "Not now, Giuseppe, my husband hasn't left on his expedition yet!" Perhaps jealousy alone can win the day. And perhaps, if it doesn't, you and Giuseppe can buy a private island and laze about in the sun while your future children frolic merrily in the surf.

Stupid Monster Head

Dear E. Jean:
Back in high school, I had a crush on a senior. I never knew why, but he and his friends tormented me: They started rumors, told their girlfriends horrible lies so they'd want to beat me up, and just made my life as miserable as possible.

Since then, I graduated from college in three years, now work for a top fashion website as an editor, travel, and look damn good. All in all, I'm A-OK and lead a pretty fabulous life. And what are those cool, popular guys up to now? They're either in jail, rehab for drug abuse, or trying to make it as white rappers.

So wouldn't you know…after seven years of no contact, many of them have found me on social-networking sites and have contacted me! One in particular keeps telling me how beautiful I am and asks me out repeatedly. I've been polite, but in no way have I encouraged conversation. Yet he's persisting! I find him revolting, but I feel guilty not responding because his life is so crappy now. How do I nicely convey that I don't want anything to do with him? Or—shudder at the thought!—am I being a jerk for holding a grudge for so long?
Tables Have Turned

Dear Being Nice is For Loser Non-Fabulous People:
Fuck. Him.

Now is not the time for mamby-pamby “please leave me alone” business!

You have two choices. You can either begin to ensnare him a web vengeful lies, leading him on and in a series of coyly suspenseful and Hitchcock-esque dates until he confesses his undying love and you dash his hopes upon the rocks of despair at your high school reunion in front of all his asshole friends with a bucket of PIG’S BLOOD!!!!

*or*

Turn your bad experiences into a best-selling chick-lit book, which in turn will be made into a romantic comedy starring Amy Adams as you and James McAvoy as the nerdy yet sexy boy who secretly loves you from afar. Ok so maybe you didn’t actually have a nerdy yet sexy boy who secretly loved you from afar, but it’s your damn book/ movie. OK, and those people are totally too old to play high schoolers, but we’re tired of seeing anorexic interchangeable teenagers star in shitty high school movies.

What were we talking about?

Oh, yes. Forget high school jerk! Don’t reply to asshat anymore and go be fabulous!

PS - White rappers?

PPS - This blog is titled "Stupid Monster Head" at Lucy's husband's request. No, she doesn't know why. Maybe he just likes Monster Heads. No he doesn't - they're stupid.

"i"

Dear AskJohnQ.com:
i am a girl,16 years old.i am in a relationship right now that has started 8 months ago.he first texted me and told me who he was,because i hadn't noticed him before.we started chatting by messages,when finally,several months later,we became a couple.he is not very attractive in my opinion but i overlooked that because everyone were telling me he was a very good guy.we had a quite normal relationship,but it was obvious(not only to the two of us,but to everyone else as well)that i had the control of him and of the relationship.he once told me he loved me.i wasn't feeling the same,but there were times when he made me so happy.so,i told him that i loved him,too even though it wasn't quite true.so,he kept saying he loved me lots of times.and one day i told him to break up.i don't remember why.but he started crying in front of me!that was when i seriously got sick of him.since then,numerous times i had told him i wanted to be with him,and he accepted,and some days later i wanted to break up.i had other relationships in the meantime,so as he,but i keep returning at him,hoping it will be the last time we will break up.also,a lot of people,usually mine and his friends,tell me he loves me,and i keep hurting him,and i know they think im a really bad person and i should stop doing this.but i really don't know why i keep returning at him or why i keep telling him to break up.i think i feel secure and lovable around him,and i also feel like he's the only one who understands me,but im not sure if i am attracted to him anymore.sometimes i even feel like i know him too much and i get bored around him.and he puts pressure on me by saying he loves me,since i can't say the same anymore.right now we are together again,but it only lasted for a week,because yesterday i told him i need some time to think.i know i should break up with him for the last time,but if i have this feeling again after a while and still want him??and i can't take anymore people telling me i hurt him!i know that,and it's not like i want to hurt him!after all,as selfish as it sounds,i think that first is my feelings and then everyone's else.i seriously don't know what to do!help!

Dear Sweet-and-Sour Sixteen:
You are 16 years old. Friggin' sweet s i x t e e n! We'll tell you what to do. Stop watching shitty reality TV shows and thinking that's how you're life should be. Dump all the boys. Yes, even whiny, crying boy. Especially him. Forever. Hell, maybe you're a lesbian and you don't even know it yet. Get a hobby. For goodness' sake, pay attention in school! Learn how to type "I" as a capital letter. Set some goals for yourself. Join the army. Practice inline skating. Climb Mount Fuji. Learn another language (OK, in your case, start with English). And stop being so selfish. Self-fulfillment comes from helping others. Take a look at Mother Theresa's life. That would have been one hell (excuse us, departed Sister, "heck") of a reality show, as well as a reality check. You're 16. Live and learn.

Don't Be a Fool When You're Foolin' Around

Dear Experts at Glamour:
How do you ask your partner to have a STD check-up?

Dear STD TBD:
We suggest that you do not ASK your partner to have an STD check-up, but rather TELL them no more nookie until they do! How simple is that? You might also volunteer to have a check-up done at the same time, not only to encourage your partner; but also because if they have the Clap then very likely you'll also be hearing the sound of applause. Sex is fun, until somebody loses an eye. Or something.

Anything You Can do to Draw Attention to Your Mouth is Good

Dear AskJohnQ.com:
i have known this man for six years and there is no doubt there is some kind of attraction between us. i think of him all the time. how can i make myself irresistable to him [sic entire question, geez]

Dear It’s Called Punctuation:
Six Years? Are you stuck in a Jane Austin novel? Oh, goodie! Let’s see… you are poor, but pretty enough and have amazing spirit! He is rich and looks wonderful wet, a la Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy. Despair not, sooner or later some improbable confusion will be thrust upon you, and then lifted, as you both discover your unending love!

If you are not actually stuck in an Austen novel, then… six years? Impetuous he is not. We hate to be nay-sayers, but maybe this mutual attraction in is not quite as mutual as you thought.

But for spits and giggles, let’s say there is a torrent of lust in his heart for you. Take a page from the book of Cher from Clueless (a ripping good movie and yet another Austen tale. Is there anything that woman can’t teach us?) Suddenly have some other man. The BHBs thoroughly believe that men want what they cannot have, and they enjoy chasing same. Date someone else casually, and be sure to mention it all the time around Mr. Reckless. Or, do as Cher did and send flowers to yourself, dress sexy and make someone up. Hey, she ended up with her step-brother in the end! That’s… something.

If he still doesn’t come around, then maybe your new casual man could be your torrent of lust. After six years, it sounds like you could really use a torrent of lust.

Mmmmmmm… torrent of lust.

The Icing on the Cake

Dear BHB's:
This is not a question really, merely a statement: "Thank you." Your blog, "Let Them Eat Cake" was in response to my question. It made me laugh, and helped me to let go of the situation. And guess what? My ungrateful relative finally, finally sent me a brief thank you e-mail for the work I did for them. I feel vindicated. Good timing too, actually. I had just gone to the grocery store for a box of Betty Crocker! There is birthday coming up in my family, and I get to be the cake baker. Muhahahahahahaha! OK, just kidding. All is well. Anyway, just thought I should practice what I preach and say thanks to you Babes, too.
Used But at Least Psedo-Appreciated

Dear Cake Baker,
As they say in polite society, "You're Welcome!"

All's Fair in Love and Whore

Dear BHBs:
I have the hots for a guy. He and I are just friends at this point, but he flirts with me. He just started dating someone else, so it's not serious yet. I want to steal him away from her. How do I make him my friend with benefits?
Hot to Trot

Dear Hot to Tart:
We suppose you have to figure out what you really want out of this. If he be not married, then TECHNICALLY he's still fair game. However, there are feelings to be considered on three accounts: yours, his, and his new pseudo-girlfriend's. Are they steady? Is he free to date others at this point? Do you want him as a real boyfriend, or simply for the random booty call?

You say he is not serious with the new gal just yet. If that is the case, then we believe you may without guilt continue to flirt and be mysterious and sexy and taunt him until he must hunt you down and make you his woman. If he is somebody's boyfriend, then leave him be! OK, so maybe he's not married; but do you really want to be the "other woman"? Ethel has certainly been there and done that on several occasions and it is really not fun. As the "other woman" you may experience a brief euphoria of power, but that quickly fades as you realize that you cannot really have what you want from your lover. He will be divided in his affections, and so too will you, as you will both love and hate yourself. Then, of course, you will have always that nagging realization (should you actually manage to steal him away from his girlfriend) that you know he is a cheater (and so are you) and that neither of you can really ever trust one another. Ethel's been there and done that too. It is yucky.

As to making him your "friend with benefits," that is very simple. Just invite him over to your pad and have sex with him. Even if you are lousy in bed, few men would say "no" to free and easy sex. Just don't expect a relationship. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

We're Sorry Sweetie - Here's a Wipe.

Dear TheAnswerMan.com:
My boyfriend told me that he thinks he is becoming more mature because before he used to want a good looking girlfriend but now that is not so important to him. Personality is more important for him now. Then he told me I wasn't so good looking - about 6 or 7 out of 10. But he said he really likes my personality. How should I feel?

Dear 7 of 10:
We think you should feel depressed about dating a douchebag.

Let us elaborate. Yes, it is more mature to judge an entire person rather than just by a pretty face or nice pair of tits. Announcing it, however, is douchey. We’re sorry you got covered in his nasty, sticky self-congratulatory goo. Don’t just sit there with it all over your face! Here's a towel.

There are few perfect 10s in the world, and even they are completely in the eye of the beholder! Lucy likes Manly Men and Ethel likes Pretty Boys, and who is to say which is wrong or right? Your boy thinks you are a 6 or 7. Another might think you are a 9. The more you get to know and love someone, their out-of-10 points go up accordingly.

It’s up to you whether or not you want to stick with Mister Mature. From our end, it sounds like his personality points are headed South fast. Feel proud that you have that great personality (because it is more important), and think about whether you want a boy who rates you a "6 or 7" and clinically spews goo on you wrapped in a faux compliment. We are anti-goo.

Lost in Translation

What makes you think your so great to think you can solve peoples problems anyway?

We have mastered the basics of grammar, spelling, and punctuation. Oh, please allow us to translate for you, “We knows real good how too rite stuff and peoples got problems and your write we are grate.”

Let Them Eat Cake

Dear BHBs:
I recently did a favor to help a relative, spending several hours helping them out on something they had to write. I didn't mind doing it at all. I e-mailed it off to them and after a week have heard nothing back. Not anything saying they got it, or a thank you or anything. I wrote to them, asking if they at least got what I sent (and what I worked so hard on), and once again have heard nothing. Am I a mean person to feel annoyed that I didn't at least get a thanks for helping, even if they hated what I did?
Signed, Used (and Abused)?

Dear Used (and Abused):
We are reminded forcibly of the tale of Chloe the slave at the Myrtles Plantation. Chloe was a house servant purportedly forced into sexual relations with the master. But did the Master appreciate Chloe? Apparently not. He dumped her for another slave and had Chloe’s ear chopped off. That’s gratitude for you. Chloe began sporting a turban to hide her injury. Oh, but there’s more! Because she feared that she would be sent out of the house and made to work in the fields, and perhaps because she just wanted to be appreciated, she concocted a scheme to prove just how valuable a house servant she was. She baked a cake for the Master’s little girls and added a special secret ingredient--poisonous Oleander leaves. It seems Chloe may have intended to make the kiddies ill in order that she might nurse them back to health again (since she knew the remedy for the Oleander), thereby proving her worth as a house servant and finally being APPRECIATED! Oops. Too much Oleander. Bugger. The little girls and the Master’s wife died. Ouch. Chloe got lynched. The end. And to think, if only someone had treated Chloe with a little respect there may have been a slightly happier ending to the story. OK, maybe not that happy, since slavery totally sucks. Sounds to us like you are being treated in a servile fashion; however, unlike poor Chloe, you are free to do something about it. We suggest simply enough, that you do not volunteer your time or services to the ungrateful parties ever again. Period. Do not expect a “thank you” from them for your past efforts, just accept that you cannot force someone to have good manners--and let it go. And bake them a cake. Yes, a cake would be just the thing.

The Keywords to Our Hearts

Dear Readers:

Thanks for reading the Brutally Honest Babes! We give you mucho mucho love on this V-day!

We also have love for our keywords – random searches put into the internets which somehow lead readers to us (or page hits at least). (* Shout-out to Bonnie Gillespie, who first showed her readers the fun search phrases which lead to her site. We’re totally stealing your idea, but at least we said thanks!)

Top Keyword Searches Leading to Brutally Honest Babes:

1. Slutty Gowns
HA! This entry inspired us to write this post. Dare we hope several young women who typed this into the Googles might read our post against slutty gowns and decide to search for “Classy Gowns” instead? Dare… Dare!

2. Wife Eater
We can only hope this is some fun allusion to oral sex, in which we are thoroughly in-favor, as opposed to some nasty “I ate her kidney with some fava beans and a nice chianti” search.

3. Babes in Leggings
This is an oxymoron, as no one is a babe in leggings.

4. Honest Babes
The only true babes are honest ones, wethinks.

5. Brutally Honest Babes
You know our name! Squee!

6. Mr. Irresistible Erotic Story
Um… we wanna know what page they were hoping for, so we can go there, too.

7. Babes.be\
Hmmm.

8. Sexy Honest Babes
Oh, stop! You’re making us blush!

9. Fugly Prom Dresses
Perhaps some fashion student writing a “How to Get Bai Ling to Buy Your Dress” paper?

10. Babes Look
Another Hmmm. Kinda a crappy one on which to end.

We’ll add a bonus, just to end on a fun note.

Bonus: “lucy a lot like ethel but without the camel toe”

If that doesn’t make you smile, there’s something wrong with you.