Are you a good bitch or a bad bitch? – Glinda, each day to her mirror

It is critical that all good bitches conduct a daily self-check for personality malignancies.  Start with the essential question:  good bitch?  Good to go.  Bad bitch?  Hate to burst your bitch bubble, but it’s time to reboot. Equally important, the good bitch needs to ward off bad bitch toxicity by staying in top fighting form. Here is a modest little bad bitch v. good bitch list to help you figure it all out:

Regarding heart: the bad bitch doesn’t realize you can get away with s#*t for brains, but you can’t have s$@t for a heart.
On wit: the bad bitch doesn’t understand you can snark away about your GF’s, but this must always spring from a smile.

Mean Girls

On aging: the bad bitch never outgrew being a mean girl.  If she was a mean girl in high school, chances are dangerously high that she is still a mean girl (even if “girl” is a bit of a stretch).  She should cease and desist if for no other reason than cosmetic: all that meanness will cause her to wither on the vine.
On being a friend: the bad bitch is incapable of supporting the women in her life.  She is a remorseless underminer who is clearly up to no good.  The good bitch instinctively knows that women are your very rock and foundation–with women you rock.
On substance: the bad bitch thinks she is the bee’s knees, but hasn’t learned that it’s above the knees and what’s inside the hive that counts.

On self-preservation: the bad bitch has a sumo-like drive to crush and squash.  She derives gleeful pleasure from this.  The good bitch must steel her pretty little self (frequently repeat the phrase: “pretty little self”) to withstand attack.  Kiai!!!!!!
On love: a bad bitch throws around the word “love” like a litterbug.  When she tosses it she does so either as a) a subversive tactic, or b) because she truly cannot grasp its meaning, but thinks wielding it casts her in a flattering light.
On core strength: a bad bitch has cruel streaks wider and more numerous than the highlights in her hair.  Emotional Spanx (think snappy thoughts like, “See ya, don’t have to be ya!”) are the good bitch’s chief form of protection.

Kim Kardashian and her booty

On an inflated sense of self: the bad bitch has a superiority complex as broad as her ass.  The good bitch knows that humor arises only from the acceptance and celebration of inferiority.
On imperfection: the bad bitch thinks that her version of perfect is the benchmark.  The good bitch accepts that her GF’s are perfectly imperfect.  As Voltaire said, “The Perfect is the enemy of the good,” or the good enough, or the mediocre, where most of us find ourselves.
On a clear conscience: the bad bitch is a back-stabber and a heart-stabber.  The good bitch is up front with her parries, feints, and thrusts and only uses a bouncy prop knife.
On random thoughts: I’ve always liked this quote: “Awake.  Love.  Think.  Speak.  Be walking trees.  Be talking beasts.  Be divine waters.”  (C.S. Lewis)  The good bitch should do more of that.  Just not on Hollywood Boulevard.

Human Chess

On joie de vivre: life is like a very long board game.  It should be a game, however, and therefore must be playful and fun.  The bad bitch sucks all the fun out of just about everything and never, ever sees the end game.  Yahtzee!  Oops, not a board game.  Check and mate!
On liquid refreshment: the bad bitch likes to surround herself with other bad bitches and bathe in bad juju.   The good bitch loves to sip the nectar of good life, good company, and good alcohol.   Remember, it is the company and the liquor cabinet you keep that sustain you.

On what came first: When my daughter The Bitch–who happens to be a very good bitch–was a little girl, there was a chicken coop at her preschool.  She and her GF named a hen Pecker because she pecked all the other hens.  Remember to ask yourself, whenever you feel the urge to scratch that bad bitch itch and cross over to the dark side, if you really want to be Pecker.

The only good motherclucker I know: Gourdough’s Austin glazed donut topped with fried chicken topped with honey butter.

A bad bitch playlist:
Evil Woman (Larry Weiss or the covers by The Troggs or Canned Heat)
Evil Woman Blues (John Mayall, Peter Green, and the Bluesbreakers)
Season of the Witch (Donovan)
Heartless (Kanye West)
Big Bottom (Spinal Tap)
Hell on Heels (Pistol Annies)

A BAD BITCH QUICK CHECK

If you agree with any of the following statements, please consider a heart transplant:

You believe backs are made for climbing over.
You suspect everyone is in your sexual thrall.
You have an inner smile knowing your BFF is a hot mess.
You named both a pet and a body part after your nemesis.

You feel it is your mission to inspire others through the beauty of those selfies you snap and visually assault people with online (several times a day).
You bask in the fact that you are at least half goddess; but, you don’t care whether it’s your top or bottom half.
You think your bulimia projectile may be marketable.
You believe most people are eyesores.
You would gladly eat your inner circle at the first sign of an apocalypse, because they would want you to.
It’s a difficult responsibility, but sometimes (mostly) you have to hurt people with your honesty.
You treat your “friends” and dear hubby as minions and everyone else as creatures.
You think all your exes pine for you as ‘the one that got away.’ You have never once considered that they think, Oh boy, I sure dodged a bullet.

You are convinced beholders view your daughter as your sister and your BFF as your mother.
You think that when people cringe from you they are showing respect.
You fantasize about the glamorous places you would run off to with your BFF’s husband and the priceless expression on her face.
When asked, “If you were an animal what would you be?” the first two animals that come to mind are jackal and snake.
You don’t see significant differences between love and disdain and kindness and weakness.

You can’t help thinking you deserve a Beammer or a Bentley for your b’day.
You would rather have your heart be three sizes too small than your diamond.  Duh.
You give award-worthy performances pretending to like people until you have made up your mind about their usefulness.
As life of the party, you love to make a grand entrance then find the most central seat, even if it means inserting your ass where others are already planted.

You don’t think your plastic surgery makes you look somewhat alarmed.
Your hilarious sense of humor is limited to your own jokes.
You have conflicted feelings about world affairs: you sense you are supposed to feel something other than annoyance and inconvenience.
“Tacky” is your fave adjective for anything not yours.
You are a giver who gives until you are sure people aren’t looking.
You believe your GF’s always think wow at your utterances and never spare me.

You think that if you went to hell you would make it fun and all the angels would want to be there, too.

I guess this is supposed to teach kids that moms give birth by having their stomachs cut off? And, if you ever get knocked up, to be sure to dye your hair platinum, perm it, and put on some blue eyeshadow before going into labor?

Hey Dudes and Dudettes,

I’m popping my Bitch Humor cherry here, so I’m totally stoked but also a wee bit nervous… Bear with me, because we all know that I’m really just a dumb jock. But judge lest you not be judged by Sly Stallone, because he is the law:

I hope you enjoy… But first, lemme give you some backstory:

My mom and dad are both notorious exaggerators. My mom tells everyone that she’s best friends with a ghost and my dad tells everyone that Mark Hamill was his understudy in Camelot back in high school. But, I’ve seen the ghost of Mrs. Wilson too, and Mark did understud my dad (although he has yet to return one of my dad’s calls…) So, exaggerators? Or amazing truth-tellers? I follow in their footsteps with this tale:

(My point is, this story is as close to the actual events as my brain remembers.)

The year was 1998,

*SFX: Play Track – late 90’s compilation (Limp Bizkit, No Doubt, Master P, Puff Daddy, Third Eye Blind) while you read this

I was 13-year old freshman in high school; my brother Nick was a senior, captain of the football/winter track/lacrosse teams and a total STUD. He gave me pretty big shoes to fill – but that wasn’t too much of an issue, because I was 5’6’’ and weighed 215 lbs.  That’s right, there’s a reason I’m such a dickhead today: I was a total porker.

My weekly routine consisted of my brother introducing me to the beautiful senior girls like Pauline and Sarah with: “This is my little brother Tony. He weighs 215 pounds, and he does the best Chris Farley impression ever, which he’ll show you right now.” So then, of course, I’d have to do it. Like any solid performer, I’d commit 100%: “‘Oh, my pretty little pet, I love you. So, I stroke it, and I pet it, and I massage it. Hehe, I love it, I love my little naughty pet, you’re naughty! And then I take my naughty pet and I go (*tears dinner roll apart*) chhhhhhhh, chhhhhhhhh, OOOOHHHHHHH. I KILLED IT! I KILLED MY SALE! That’s when I blow it. That’s when people like us have got to forge ahead, Helen. Am I right?’” I was really fucking good at that impression, but needless to say it didn’t help me in the lady department.

And just an FYI, the impression doesn’t work as well now with my diamond-cut, shredded good looks; but anyways, that sets the picture for where I was at in that stage of my life.

One cool thing about being a chubby kid was that I could stand on a field and take up space… So I did! My fatness and leadership skills combined and next thing ya know, I was a captain of the freshman football team.  That’s right, starting center right in front of Mark Armentrout, that star quarterback. We ended up being a really good little team of idiots and somehow ended up being 6-1 with one game left to go. That last game of the season we play our arch-rivals, the Robinson Rams, at their house.  We won in epic fashion, 13-7, where Kahl Lombardi ran in a 60-yard touchdown with just minutes left.  It was a pretty amazing accomplishment for little fat Tony. And my Mommy’s way of congratulating me was by getting me whatever I wanted to eat after the game.

In perfect ‘husky’ fashion, I chose the fine dining restaurant McDonald’s, where they had just launched their SUPER SIZED promotion, lucky for me! So I proceeded to order super sized fries, a super sized strawberry milkshake, and a 20 piece Chicken McNuggets. Oh, those nuggets are tasty dipped in that milkshake…

However, I had to scarf down that meal in my mom’s station wagon because I was headed straight out to camp Sky Meadows for the fall Boy Scout ‘Camporee.’  I was very active in the scouts (Eagle Scout looked SICK on my college apps, btw). So, I laughed and chomped all the way to camp. Once I got there, my dad and all my buds happily greeted me. “Bye mom!” I exclaimed with little knowledge of the torture that would follow.

Shortly thereafter, my entire body started to became unhinged. It was like WrestleMania in my stomach. Within two hours I had already ruined three pairs of undergarments. That’s right, I crapped my pants. Many, many times. I was now borrowing pairs from my brother, who wasted no time in making fun of me. The word spread to all the scouts in my troop and everyone was teasing me, even the kid nicknamed ‘X-Files.’  I spent three hours sitting on an outhouse toilet seat, trying not to slip off from all the sweat.

After burning through six pairs of undies, I resorted to going commando in my teeny tiny scout shorts. I couldn’t believe that I was at an event for teenage boys and there was no Pepto Biz or Imodium AD within a 30-mile radius to stop me up. At the end of the day, I was 20 lbs lighter and dying for the madness to end.

Meanwhile, in the evening, all the leaders have a get-together called a ‘Cracker Barrel,’ where they have cheese and crackers. My dad had the brilliant idea to snag me a brick of cheese, tracked me down in the shitter, and said, “Here ya go bub, this’ll do the trick.’ I scarfed down that entire block of cheese… and low and behold, it worked! No more McPoopy.

I know this story is nasty, but whatever, sometimes life gets nasty. Moral of the story? Don’t slam down twenty nuggs, super sized fries, and a super sized shake. Or is there a deeper message? No, definitely not.

P.S. I wrestled the next year of high school and lost all that baby weight. However, I never got past my awkwardness with girls. Still have no idea how I ended up with this bitch. Boy am I lucky! Let’s just hope she never has to endure an episode like that frightful day back in ’98.

TONY CAVALERO

ABOUT THE GUEST BITCH:
Tony is totally awesome, but mainly because of his hilarious family and friends. He is an Eagle Scout, a Black Belt, and a proud graduate of the Virginia Military Institute. Tony is a member of the Groundlings Main Company and has performed in the Montreal Just For Laughs comedy festival–you can check him out on his zany YouTube page. Tony is also a founding member of the longform improvisational group Robert Downey Jr. Jr., whose monthly SaturdaySaturday shows are an LA Time’s Top Pick. Some of his credits include Warner Brothers’ AIM HIGH 2 and Robin Banks The Bank Roberts.

#tbt to Soccer Team Photo Day: The last time I played organized sports, and also the day the photographer mistook me for a special needs child.

This email posted on Gawker is one of the most amazing/crazy things I’ve ever read.  It’s from a high-ranking sorority board member, to the rest of the chapter, in regard to their unsavory new reputation for “LITERALLY being so fucking AWKWARD.” My personal favorite quote? “I will fucking cunt punt the next person I hear about doing something like that…” Read it to find out what, exactly, earns you a “cunt punt.”

Since I could speak, I have been asking Santa, my parents, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, every boyfriend I’ve ever had, the goddamn Christopher Columbus Day Fairy, even strangers, for a puppy.  And this year, for my birthday, my main hang/live-in love Tony GOT ME ONE. I’m not being melodramatic when I say he made all my dreams come true.

Me, on the happiest day of my life

His original plan was to have my bestie show up at my birthday party with the surprise pupper, but she (smartly) informed him that was a terrible idea and I should probably pick out the new love of my life myself.  So, he informed me of what my gift would be, I started to sob with joy, and then immediately got on Petfinder, where I spent more hours than I’m willing to admit looking at rescue dogs.  Finally, this 8-week old lab mix lovie popped up at the SEAACA Downey animal shelter.

Car ride home

We drove two hours in traffic to adopt the baby. I may or may not have also tried to rescue the cocker spaniel mix, pit bull puppy, and one-eyed cat because there were SO MANY animals who needed homes. After rejecting names like Annie Jr., Tony and I finally settled on Tippi, because I love Hitchcock blondes and crazy women.

Proud parents

Tippi’s favorite activities include forcing her older sister Lucy, the other love of my life, to play:

Best friends

Lounging:

Old Hollywood starlet

Treating her sister like her own personal sofa:

Take some inspiration from this, Ikea!

And generally being adorable:

Birthday bitch

Tippi also loves licking armpits, sucking on the metal railings in our house, wagging her tail in her sleep, and trying to steal any and all sodas, which I’m pretty sure she survived on, on the streets, before ending up at the pound. She and Lucy are my Happy Place. Best birthday ever!!!!

*Side note public service message: You can find ANY breed of dog, even puppies, at an animal shelter.  You’re saving lives, not getting an inbred pet from a backyard breeder, saving money… a million reasons — look on Petfinder or at the dogs at LA’s animal shelters.  The place where I got Tippi is a high kill shelter, where dogs have 7 days to find a home.  Look to rescue before you buy! It will be the happiest decision of your life!

Me, circa my fat years

#tbt to the day my parents thought commissioning this painting of their chubby daughter was a good idea.

Um, this is AMAZE. Someone at UC Berkeley created this Facebook page to help you track down the dude/lady you hooked up with last night, but were too wasted to remember. The About section for UC Berkeley Hook-Ups reads: “This page is specifically designed to help the fellow drunk locate his/her Berk town hookup. If you recognize you or your story post message me with your number.”

The wall posts do not disappoint – here’s one gem: “#18 To the girl I woke up to peeing on my balcony. I don’t know how I ended up coming home with you or why you thought it was ok to pull your pants down and piss on my balcony, But I found your ID so it looks like ill be seeing you soon…..till then stay golden:)”

TALL TWINS FROM IDAHO – m4w – 32 (ALL LOS ANGELES)

I WENT OUT WITH TWO TALL TWINS FROM IDAHO ABOUT 1 YEAR AGO. … I MISS YOU. GET IN TOUCH WITH ME. (i posted pics of what she looks like)

• Location: ALL LOS ANGELES
• it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests