POPPY’S COFFEE CORNER – EPISODE TEN
In which Poppy discusses star-sightings and schlong-sightings…
Hello, Pop Tarts! I’m sorry that it’s taken a few weeks to get another edition of “Coffee Corner” to you, but I have been busier than a double-jointed hooker during Fleet Week.
We lost some great talents since my last column…Robin Williams…Lauren Bacall…the wonderfully irreverent Joan Rivers. There have been riots, horrible things happening overseas…threat of war; let’s face it – the world is going to hell in a hand-basket, Pop Tarts. That’s all I’m going to say about somber matters, but let’s all try to be kind to each other. Every little bit helps.
Those of you who follow my Facebook feed may have seen that I had another celebrity encounter a few weeks ago with Jaime Lee Curtis. Unfortunately I didn’t get the opportunity to
accost approach her, since she was in her car next to me while stopped at a traffic light, but I can report that she looks wonderful – aging beautifully (yes, there apparently IS such a thing) without looking face-pulled like someone’s bunji-jumping off the back of her head. And she was driving a Tesla – so go on with your bad eco-friendly self, Ms. C!
And then, just the other day, I passed the incredibly yummy Matt Bomer coming out of the place where I get my facials, (get your minds out of the gutter…I mean my aesthetician…) and he was just as gorgeous in person as he is on the screen.
Speaking of things that make my mouth water…
Over the past few weeks I’ve been increasingly aware by the number of – how do I put this delicately? – large packages that I’ve seen flopping about the neighborhood…and Pop Tarts, I’m not talking about those delivered by UPS. When I was younger, we used to refer to these as “baskets,” but now I think the word the kids are using is “junk.” Anyway, an abundance of men have been strolling to and fro and the motion below their belts has been driving me to distraction. The other day a particularly well-blessed gentleman walked by and I was so engrossed with the view I walked into a parking meter.
It hurt like a bitch, but a buck-fifty in quarters popped out. Cha-ching!
And I know some of you are thinking, “well, Poppy, isn’t that a bit hypocritical of you, since you frequently bemoan women who walk around with shorts so short their ass cheeks hang out?”
Yes. Yes it is. And I don’t care.
It would seem that the men of today are following in the footsteps of Jon Hamm, Idris Elba, and Justin Theroux, flaunting their baby-makers unabashedly with great pride, and I’m all for it! If you don’t know what this means, Google the aforementioned gentlemen’s names with the tag “bulge” and you’ll soon learn what I mean. And you know what, I don’t blame them. If I had to carry around all that extra luggage I, too, would want a healthy breeze stirring around my undercarriage.
You see, even when a man goes commando and wears shorts so thin that we can tell his religion, there is still somewhat of an air of mystery. It’s like a golf club wrapped in Christmas paper. You know it’s a club, and a big one; but you don’t know how it will feel in your hand or drive on the course until you unwrap it and try out the grip. And if you really know what you’re doing, you’re bound to get a hole-in-one. But I digress…
I’ll admit it – I’m a crotch-watcher. Card-carrying. So if you see me on the street and I’m wearing very dark sunglasses, you know why. It’s so I can discreetly check out the flapping and billowing of a well-filled pair of soccer shorts. And if I happen to be headed directly for a parking meter or a light-pole, please…shout my name and bring me out of my reverie. I paid good money for this face, and I want to keep it intact.