This is what happens when you eat a piece of moldy candy

... you sign up to receive Gwyneth Paltrow's weekly newsletter.

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To be fair, I can't entirely blame the moldy chocolate for why I signed up for GOOP, because if you read my previous post about GOOP, you'd see this was very out of character for me (which actually does make a case for some sort of poisoning, now that I think about it).

(I did accidentally eat a moldy truffle today and so did a co-worker and although we're not really ill, the mental anguish and imaginary visuals we're going through is not pretty. I'll spare you the details of how such a thing happened.)

After downing the unfortunate truffle, in order to distract myself, as though my dinner last night was not enough for producing stomach ache inducing food issues this week, I had to read the Fug Girls' post about their addiction to Gwyneth's weekly newsletter.

This was the paragraph that sold me on GOOP:

"But little by little, GOOP's relentless obliviousness sneaks up on you and becomes oddly charming. Once you realize you're reading it not for the information, but for the peek into how Gwyneth ticks, it becomes hilarious — not annoying — when Gwyneth blithely exalts rare hibiscus-flavored Majorcan salt, or recommends giving someone a $1,400 leather weekend-getaway bag for Christmas. You react with an amused, "Of course" when a pal of the woman who once evangelized macrobiotic living produces a recipe called "Dino Meat," made of unappetizing lumps of obscure meat substitute served with mushy grains arranged in the shape of a cow (the awesome photo of which single-handedly validated our continued membership). Entertainingly, even the tongue baths Gwyneth gives to the celebrity pals she’s roped into contributing feel like she thinks they're cute insider dish. Christy Turlington is an “amazing mother” who recommends Jane Austen... There's something endearing about the image of Gwyneth sitting in a garret somewhere banging out a few paragraphs about the butt exercises she does when her trainer goes on tour with Madonna, or nagging Steven Spielberg to boost our cultural education with a list of his favorite flicks. (That he actually did it is also rather sweet.) Indeed, as vanity projects go, at least Gwyneth's intentions are good, if perhaps condescending — like when she had Deepak Chopra proffer tips on how to be grateful at Thanksgiving, as if we Philistines couldn't figure that out otherwise. On the other hand, obviously Deepak is one of her go-to gurus; we're actually shocked the Dalai Lama has escaped her reach."

I mean, who can resist a PR job like that? And it's free, which means I can save up for my Gwyneth-inspired trips to the Ritz in Paris and my stash of hibiscus-flavored Majorcan salt.

Actually, the real reason I signed up is that it might give me more opportunities to hone my Dorothy Parker skills, and/or use GOOP as fodder for future posts (sorry, but it's true). I should give the gal some props though, because in looking through the past issues of GOOP, it's apparent that she must write the thing herself.

And for all of us busy busy bloggers, we know it's a hard thing to come up with something new to say even without the demands of stardom. I have a hard time coming up with ideas and I just have a regular office job. I'm not even close to being friends with Madonna.

So despite the fact that I may or may not have ergot poisoning means that you are the possible beneficiaries of some GOOP wisdom in the relatively near future.

Because good things should be shared, I think.

And snarky things are even better to share. Bring it on, Gwyneth. I need to know more about "nourishing the inner aspect" because I am quite sure that I am not be doing that part correctly. And god knows I could probably do with some butt exercises.