Bitch Slap of Common Sense: Don't Look Stupid

Ladies, ladies, ladies.

It was over 70 degrees today in Los Angeles. 80 on the valley.

Take. Off. Your. Scarf.

Take. Off. Your. Scarf!!

You're wearing a scarf. Wrapped fifteen times, so that it looks like a lavender goiter protruding from what used to be your neck, but what I now assume is some sort of scarred/ Frankenstein bolt appendage since you choose to put eight pounds of fabric around it.

You're one step away from looking like a Dickensian ragamuffin who will ask me for porridge.

Whatever cute shape you might have is ruined because you look like you killed a muppet and attached it to yourself as some sort of gruesome prize.

You look stupid. Literally. You look like you have little to none of the sense God gave you. It's hot! It's not scarf weather! If you can wear it with short shorts and a tee shirt, TAKE IT OFF!

I don't care if Jennifer Aniston does it, young lady! She looks stupid too!

Now that we have that settled....

Can we discuss the Uggs?

I mean, It was over 70 degrees today in Los Angeles. 80 on the valley...

POOP Not GOOP: Freaky Gwynnie!

Dear Gwyneth Paltrow,

We got your latest GOOP missive about how your daddy flew the two of you to Paris, that one time, for togetherness, or something. And then you told us all about how great Paris is and that we should all go and stay in your nice hotels.

The only problem is this thing. The recession. You see, the Poors are hunkering down and trying to avoid the shit being flung by monkeys on street corners, at them, the monkeys having been sent by the investment banks to destroy us all. With monkey shit. So we can’t go to Paris this week, oh noes!

But we BHBs have a jolly, super fun proposal for you! See, we think you really want to prove that you’re Just Like Us ™ (i.e. The Poors) and that you’re not a completely out-of-touch Richie from McRichieLand. So we want to have an uproarious Freaky Friday Experience with you, in which we switch lives, for a week, and we jet to Paris, to sample the snails therein, and you come to our houses and try to figure out what the hell that smell is. And pay the rent.

So, awesome, right??!!1!

Here’s how it will work.

Happy Great Freaky Friday Experience:

1. Send us your black American Express card number. We totes won’t give it out.

2. You will fly to us. Bring Formula 409 (that is a cleaning product - your maid might have some) and Hobo Beans, to eat.

3. We will do whatever it is you were going to do that week. We act, so no one will notice when we, both, take over your movie role or whatever. Or, we are also available to:
3a) Go to your movie premiere with Joaquin Phoenix. If he shaves. We don’t care if he’s batshit, we just don’t like the beard.
3b) Eat a lot for to make restaurant recommendations.
3c) Consult a Guru so we can write a GOOP about being one with an inner aspect. PS it would be great if that inner aspect were Pot.
3d) Go shopping for items so expensive they will pay our rent forever once we sell them on eBay.
3e) Be introduced to James McAvoy and Matthew McConaughey, because you know them, right?
3f) Flip our awesome blonde hair.

4. You will have a great time at our place(s). Our husbands are available for grilling but not sex, ok?
4a) Don’t worry, we have no sexual interest in your husband.


And that’s the program! Is that great or what? You nourish your inner aspect all over the fucking place and we get lots of pedicures and a break from Life.

Call us!

Stuff Babes Like: LOLLost

So, we dislike many things. Ann Coulter. Stupidity. Panties that ride up.

But we like many things as well. We like LOLLost. It's like I Can Haz Cheezburger, except with Lost.

And we like Lost. Well, Lucy likes Lost. Lucy thinks it's a super de duper show, and not just because the hott men have a tendency to remove their shirts, but that helps.

So check out LOLLost. It's awesome, or we aren't Lucy and Ethel.

OK, we're not Lucy and Ethel in the real lifes, but follow the link anyhow.

Bitch Slap of Common Sense: You are a Weirdo

Lucy: So this girl I knew in high school found me on Facebook. I told her I was writing a romance novel, and made a joke about heaving bosoms. She read it as me talking about how much I like having bosoms. Isn’t that funny?

Lucy’s Hubby: Yeah.

Lucy: I told her I did like having bosoms though.

Lucy’s Hubby: So you haven’t talked to this girl in 10 years?

Lucy: Nope.

Lucy’s Hubby: And your first conversation you mention heaving bosoms.

Lucy: Yes.

Lucy’s Hubby: This, honey, is why people think you are weird.

Lucy: Oh. Really?

Lucy’s Hubby: Yes.

Lucy: So that’s why.

Lucy’s Hubby: Yes.

Lucy: Well, okay. Do you think I’m weird?

Lucy’s Hubby: Yes.

Lucy: Do you mind?

Lucy’s Hubby: No

Lucy: Well that’s good. I do like heaving and having bosoms.

Lucy’s Hubby: I like you having bosoms, too.

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