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Poppy’s Coffee Corner: Episode Seven

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Hello Pop Tarts!  I would like to start off by thanking everyone for tuning in and reading my little ‘ole column.  So many of you have sent notes or approached me in public (those that live here in the L.A. area) and mentioned how much you hate seeing ass cheeks hanging out of shorts, which celebrities you’ve bumped into in the grocery, and how you, too, think Jeff Stryker looks like a leprechaun with a huge schlong.  That means you’re reading my little rambles, and it would warm the cockles of my cockles, if I had them.


Today we return to the coffee shop.  Let’s see who I can judge  observe today…


There is an older fellow who comes in every day and walks around the shop like a ninja – except he isn’t dressed in black and he smells like Ben Gay – trying to swipe sections of the newspaper that people have read and discarded.  Octogenarian Newspaper Thief doesn’t buy a coffee, mind you, he just comes in and tries to assemble a full newspaper and then takes it to the gym across the street.  He’ll even approach people who are reading the newspaper and ask them if they are finished with it so he can have it.  The best part is that he gets angry if you want to keep your newspaper.  It’s just tacky.


I once saw him come in and swipe every single shred of newspaper in the store – multiple copies of the same paper.  What does he do with them all?  Toilet paper? Hamsters?  Chronic papier-mâché enthusiast?


And if you don’t know what papier-mâché is, it’s what housewives in Nebraska did before they discovered scrapbooking.


Completely unrelated – I frequently see people walking around with their tag sticking out of their shirts or blouses.  It drives me bananas and I want to go up and fix it so badly, but you have to be careful with that sort of thing.  Pepper spray really burns.


Self-important Low-End Celebrity Stylist is talking far too loudly on his cell phone at the table next to me.  He’s spouting off a list of all the “hot young people” that he wants to come to whatever event he’s putting on soon, and I’ve never heard of any of them.  They all sound like foreign countries to me – “British,” “Jasten,” “Karamalo.”  He’s also said at least three times that “he’s getting old,” and he’s only 30 if he’s a day.  Bitch.  I suppose he thinks I fart dust, and I’m only 35.


Seriously.  35.  Moving on…


Maybe it’s just me, but lately the gay boys here in WeHo look like they got dressed in the dark.  I know for a fact that they looked in the mirror before leaving the house, because it’s part of the DNA and they are far too self-obsessed, so that must mean they thought what they were wearing looked good.  I mean…elephant print Bermuda shorts with a Mickey Mouse t-shirt?  Really?


Don’t do that, Pop Tarts.  Just don’t.  Every time you do, a drag queen loses her wig.


Truly, some of these boys’ clothes look like Spongebob Squarepants vomited on a Disney movie and then fucked Hello Kitty.


Oh…oh…I just heard SILECS (self-important low-end celebrity stylist) mention Jennifer Hudson, one of the Braxton sisters, and Sade.  Now we’re getting into people I know.  Progress.  But quite frankly, if he keeps dropping names, I’m going to punch him.


He also thinks that Mariah is too old for the way she dresses.  And on that point, I agree.


Well, my darlings, that’s it for today.  I have to get back to my World Cup viewing.  I don’t know a friggin’ thing about soccer (being from Alabama, I just can’t bring myself to call it football), but I do love the soccer players.  I only watch because I have faith that one of them will fall down and their pinga will flop out of those slinky shorts.


A girl can hope.





Written By

Poppy Fields is indeed from the Deep South – Alabama, in fact – but don’t hold that against her. As one-half of the cabaret duo, Mack & Poppy, she spends most of her time sewing on rhinestones, rehearsing music, and ogling hot men on the streets of West Hollywood.

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