Posts tagged ‘Lola Tucker’

December 28, 2011

What’s That Sucking Sound?

by LOLA TUCKER
edited by ANDREW J HICKS

According to Lola Tucker, a little plastic surgery isn't a bad thing. (NOT PICTURED: Lola Tucker, a little plastic surgery.)

Recently, while out and about, I heard a lady mention that she’d had liposuction on her waist and hips. I was surprised. She had always been a very attractive woman with a knockout figure.

Now, I should point out, I’m not anti-cosmetic surgery by nature. Of course, I don’t like people who take it so far that they begin to look like a Madam Tussauds Wax Museum figure, with skin so tight their eyebrows are hidden in their hairline. But a little plastic surgery here and there is cool.

I wouldn’t mind a little Restalyn or perhaps some Juvaderm. My upper lip is starting to resemble that of a woman who has been smoking for 30 years. I’ve never even picked up a cigarette.

I had breast reduction surgery. To this day, I can say without hesitation it was the best decision I ever made. And not just because I was worried about my back failing under the weight of my 38DDs. I reduced my boobs purely for vanity’s sake. Let’s face it, there is absolutely nothing attractive about a rack that enters a room several seconds before the rest of this 5’3″ frame strolls in. After my surgery, men started to look me in the eye.

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October 26, 2011

A Hairy Situation

by LOLA TUCKER
edited by TONY FYLER

Woman with a nose-hair remover, about to stick it up her nose.

Note to self: only ever stick one battery-operated personal device up your nose.

So I woke up in a wonderful mood this morning. Bounced out of bed, despite a rather restless night. Cleaned up the house, fed all the critters and hopped in the shower. After washing my hair and exfoliating enough to take off several layers of skin, wrinkles and dry patches, I headed to the mirror for my daily survey of the personal “real estate.”

As I turned on my overhead light, which is brighter than a solar eclipse, I leaned over to see if any new lines had appeared while I was off in La La Land. Nope, not a one. We’re off to a good start. I leaned in closer…

What the hell is that???

Closer…Closer…

Oh my God, it’s a freaking NOSE HAIR!

I started to hyperventilate.

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October 4, 2011

Throw Pillows A-Go-Go

by LOLA TUCKER
edited by TONY FYLER

bed piled high with throw pillows

Look - throw pillows. Purrrrrdy...


It is an ongoing battle in the Tucker household.

I’d like a bedroom that speaks to my romantic side, with deep plush carpeting that doesn’t smell like dog, and just the right mood lighting to always make me look 15 years younger. I want a vanity where I can sit and blow dry my hair like some middle-aged Rapunzel, then put on my 10 pounds of makeup. And, as the centerpiece of my fabulous bedroom, I want a bed that looks like a big marshmallow, complete with about 20 throw pillows.

My husband Bill isn’t really on board with this idea. On more than one occasion, the conversation has gone like this…

BILL: Can you please explain to me why all of these little pillows are on the bed?
ME: They’re for decoration. They are shams and throw pillows.
BILL: So I can’t lay on them?
ME: No, they are not for your head.
BILL: Okay, I give up, then why in hell are they on my bed?
ME: So the bed looks pretty.
BILL: That is the dumbest thing I ever heard. Let’s get rid of them.
ME: We can’t. They cost a fortune, and I love them.
BILL: But you can’t do anything with them. They are completely useless.
ME: I don’t care, they make me happy. Now get your fucking hands off the throw pillows.

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September 7, 2011

’80s Shoulder-Pad Dance Party!

by LOLA TUCKER
edited by ANDREW HICKS

Are your shoulder pads a Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte or Miranda?

Laughing at yourself is fun. Laughing at others is even better.

Now, before you skewer me and throw me over an open flame, let me explain. I am not talking about the kind of laughter that comes from watching another suffer at the hands of cruelty or mean-spiritedness. I am talking about watching your dearest friend, clearly over-served by the bartender, bump and grind on the dance floor with an equally over-served stranger. Or watching someone you adore emerge from the ladies’ room with her skirt tucked neatly in the back of her tights.

I had one such embarrassing incident back in 1988 or so. I was about 24 years old, living in downtown D.C. and running around with the world in my back pocket. My best friends and I spent many a night hitting the club scene, drinking cheap champagne for hours before pouring ourselves into a cab to head home.

Our favorite hangout was an upscale spot along the Georgetown waterfront called the River Club. We owned that joint. We were dressed to impress.

Now, I know not all of you will remember the miracle of shoulder pads and remember them with quite the fondness that I do, but believe me, I thought they were THE BOMB. No fashion ensemble of mine was ever complete without big hair, a short skirt and the biggest shoulder pads I could find.

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August 28, 2011

When Disaster Strikes, Drink Vodka

by LOLA TUCKER
edited by ANDREW HICKS

Shoulda got here a little earlier, lady. The good toilet paper is long gone.

It’s been a rough week for people who live close to the nation’s capital. An “earthquake event” this week led straight into a massive “hurricane event.” Hope you got out your ark and your paddles, folks. Hope you loaded up the animals, and battened down the hatches. Irene’s a real frog-strangler.

Here is the really interesting part. Virginia declared a “state of emergency” on Thursday. First thought in my brain when I heard the news: I wonder how late the liquor store is open. I was out of vodka, and there was no way in hell I was going to weather a Category 3 hurricane without some hooch. While the rest of the world stuffed their grocery carts with non-perishables and toilet paper, I was wondering if I should use grenadine or sweet and sour in the Serene Irene cocktail I was inventing.

(By the way, have you NOTICED how many hurricane names start with the letter I? Ike, Isabelle, Igor. And this is the second Hurricane Irene in 12 years. We should start at “Z” next year and work our way backwards through the alphabet, just for a change of pace. We can call the first one “Zazoo” or “Zippy”.)

It’s always such fun to watch the masses scramble to clean out every item known to man from the grocery store shelves. Hell, chaos reigns supreme after a half-inch of snow is forecasted in the metro D.C. area. I challenge you to find anything worth eating, drinking or wiping your butt with when a snowstorm is approaching around here. The Charmin and Angel Soft are the first to go. Arrive too late, and you will be wiping with house-brand sandpaper during the storm.

My pre-Irene shopping list was as follows — vodka for me, bourbon for my husband, club soda and Pepsi for mixers, a couple of limes, maybe some champagne for mimosas, and of course, Charmin. I didn’t buy any food, because I don’t cook on weekends, and I definitely don’t cook during Category 3 hurricanes. Hot dogs and PB&Js have sufficed just fine, and it’s great to make the Domino’s guy drive to your house during a hurricane.

As of midnight Sunday, my power was still on. I got some pre-season football in, and some booze, and I’ve been using the softest of toilet paper. I never thought I’d say it, but hurricanes can be pretty cool sometimes.

August 3, 2011

Lola’s Nutella Lunacy

by LOLA TUCKER
edited by ANDREW HICKS

Nutella is the new water.

For two years, I have measured, weighed and calculated every morsel of food that I have consumed. I’ve counted calories, carbs, protein, fat grams and fiber content. I’ve said “no” far more often than “yes” to the foods I love. I’ve given up most everything that is white – rice, pasta, sugar, flour and whipped cream. Yes, I’ve lost a ton of weight; yes, I’m much happier thin than heavy; and yes, I’m freaking STARVING!

Enter Nutella, that blissfully silky substance made of hazelnuts, chocolate and sugar. I eat Nutella and peanut butter on pretzels. I eat Nutella on English muffins. I eat Nutella on a spoon inside my mouth. It melts on my tongue and just plain makes me happy. My ass may just grow large enough to get its own cell phone line thanks to that damn jar of Nutella.

Somewhere, a very official group of people is having a meeting in a strip club at lunchtime. They’re paying no attention to the strippers. They’re there to eat from the free Manwich buffet as they thinktank the next great food product with little-to-no nutritional value that will blow up your waistline and cost you a small fortune at the grocery store.

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July 26, 2011

Famous Last Words

by ERIC DOHMAN, WOO and WNF STAFF WRITERS
edited by ANDREW HICKS

"Hurry! Call 911! Act now! Call 911" -Billy Mays

  • “Is that Bubbles?” “No.” “I meant in the syringe.” –Michael Jackson
  • ‎”What the fuck, Brutus?” –Julius Caesar
  • ‎”Maybe I shoulda just eaten that donut.” –Karen Carpenter
  • “Always left, left, left. Let’s see what happens if I go right for a change.” – Dale Earnhardt
  • ‎”Delete all my texts from that black chick.” –Thomas Jefferson
  • ‎”Fuck, I forgot the eyebrows.” –Leonardo DaVinci
  • ‎”I’m on a horse!” –Christopher Reeve
  • “Maybe I was TOO easy?” -Eazy E
  • “Birds. I dedicated my life to a bunch of fucking birds.” –J.J. Audubon
  • ‎”A Tyson fight? I am SO there! Just let me finish this 827 hours of recording time, that’ll in no way fuel rumors that I faked my death by continuing to release CDs posthumously. -Tupac Shakur
  • ‎”If the casket fit… oh… oh shit.” -Johnnie L. Cochran Jr.
  • “O.J., that knife is too big to cut up veggies.” –Nicole Brown Simpson
  • “That white light’s way too small for me to fit through.” –Andre the Giant
  • ‎”I’m still alive, FUCKER!” –Betty White
July 23, 2011

17 Promises

by LOLA TUCKER
edited by ANDREW HICKS

Jesus was totally going to come back in May, but he got stuck attending a wedding he’d forgotten to put in his Outlook calendar. (“Save the date, Jesus!”) So Our Lord has rescheduled his appearance — he’ll be back October 21st this time. I have less than three months to get myself rapture-ready, and I’m going to take it seriously.

I promise to:

  • Not sweat the small stuff. Instead, I will obsess only about really BIG shit that has not yet happened.
  • Stop comparing myself to skinny women under the age of 30. Instead, I will only compare myself to overweight women over the age of 50, which will lead to a healthier level of self-esteem.
  • Spend more time with family, right up to the point where they become completely intolerable.
  • Not let my ass become the size of a truck. The size of a bicycle is my limit.
  • Not spend more than one hour a day on the Internet. Of course, I’m not much of a clock watcher, so that one is a bit of a crap shoot.
  • Work with neglected children, namely my daughter.
  • Stop sending my husband text messages while I am talking to him on the phone.
  • Give up at least three clothing items whose year of origin was 1986-93.
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July 4, 2011

Great Dates in U.S. History

by ANDREW HICKS and WE’RE NOT FUNNY
edited by ANDREW HICKS

Paul Revere was the only Founding Father who had his own genie.

1773 – During a fierce intercontinental orgy, Paul Revere first shouts his signature phrase, “The British are coming!”

1776 – Signing day for the Declaration of Independence, and no one brings a pen. An enterprising Edward Papermate sells his first 12 pack of crappy disposables.

1792 – After years of horrible dry-mouthed hangovers, Eli Whitney scraps his original “cotton gin” project.

1812 – Some war is fought that future generations won’t know shit about.

1833 – At Strom Thurmond‘s Super Sweet 16 party, Strom yells at his dad for getting him a Mexican slave as a birthday gift. (“But Dad! I said I wanted a black one! You’re ruining my life! This birthday sucks! I HATE YOU!”)

1863 – One hour after awakening from a wicked bender, Abraham Lincoln is heard to scream, “I freed WHO?!”

1865 – Despite a very promising horoscope, Robert E. Lee realizes today is NOT going to be a good day.

1906Orville and Wilbur Wright each eat five grams of psilocybin mushrooms and REALLY fly.

1929 – America is plunged into a Great Depression. For a decade, America lies on the couch in sweatpants all day and night, with curtains drawn, getting no enjoyment from everyday activity.

1938 – The automobile is given a back seat, leading to a population explosion.

1963Ralph Kramden is arrested for domestic violence after finally sending Alice to the moon.

1969 – While walking on the moon, Neil Armstrong retrieves a dazed Alice and brings her back to Earth.

1981Wham! is formed, and American/British relations become very gay.

1984Nancy Reagan tells America’s youth to “just say no” to drugs, while Ronald Reagan orders the CIA to infiltrate the nation’s ghettos with a shit-ton of crack cocaine.

1985 – No cure for Parkinson’s disease is found.

1989 – Release of comedy classic Look Who’s Talking. We just love that movie. It’s Bruce Willis doing the voice over for a baby — come on, what’s not to love?

‎1995Monica Lewinsky gets private lessons on how to smoke a cigar. With her vagina.

2001Michael J. Fox takes the Delorean back to 1985 to find a cure for Parkinson’s disease.

‎2009 – The socially disturbing documentary Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia is released. Virginia, which politely asked West Virginia to leave 150 years ago, now files for a legal separation.

2011 – Comedy website We’re Not Funny celebrates its 200th post on July 5.

CONTRIBUTORS: Jeff Bailey, Eric Dohman, James Draper, Buddah Eskew, Ryan Krause, Saracakes and Lola Tucker

June 24, 2011

The Margarita Machine

by LOLA TUCKER
edited by ANDREW HICKS

Lola Tucker's divorced female friend doesn't have time to shave her arms since she got ahold of the Buffett margarita machine.

Last night, as a gift to myself, I trekked across town to the home of a friend who just finalized her divorce. She lives in a bachelorette rental paradise where she doesn’t have to deal with anyone else’s laundry, mess, hairs in the bathroom sink or unflushed toilets. Best of all, on the counter of her perfectly decorated kitchen bar area is — drumroll, please — a JIMMY BUFFETT MARGARITA MACHINE.

I found myself coveting it, longing for it. It was huge, nearly large enough to drown every ounce of stress that is currently plaguing my life. It shaved the ice instead of crushing it, and it even had a cool compartment that drained off any water that had melted from the ice, so it wouldn’t water down your drinks.

What an engineering marvel. I mean it. If any nominating member of the Nobel Prize committee is reading this, forget about that scientist who figured out how to self-replicate life with synthetic DNA, and give some props to the inventor of the Buffett margarita machine instead.

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June 3, 2011

Dear Ex: Anonymous Kiss-Offs

edited by ANDREW HICKS
creatively conceived by ALLISON STEIN

Dear Ex: You were not as attractive as I led you to believe.

Dear Ex: Thanks for all the child support. You’re not her father.

Dear Ex: I feel like I can tell you now — you don’t have to pray about EVERYthing. Pretty sure you’ve got the green light from the Almighty if you wanna have a popsicle.

Dear Ex: I’d undercook your meat sometimes.

Dear Ex: I still laugh my ass off that the guy you married after me turned out to be huuuuuugely gay. Not mature, but funny as hell.

Dear Ex: Weekday daddy busted a jizzload on your side of the bed.

Dear Ex: I made out with your mom more than I made out with you. And she was better at it. But that’s no secret.

Dear Ex: Remember how I said you were the best sex I ever had? The only orgasms I ever had during our marriage were the ones I gave myself. Thanks for nothing. Love, Me.

Dear Ex: I could tell you were not a habitual marijuana smoker when we got high and you spent the next two hours scratching down your entire body while singing a song called “Itchy Time.”

Dear Ex: Your brother used to try to have sex with me every time you weren’t home.

Dear Ex: I find it completely hilarious that I actually slept with more women than you did, and they were better in bed.

Dear Ex: I still get good laughs telling people how, every time you saw a stray dog or cat walking on the side of the road, you would stop the car, pull over, throw open the passenger side door and yell, “Go home! Go home! Go home, doggy! You have a home! Go there and be safe!”

Dear Ex: Your mother doesn’t love you. She told me once she wished you’d never been born.

Dear Ex: We might have worked out if we hadn’t been so hopelessly incompatible in bed. We made the best of it, but in all fairness, your squeaking noises during sex ruined the mood. Also, it would have helped if your dick stayed hard the whole time.

Dear Ex: Dental hygiene is important. Brush up!

Dear Ex: I used your toothbrush to clean the sink. Every time.

Dear Ex: I fucked a random Italian man the night before our wedding.

Dear Ex: Your hair is not growing back in. Not even a little, so stop spending the equivalent of the national deficit on Rogaine. You’re fucking bald.

Dear Ex: Remember that night you were so drunk, but you swore we had sex? We didn’t. I had sex with your best friend. You watched from a chair in the corner, holding your dick in your hand.

Dear Ex: If I’d known when I left that you’d become an evangelical Christian… nah, screw it, I still would have left.

Dear Ex: I appreciate you staying in contact with me for seven or eight years after I broke up with you, saying you always wanted to be friends. I do find it curious, however, that since you’ve married that doctor, I haven’t heard a single word.

CONTRIBUTORS: Allison Stein, Lola Tucker, Andrew Hicks, J.Miz, Tony Fyler, Woo

June 2, 2011

POLL: Tell Your Catholic Priest

CONTRIBUTORS: Jeff Bailey, Eric Dohman, Buddah Eskew, Scotty Harris, Lola Tucker

May 28, 2011

Taste the Rainbow of Depends®

by LOLA TUCKER
edited by ANDREW HICKS

This image stolen from some old broad.

I can see menopause from my back door. What a crappy view.

For those of you who were unaware of the newly designated National Day of Mourning, let me be the first to bring you the news. From now on, my birthday shall officially be known as That Old Broad’s Pity Party. I even called my Congressman and had him bring it to the floor for a vote. Congress can’t agree on much these days, but they certainly could agree on one thing — that redheaded chick that lives in Manassas, Virginia? SHE IS GETTING OLD! I love bipartisan spirit. Please send your condolence cards directly to my home. I will be there, crying in my dirty martini and applying wrinkle cream with a putty knife.

I’m not really sure how this happened, but it sure did happen quickly. One day I was partying like a rock star with my rock star friends, all of us pretending like we were important and in charge of the world. The next day, my 11-year-old daughter was referring to me as “pre-elderly” and laughing at the music I listened to “back in the day.” WTF?

I don’t feel old. I’d like to think I don’t LOOK old, but apparently — to an 11 year old — I appear ancient. She probably thinks I’m in the beginning stages of Alzheimers, which is quite possible since I can’t remember shit anymore. I wonder when she’ll start looking at nursing homes for her ailing mom. I hope she picks a place in a warm weather climate, as
cold weather at my age has also become truly unappealing. It should be illegal to have arthritic hips in your forties.

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