If you’ve ever thought to yourself, boy, I’d like to be the most hated person in Hollywood, be past 40 with my husband leaving me because he can’t stand my primary traits of hovering and bitchery, and largely be perceived as a patronizing, arrogant, ex-pat, then goop is the place for you. It’s like Gwyneth Paltrow took a Better Homes and Garden picture perfect dump and you get to dive in with your spoon and become one with her essence. Goop’s all lower case titling is just the tip of the inane consumer felch fest that lies beyond the simple country doorway. It’s Gwyneth Paltrow’s version of Fat Oprah’s Shit I Love phenomenon. A merchandising orgy of handbags, balms, salves, accessories, self-help books, casual wear and candles made from eye of newt that Gwyneth marks up to a fare-thee-well to enhance the orgasmic tremors experienced by the women who shop there. It was formerly just online, but now in pop-up store format in the Brentwood Country Mart. Gwyneth has vowed to return to Los Angeles like the Lord Sith regrouping after temporary setback in battle. The store is only open until this weekend, after which it will self-immolate and an Ed Hardy store will appear miraculously in its place.
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