Ok. I think I’ve figured out the solution to all my problems...I need a gigolo. Wait! Bear with me. Let’s look at this logically and reasonably:
First of all, I am objectively hot. Ok, so that has nothing to do with this situation whatsoever, but I only have a couple of good things going for me right now so I’ve got to capitalize on the shit that's actually working. So there.
Second, I’m losing my total mole! This is way beyond stroking the wooden handle of Ye Olde Renaissance Festival Hottie's goods at the sword shop. Seriously, I'm so desperate that I'm way beyond wanting to slum. I'm like face down, thrashing around and licking the bottom of barrel here. At this point, I am fully prepared to shell out for some sugar if it will increase the quality of my prospects. Please God, let them accept Discover.
And finally, I don’t have time to talk to stupid boys and get to know them and pretend to care about their gay feelings. I just need some action here, folks! As you may know, I am officially a tortured musician, so I don’t have time for flowery romantic happiness crap. In fact, the more angst ridden and excruciating the purely sex-driven relationship is, the better! More angry songs! Hooray!
Since we already know and agree that I am the Godfather of hotness (except that I am not a dude, nor do I speak with an unusual speech impediment...and I don't whack people either, just unspeakable trolliness) we can move on to the sad ways in which I am spinning out of control. I swear sweetie pies, it’s getting to the point where I can smell hot guys before I see them. My crew can vouch for me when I say that we’ll be out boozing when suddenly, my nostrils flare and I start growling like a wild boar whilst making rude tongue gestures at the subjects of good-smelliness. I miss whole chunks of totally crucial conversations, like, "I've got some bark on my tongue, could you brush it off for me?"
It's even escalated to the point where I do it when I'm by myself. For instance, yesterday, I was driving along and rocking out to some serious Zombie "Thunderkiss '65" when I nearly skidded off the road drooling out the window. I’m ashamed to admit that it was little high school track boys running like youthful gods on Ward Parkway. Their virgin bodies…glistening. And those tiny shorts. Riding up higher and higher with every stride of their taught, meaty legs. Alone in my car, I screamed, “That’s right, babies! Let mama show you what a real woman looks like!!!”
Help me. Please. Somebody.
Proof That You Are Cooler Than Me
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Just in case you are still traumatized from the family freak show that is Turkey Day, I come bearing more Summer is a Huge Tool Stories to ease the pain. It’s official, babies . . . I have sunk to a new low. I know, I know. I didn’t think it was possible either, but indeed it was. Last weekend, I got so shit faced that I threw up in a sink in a strip club. I threw up. In a fucking sink. In a motherfucking strip club. God, I'm lame!
I haven’t boozed till I hurled in years and frankly, I never planned on doing it ever again. I am still nasally scarred from becoming so well acquainted with the stench of dormitory-Ty-D-Bol during my freshman year of college. And what sucks sick Elephantitis balls so bad is that I’m like a hundred years too old to still be doing this shit. Seriously! And unfortunately for me, I remember the events of the entire humiliating experience in lucid, if not mildly psychedelic detail.
I vividly recall sitting alone at a table in the club. I was wincing into the strobe lights and feeling very proud of sitting up (albeit unsteadily) all by myself. Magically, as if a gift from God, a lit cigarette materialized in my hand. Then in a dream-like sequence, as drunken stupors are so often inclined to yield, my head was tipped back as a girl’s face appeared over mine and she layed a turbo huge kiss on me. On the freaking lips! She must have been giving lap dances to the boys behind me and convinced herself that I needed to be resuscitated. And of course, this all seemed like perfectly agreeable public behavior at the time.
After that random experience, I somehow managed to lurch my way up to the lap dance zone and squeeze myself between my boys on the freaky couch thing. The smoochy stripper took it upon herself to commence educating me in the fine art of lap dancing. In my totally unbiased and self-effacing opinion, I am an absolute prodigy. And I was completely bombed too! Can you imagine if I had been sober? I am clearly a smoking hot stripper in an alternate universe. Oh, alright. If I don’t get a job soon, I'll probably be one in this reality as well. Shut it.
Regardless, at this point in the deliciously flattering story, I was starting to sweat and thus realized that the world was coming to a screeching halt. I thought I was being so incognito by nonchalantly sauntering to the restroom, but Mer psychically sensed the ensuing drama and succeeded in clipping my hair up with superhuman speed. It was so offensively sad that even the strippers were offering their comfort. One chick was patting my head and saying, "It's ok, mama. You're gonna be just fine, mama." They even got me a Sprite and shortly thereafter, I was disgracefully escorted out of the bar. (Insert defeated sigh of shame here.)
I fell/sat down on the ground outside in a state of total mortification with Mer, Rick and Brian all crouching around me, trying to cheer me up by telling me their own vomit-in-public stories. I have to say that these stories were hilariously impressive and one excellently involved an unnamed party having to be transported from the hotel lobby to their room via a luggage cart. How much ass does that story kick? That is truly partying in the spirit of rock and roll.
Anywho, I survived my less than glamorous night of partying like a rock star and I swear that am never drinking or having any sort of fun ever again. I mean it. I am a nun, yo. It's chastity and gesticulating from here on out. Hee hee. Gesticulate. Funny word.
I haven’t boozed till I hurled in years and frankly, I never planned on doing it ever again. I am still nasally scarred from becoming so well acquainted with the stench of dormitory-Ty-D-Bol during my freshman year of college. And what sucks sick Elephantitis balls so bad is that I’m like a hundred years too old to still be doing this shit. Seriously! And unfortunately for me, I remember the events of the entire humiliating experience in lucid, if not mildly psychedelic detail.
I vividly recall sitting alone at a table in the club. I was wincing into the strobe lights and feeling very proud of sitting up (albeit unsteadily) all by myself. Magically, as if a gift from God, a lit cigarette materialized in my hand. Then in a dream-like sequence, as drunken stupors are so often inclined to yield, my head was tipped back as a girl’s face appeared over mine and she layed a turbo huge kiss on me. On the freaking lips! She must have been giving lap dances to the boys behind me and convinced herself that I needed to be resuscitated. And of course, this all seemed like perfectly agreeable public behavior at the time.
After that random experience, I somehow managed to lurch my way up to the lap dance zone and squeeze myself between my boys on the freaky couch thing. The smoochy stripper took it upon herself to commence educating me in the fine art of lap dancing. In my totally unbiased and self-effacing opinion, I am an absolute prodigy. And I was completely bombed too! Can you imagine if I had been sober? I am clearly a smoking hot stripper in an alternate universe. Oh, alright. If I don’t get a job soon, I'll probably be one in this reality as well. Shut it.
Regardless, at this point in the deliciously flattering story, I was starting to sweat and thus realized that the world was coming to a screeching halt. I thought I was being so incognito by nonchalantly sauntering to the restroom, but Mer psychically sensed the ensuing drama and succeeded in clipping my hair up with superhuman speed. It was so offensively sad that even the strippers were offering their comfort. One chick was patting my head and saying, "It's ok, mama. You're gonna be just fine, mama." They even got me a Sprite and shortly thereafter, I was disgracefully escorted out of the bar. (Insert defeated sigh of shame here.)
I fell/sat down on the ground outside in a state of total mortification with Mer, Rick and Brian all crouching around me, trying to cheer me up by telling me their own vomit-in-public stories. I have to say that these stories were hilariously impressive and one excellently involved an unnamed party having to be transported from the hotel lobby to their room via a luggage cart. How much ass does that story kick? That is truly partying in the spirit of rock and roll.
Anywho, I survived my less than glamorous night of partying like a rock star and I swear that am never drinking or having any sort of fun ever again. I mean it. I am a nun, yo. It's chastity and gesticulating from here on out. Hee hee. Gesticulate. Funny word.
»
Shout. Shout. Let It All Out.
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Last weekend, I went to see Tears for Fears. Who wants to touch me? Go ahead. I know you want to. But do be careful. You might get burned by the flaming hotness that is this ASS! Look at this ass! Look, God damn it, look! Ahem. Sorry. Anywho, they totally wailed! Despite a lackluster performance of “Shout,” they kicked the ass of “Head Over Heels” so much so, that I will be bleeding out the back door for days in sympathy. I love for Tears for Fears!
Despite the excellent rocking outage, I was totally distracted by a ghastly trend that was brought to my attention at the concert: Modern Eighty’s Dancing. Holy shit, I was shocked! I mean, I know that Tears was largely an eighty’s phenomenon, but I really didn’t expect people to just stop time in high school circa 1986 and then regurgitate the dance moves from their puffy-sleeved prom into the lap of the present day. Yikes! I was slightly amused and a little scared.
Now for the record, I’ve gone to eighty’s night at clubs before and I have shamelessly loved every minute of it. Unfortunately, I always end up standing there like a complete douche, trying to figure out how to work it on the dance floor. I just can’t do it! It’s not that I don’t dig the music, it’s just that it doesn’t inspire the booty like hip hop does. All my dancing is in the ass. I hear a good beat and it starts going all by itself. I actually have very little control over it. I just have to go with it, hope for the best, and swat men off of it as they try to dry hump it in passing.
In case you are like me and are a child of the booty era, please allow me to educate you in the manner of Eighty’s Dancing. There are several acceptable forms which you may commence practicing in the privacy of your home in front of the mirror. Don’t be embarrassed, we all do it. I’m gonna go get my legwarmers, sweatband, and leotard, you go put on “You Spin Me Right Round, Baby,” and stand with your feet shoulder width apart. Now, bounce in a furious jerking motion using only your knees. Once you have the rhythm, you may begin shifting your weight from one leg to the next while maintaining the motion of wrenching yourself up and down with your knee joints. Ass should not be moving. At all. If it moves, you’re out, Tom. Think Lord of the Dance.
Now for the torso; this is the key, people. Pay close attention or I will spank you with a VHS copy of Sixteen Candles. The unwavering rule is to always lead with the shoulder. Stick that left one way out there and rotate your body 180 degrees with it from left to right. You may have to take it easy on the knee bouncing while you get the hang of this move or you might blow out a joint or two. I tried this earlier and had to be hospitalized because my right leg popped off like a Ken doll.
Now that you can fling yourself up and down like a pivoting jackhammer, you’ve got to work that head (insert adolescent snickering here.) There is only one acceptable way to move your head whilst eighty’s dancing: you will nod furiously as though Pamela Anderson or Brad Pitt, or possibly Pamela Anderson and Brad Pitt, depending on your preference, just walked in and said, “Wanna finger paint my delicious bod with melted chocolate, hot marshmallows, and graham crackers?” Don’t dream it, be it.
You are on your way to being an eighty’s dance master…get excited! You have three choices of arm motions: clapping, pumping fists, or air drumming . Let’s begin with the clapping. The more widely accepted form of this gesture is to hold arms rigidly at sides, with forearms at a 90 degree angle to torso. Your fingers should be extended and you should be clapping like a seal in heat.
The second movement of the arms can be achieved by spreading your arms out as if you were being crucified. Now, roll forearms up so that they point to the ceiling. You will now look very much like Beavis screaming “I am Cornholio!” Because you are. Now, ball up your fists as if you were hanging onto suspended handlebars in my bedroom. Because you will be tonight, baby! Ow ow! Now, thrust those fists into the air as hard as you can. The object of eighty’s dancing is not fluidity, but rather flinging one’s body around to resemble an epileptic seizure.
Finally, your last option for arm movements is the ever popular air drumming. Assume the Cornholio position (insert full out cackling here.) Now don’t get too crazy with it because you are only allowed to flick your wrists as your hands hold the imaginary drumsticks. It is preferable if you drum during the off beats, or better yet, when there are no beats at all.
If you can combine the bouncing, rotating, and alternate between the three exciting versions of hand motions, you will be a star. Granted, a star that has missed his or her moment to be discovered by Prince in a smoky cool dance club whilst wearing spandex, glitter, and sporting large brunette hair, then named something exotic like Carmen Electra and subsequently challenged to a wicked game of hoops, but never fear, you’re totally going to rock the hizouse in your bedroom by yourself. Not that you don't anyway, but it can't hurt to add a little something something to your repertoire, right? Woo hoo!
Despite the excellent rocking outage, I was totally distracted by a ghastly trend that was brought to my attention at the concert: Modern Eighty’s Dancing. Holy shit, I was shocked! I mean, I know that Tears was largely an eighty’s phenomenon, but I really didn’t expect people to just stop time in high school circa 1986 and then regurgitate the dance moves from their puffy-sleeved prom into the lap of the present day. Yikes! I was slightly amused and a little scared.
Now for the record, I’ve gone to eighty’s night at clubs before and I have shamelessly loved every minute of it. Unfortunately, I always end up standing there like a complete douche, trying to figure out how to work it on the dance floor. I just can’t do it! It’s not that I don’t dig the music, it’s just that it doesn’t inspire the booty like hip hop does. All my dancing is in the ass. I hear a good beat and it starts going all by itself. I actually have very little control over it. I just have to go with it, hope for the best, and swat men off of it as they try to dry hump it in passing.
In case you are like me and are a child of the booty era, please allow me to educate you in the manner of Eighty’s Dancing. There are several acceptable forms which you may commence practicing in the privacy of your home in front of the mirror. Don’t be embarrassed, we all do it. I’m gonna go get my legwarmers, sweatband, and leotard, you go put on “You Spin Me Right Round, Baby,” and stand with your feet shoulder width apart. Now, bounce in a furious jerking motion using only your knees. Once you have the rhythm, you may begin shifting your weight from one leg to the next while maintaining the motion of wrenching yourself up and down with your knee joints. Ass should not be moving. At all. If it moves, you’re out, Tom. Think Lord of the Dance.
Now for the torso; this is the key, people. Pay close attention or I will spank you with a VHS copy of Sixteen Candles. The unwavering rule is to always lead with the shoulder. Stick that left one way out there and rotate your body 180 degrees with it from left to right. You may have to take it easy on the knee bouncing while you get the hang of this move or you might blow out a joint or two. I tried this earlier and had to be hospitalized because my right leg popped off like a Ken doll.
Now that you can fling yourself up and down like a pivoting jackhammer, you’ve got to work that head (insert adolescent snickering here.) There is only one acceptable way to move your head whilst eighty’s dancing: you will nod furiously as though Pamela Anderson or Brad Pitt, or possibly Pamela Anderson and Brad Pitt, depending on your preference, just walked in and said, “Wanna finger paint my delicious bod with melted chocolate, hot marshmallows, and graham crackers?” Don’t dream it, be it.
You are on your way to being an eighty’s dance master…get excited! You have three choices of arm motions: clapping, pumping fists, or air drumming . Let’s begin with the clapping. The more widely accepted form of this gesture is to hold arms rigidly at sides, with forearms at a 90 degree angle to torso. Your fingers should be extended and you should be clapping like a seal in heat.
The second movement of the arms can be achieved by spreading your arms out as if you were being crucified. Now, roll forearms up so that they point to the ceiling. You will now look very much like Beavis screaming “I am Cornholio!” Because you are. Now, ball up your fists as if you were hanging onto suspended handlebars in my bedroom. Because you will be tonight, baby! Ow ow! Now, thrust those fists into the air as hard as you can. The object of eighty’s dancing is not fluidity, but rather flinging one’s body around to resemble an epileptic seizure.
Finally, your last option for arm movements is the ever popular air drumming. Assume the Cornholio position (insert full out cackling here.) Now don’t get too crazy with it because you are only allowed to flick your wrists as your hands hold the imaginary drumsticks. It is preferable if you drum during the off beats, or better yet, when there are no beats at all.
If you can combine the bouncing, rotating, and alternate between the three exciting versions of hand motions, you will be a star. Granted, a star that has missed his or her moment to be discovered by Prince in a smoky cool dance club whilst wearing spandex, glitter, and sporting large brunette hair, then named something exotic like Carmen Electra and subsequently challenged to a wicked game of hoops, but never fear, you’re totally going to rock the hizouse in your bedroom by yourself. Not that you don't anyway, but it can't hurt to add a little something something to your repertoire, right? Woo hoo!
»
I Hate Girls
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Wow. I’m not sure if I should just smile and say, “I take it back. Boys are all that is pure and beautiful and brilliant in this world,” or just copy and paste some of the atrocious pleas of defense I’ve received, throw my hands up, and say…”I told you so!” I’m so confused. Several males, in genuinely valiant efforts to redeem their bretheren, only succeeded in turning me gay. It’s official, girls. I’m yours for the taking. Call me Willow from now on. I will only play softball and wear flannel from this day forth.
So, seeing as I am now a lesbian, I will have to start critiquing women instead of men. Eat your hearts out, boys. Let’s start with the first kind of Women I Hate Most: The Guy’s Girl. Oooh. I have to shudder when I type that. These are the most beastly creatures ever. These skanks are easily identifiable by their frequent boasting of their Guy’s Girldom. A woman will meet one and within the first several conversations, the Guy’s Troll will make it clear that she is not interested in being friends because she “get’s along better with guys.” And she most certainly does. Hem hem hem.
What they won’t tell you, is why they are a Guy’s Hoochie. It’s not because they are sporty or grew up with a bunch of brothers, it’s because they do not respect other women. They operate under the assumption that male opinions are more valuable than anything, except possibly for the priority of wearing hideous clothing. Privately, they are very insecure, so they surround themselves with guys who constantly validate their attractiveness and fuel their egos. They know that they could probably sleep with any of these guys, but that’s not the goal. The objective is to be adored and respected by men because they don’t give a flying fuck through a rolling doughnut about other women. They will be the first to gleefully stab another woman in the back because to them, girlies are inferior.
These brutish girls are slightly oily and inappropriately dressed. They have stringy hair and chug beer with their best friends, which are obviously guys. The Guy’s Whore secretly sizes up her friends’ new girlfriends and thinks, “She’s not so cute. And she has no tits. Good thing I wore my lowest cut shirt that is three times too tight for my wooly mammoth fucking ta tas.” Her milky little mind is threatened by the new girl, so she aggressively throws her breasts around and pisses on her guy friends, thus marking her territory in an effort to assert her dominance.
It could end with The Guy’s Slut intimidating the new girl out of the picture, but in my unfortunate experiences, they usually rock the world of the proverbial guy friend all night long just to ensure his loyalty to her. Fortunately for the rest of womankind, this rarely works. She gets on him, he gets off, things get weird, and she is eventually ostracized from the group. Do not pity the Guy’s Party Favor, for she loves this nomadic lifestyle and feeds off of threatening other girls. All these fugly spazoids really care about is having weirdly unhealthy, sexually tense relationships with men. They closely resemble the wild North American Stupid Boy (as seen on the Discovery Channel, yo) in that they mimic his behavior by treating women like objects and frequently squatting near the first available phallic symbol to prove their version of virility.
Then there is the more malevolent of the sort of Women I Hate Most: The Evil Psycho Bitch That Pretends to Be Your Friend Until They Distort Everything You’ve Ever Said, Rip Out Your Lungs, Eat Them, and Make Everybody, Including Yourself, Hate You. These are the most frightening monsters to ever inhabit the earth. They make crocodiles look like fluffy pink bunnies and even have the creepy dead eye thing going for them. The reason these devil bitches are so sinister is that there is absolutely no motivation for their attacks. They usually are at peace with their inner children and have pleasant lives but still, as if emotional serial killers, they cheerfully destroy other women through a series of calculating, diabolical, and Cartman-a-la-“Scott-Tenorman-Must-Die-“plots.
They ally themselves with weakling Minion Girls that will do their vicious bidding. These hos are also detestable and vile, but they will take so much abuse from the Evil Psychos that they inevitably get bitten in the ass by karma. Hooray! The Evil Psycho Bitch uses these feeble followers to execute her destruction, usually employing them to gather information on the things that her target loves the most so she can suck them dry like so much tick. She manipulates everyone around her and uses her sharp intellect to stab out the reproductive organs of anyone who dares to displease her.
They are usually beautiful and/or wealthy. They must have something superficial with which to lord over others and keep them in constant fear/admiration of their superiority. As far as men go, they are simply meaningless possessions. They will collect them as accessories and wear them until they go out of fashion. Evil Psycho Bitches care about no one.
Their favorite victims are nice girls who don’t recognize The Bitches for what they are. They start out so friendly and have cute little noses that wrinkle when they smile and they effortlessly make these normal girls feel so included. But slowly, their true face starts to peek out from under all that Bobbi Brown makeup and the horns sprout. It starts with little things like excluding the girl from a much anticipated event, then the minions and their vile leader go on and on about how much fun it was in the manner of, "And oh my GOD! Barbie made out with (insert guy nice girl lives for) then fell out of a moving cab! It was so thrashin'!"
Then the freak show moves on to the seemingly offhand comments about the normal girl’s hair, clothes, car, boy, whatever. They’ll say, “Hmm. You should really cut your hair. You’d look so much cuter without all those split ends.” Or “God, you always dress like a grandma. HA ha ha ha! Just kidding,” as if the laughter and insincere disclaimer makes the totally ass lickingly rude remark ok. Then, after they’ve shattered the nice girl’s entire world, they will screw her boyfriend. Twice. On film.
So you see babies, it’s not just boys, it’s everybody. People are stupid. I really would invite you to join the I Hate People Club, but I hate you all too much. Mwa ha haaaa! Oh, I’m just kidding. I hate everybody but you guys. You’re my pumpkins! And now I hope you are all tucked into the crook of my arm, smoking cigarettes, and feeling completely satisfied with the warm and fuzzy knowledge that I don’t single out any one gender to mock. I am equal opportunistic in my scorn. Yay for impartial disdain!
So, seeing as I am now a lesbian, I will have to start critiquing women instead of men. Eat your hearts out, boys. Let’s start with the first kind of Women I Hate Most: The Guy’s Girl. Oooh. I have to shudder when I type that. These are the most beastly creatures ever. These skanks are easily identifiable by their frequent boasting of their Guy’s Girldom. A woman will meet one and within the first several conversations, the Guy’s Troll will make it clear that she is not interested in being friends because she “get’s along better with guys.” And she most certainly does. Hem hem hem.
What they won’t tell you, is why they are a Guy’s Hoochie. It’s not because they are sporty or grew up with a bunch of brothers, it’s because they do not respect other women. They operate under the assumption that male opinions are more valuable than anything, except possibly for the priority of wearing hideous clothing. Privately, they are very insecure, so they surround themselves with guys who constantly validate their attractiveness and fuel their egos. They know that they could probably sleep with any of these guys, but that’s not the goal. The objective is to be adored and respected by men because they don’t give a flying fuck through a rolling doughnut about other women. They will be the first to gleefully stab another woman in the back because to them, girlies are inferior.
These brutish girls are slightly oily and inappropriately dressed. They have stringy hair and chug beer with their best friends, which are obviously guys. The Guy’s Whore secretly sizes up her friends’ new girlfriends and thinks, “She’s not so cute. And she has no tits. Good thing I wore my lowest cut shirt that is three times too tight for my wooly mammoth fucking ta tas.” Her milky little mind is threatened by the new girl, so she aggressively throws her breasts around and pisses on her guy friends, thus marking her territory in an effort to assert her dominance.
It could end with The Guy’s Slut intimidating the new girl out of the picture, but in my unfortunate experiences, they usually rock the world of the proverbial guy friend all night long just to ensure his loyalty to her. Fortunately for the rest of womankind, this rarely works. She gets on him, he gets off, things get weird, and she is eventually ostracized from the group. Do not pity the Guy’s Party Favor, for she loves this nomadic lifestyle and feeds off of threatening other girls. All these fugly spazoids really care about is having weirdly unhealthy, sexually tense relationships with men. They closely resemble the wild North American Stupid Boy (as seen on the Discovery Channel, yo) in that they mimic his behavior by treating women like objects and frequently squatting near the first available phallic symbol to prove their version of virility.
Then there is the more malevolent of the sort of Women I Hate Most: The Evil Psycho Bitch That Pretends to Be Your Friend Until They Distort Everything You’ve Ever Said, Rip Out Your Lungs, Eat Them, and Make Everybody, Including Yourself, Hate You. These are the most frightening monsters to ever inhabit the earth. They make crocodiles look like fluffy pink bunnies and even have the creepy dead eye thing going for them. The reason these devil bitches are so sinister is that there is absolutely no motivation for their attacks. They usually are at peace with their inner children and have pleasant lives but still, as if emotional serial killers, they cheerfully destroy other women through a series of calculating, diabolical, and Cartman-a-la-“Scott-Tenorman-Must-Die-“plots.
They ally themselves with weakling Minion Girls that will do their vicious bidding. These hos are also detestable and vile, but they will take so much abuse from the Evil Psychos that they inevitably get bitten in the ass by karma. Hooray! The Evil Psycho Bitch uses these feeble followers to execute her destruction, usually employing them to gather information on the things that her target loves the most so she can suck them dry like so much tick. She manipulates everyone around her and uses her sharp intellect to stab out the reproductive organs of anyone who dares to displease her.
They are usually beautiful and/or wealthy. They must have something superficial with which to lord over others and keep them in constant fear/admiration of their superiority. As far as men go, they are simply meaningless possessions. They will collect them as accessories and wear them until they go out of fashion. Evil Psycho Bitches care about no one.
Their favorite victims are nice girls who don’t recognize The Bitches for what they are. They start out so friendly and have cute little noses that wrinkle when they smile and they effortlessly make these normal girls feel so included. But slowly, their true face starts to peek out from under all that Bobbi Brown makeup and the horns sprout. It starts with little things like excluding the girl from a much anticipated event, then the minions and their vile leader go on and on about how much fun it was in the manner of, "And oh my GOD! Barbie made out with (insert guy nice girl lives for) then fell out of a moving cab! It was so thrashin'!"
Then the freak show moves on to the seemingly offhand comments about the normal girl’s hair, clothes, car, boy, whatever. They’ll say, “Hmm. You should really cut your hair. You’d look so much cuter without all those split ends.” Or “God, you always dress like a grandma. HA ha ha ha! Just kidding,” as if the laughter and insincere disclaimer makes the totally ass lickingly rude remark ok. Then, after they’ve shattered the nice girl’s entire world, they will screw her boyfriend. Twice. On film.
So you see babies, it’s not just boys, it’s everybody. People are stupid. I really would invite you to join the I Hate People Club, but I hate you all too much. Mwa ha haaaa! Oh, I’m just kidding. I hate everybody but you guys. You’re my pumpkins! And now I hope you are all tucked into the crook of my arm, smoking cigarettes, and feeling completely satisfied with the warm and fuzzy knowledge that I don’t single out any one gender to mock. I am equal opportunistic in my scorn. Yay for impartial disdain!
»
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