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