Here Comes the Bitch…

 

Hi everyone. Sorry it has been a while since my last post. I have been volunteering my services to the Hilary Clinton presidential campaign and learning Mandarin. But actually, I have been doing nothing and couldn’t be happier. Recently, after only four death threats and one failed attempt to join Raya, my boyfriend proposed. I’m getting fucking married and it has catapulted me into a Bridezilla/Basic Bitch/ Existential life crisis.

While this is arguably the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me except for the time I bought something at Bloomingdales and talked my way into exchanging it at Neiman Marcus (and people think I have no talent). Since I have started planning I realized I am haunted by basic brides that have resurrected before me. Is it possible to plan a wedding and NOT be a self involved, fluffy haired, asshole? I fucking hope so. People get married and think they become the epicenter of the universe. The harsh truth is, no one gives a real fuck about your impending nuptials except you and like 8 other people. So while you hold people hostage like the fucking Taliban and ask whether they prefer ivory or eggshell, remember to stay self-aware, step away from pinterest and embrace these truths.

Just because you have solidified a life partner, does not mean you are the new authority on eternal happiness. Getting a Zale’s cushion cut diamond wrangled on your phalange doesn’t give you the right to judge your free spirited slutty friends. We get it. You have found the love of your life. Maybe your friend’s love of their life is a bag of Chex Mix and her Valtrex prescription.

Not to be a Debbie Downer but statistically almost 60% are destined for a second marriage or maybe a Goldie Hawn/Kurt Russell situation. So while your ironing your white button down polo shirts for your extremely basic engagement shoot, remember that before you express pity for your single friends that you have to clean underwear that is not yours for the rest of your life. Live and let live.

Getting hitched does not mean you have to start dressing like a midwestern substitute teacher who collects potpourri and ceramic figurines. I know people that could have been the spokesperson for Vegas attire. Bandage dresses (kill me), platform pumps and a clip in synthetic weave that could start a wildfire. Magically upon matrimony, they start dressing so “Churchy” and complaining about a heel height of a fucking tic-tac. Really bitch? You lived in hooker heels (#madeinchina) for a decade – don’t try.

If anything, you need to get sluttier after “settling down”. Just because you are on a diet doesn’t mean you can’t check out the fucking menu. Newsflash… guys have penises. Penises are fueled by testosterone. Testosterone makes men into primal animals. Animals that subconsciously WANT and NEED men other than themselves to want to bang their future wife because then they feel like they have a prized possession. I am not saying women are possessions just calm the fuck down, it’s a METAPHOR. The sooner bitches understand this biology, the sooner we will truly run the world.

Despite my grievances, I am SUPER excited to navigate the bitchy bridal rapids with a bedazzled life jacket, Dramamine (or Xanax) and an unsigned prenupt as my sail.

Dear Annoying Couples

I am not nearly as bitter as I make myself out to be. Granted, I self admittedly do NOT think all children or beautiful, don’t get weepy at leaves changing colors and would rather shoot myself in the asshole than watch a Nicholas Sparks movie marathon. I can however, get a wee bit mushy when it comes to love. I am cringing even as I TYPE that last sentence. The beauty of dating serial egomaniacs is that when an amazing man comes around you have the right to get a little gooey (internally). This is a very slippery slope for a closeted basic bitch like myself to navigate but once you find proper footing along with your social decency, it’s fairly easy to conclude that those feelings are reserved for you and your partner. Consider this a very passionate and strongly worded letters to people (both male and female) who feel it necessary to annoyingly publish intimate photo’s and declarations of love on social media.

We all know the couple… 18 hours can’t go by without a fucking collage, song lyric, gag-worthy Facebook comment or incredibly awkward photo of your significant other sleeping. PDA on social media is like a bacon wrapped street hot dog… sporadically it can be enjoyable and joyous (especially under the influence of alcohol) but on a daily basis it makes you sick, fat and remorseful.

Here is the issue, while you think you are solely promoting your happiness I would dare to say that doth protest too much. I understand a scattered moment of weakness where you want to scream your undying love at the rooftops, I have been there. What I cannot understand or support are the couples that unconsentually rape my retinas with their ridiculously cheesy and inauthentic declarations of love on social media.

It is always the couples that have either broken up 52 times OR are on the verge that throws a fucking non-milestone Flipagram slideshow into the mix. It’s a very passive aggressive plea to publicly reminisce on better times and quite frankly makes me want to take a shower with a blow dryer. OMG HE BOUGHT YOU A TEDDY BEAR AND SENT YOU A SAD BOUQUET OF CARNATIONS? I literally don’t give a fuck and no one else does either.

If you are a bitch posting articles from Elite Daily like “Why Highschool Sweethearts Make The Best Life Partners” just kill yourself. HOW REVOLUTIONARY. So because some freelance writer suggests that being penetrated by the same person who sat next to you in Geometry before you got your braces off is the best foundation for a life of fidelity and comfort, then you should totes do it. Just know there is a flattering article for EVERYONE and just because it’s applicable doesn’t make it true or worth sharing. OmG yOu GuYs, look aT oUr HiS aNd HeR XmAs sWEaTerS! STAB ME IN THE FOREHEAD PLEASE.

No one cares. NO one cares. NOT ONE PERSON BESIDES YOU FUCKING CARES, NOT AT ALL. You are annoying the fuck out of everyone who knows you and it’s self indulgent and delusional to think anyone besides you two sappy assholes need to be privy your intimate moments.

Here’s the harsh truth… when people are TRULY enjoying themselves, finding a steady handed Asian to capture their loving embrace is the LAST THING on their brain. Love is a many splendid thing, love lifts us up where we belong, but daily declarations of such are disingenuous and WRONG. How’s that for a poem…

Love you. Mean it.

The Sangria Stakeout

I live my life by the following guiding principles:

  1. Slow and steady only wins a Special Olympics race.
  2. Never trust anyone who wears heels and white sunglasses poolside.
  3. It’s not creepy if it’s legal.

I have discussed in major detail my recreational stalking habits. Some girls like yoga, some girls like hacking emails. Apples to apples. I have heard many a cynic tell me that bitches who patrol others personal information are insecure. Untrue, I am inherently a curious human being and take on life with an investigative approach. I wonder about tons of things. Like why is the sky blue? What hairspray did Jon Benet Ramsey use? What is my neighbor’s social security number?

Many assume that my stalking tendencies only target a prospective romantic partner. Wrong again. I stalk anything, anyone ,and anywhere with free fucking wifi. One of my fave traditions is the tried and true “Sangria Stakeout.” The “Sangria Stakeout” is a super fun and celebratory way to confirm your boo’s whereabouts.

For instance, if a guy you are dating claims to be working late, have strep throat or be volunteering for Habitat for Humanity on a Saturday night – a bitch has the right to follow up. A casual drive by is so 2009 and quite frankly, an amateur move. After discussing this on my podcast, I felt I owed my bitches a more detailed explanation of how to execute such a manic milestone of your own.

First things first, you will need a borrowed car with tinted windows (preferably sans license plate) or a classic rape van (preferably with curtained windows and electrical hook ups). Once you have secured a stakeout vessel, you need the right company. Leave your shit stirring buzzkill friend at home. Gays really thrive in this type of social setting. Also invite anybody that knows how to put together a chic charcuterie platter. Atmosphere is crucial during a Sangria Stakeout so make a themed playlist to set the mood.

Here are some suggestions:

  1. “Every Breath You Take” by The Police
  2. “Creep” by TLC
  3. “I Drove All Night” by Celine Dion

In the common chance you find your love interest NOT at home with a yeast infection but instead, pregaming a night on the town with some hussy in a polyblend Bebe dress… you are going to need a cocktail. Sangria is the perfect beverage because it’s lower in alcohol content, travels well, could be mistaken for spa water by the police and just seems festive as fuck. A bitch keeps it simple: White wine, Sprite Zero/Club Soda, peaches, strawberries, lemon slices and mint. VOILÀ.

If you are at all hesitant to round up your bitches, rent a rape van and invest in a good manchego, just remember that knowing a disappointing truth is better than forever wondering… Information is power, people are shady and Sangria Stakeout’s are legal. Think about it.

Dr. Schimmel

I have always loved doling out advice… usually in the form of a vintage Britney Spears lyric or sad bumper sticker. Unfortunately 98% of the time I am too busy thinking about when the McRib is coming back into my life to give my full attention to other peoples problems but I try and give it a solid 54%. Here is the result of that from this week’s podcast. Live your dreams.

PREQUEL SEQUEL:

Fuck Fuckboys

I am aware that I’m always 6 months late to millennial slang. A term I have been grappling (big word) with as of late is “fuckboy”. What is this mythical fuckboy? After my misunderstanding of Trap Queen (which I figured was a bitch who swaps birth control for tic tacs and traps men with a fetus) I felt it absolutely necessary to go straight to the superior source… urban dictionary.

Fuckboy (noun)

A Fuckboy is the type of guy who does shit that generally pisses the population of the earth off all the time. He will also lead girls on just for hookups, says he’s really into you but doesn’t want to deal with all the “relationship bullshit” just to fuck you. He thinks about himself and only himself all the time but pretends to be really nice. He also does really fucked up shit and then complains about people who do the same old shit as him. Once a fuckboy always a fuckboy, because fuck boys ganna be fuckboys.

Cuh-yoot. When you really think about it, potential fuckboys can only blossom into bonafied fuckboys with our permission and allowance. The key to eliminating the species is to disable the fuckboy. That is not a physical threat calm the fuck down. What I mean is that fuckboys can only be relevant if we as females ENABLE the fuck boy. The second you get a whiff of Armani Acqua di fucking Gio find the nearest chastity belt and head for the hills. An estrogenous love side-affect is that sometimes we equate all SEX to deeper feelings. While in the land of Nicholas Sparks, intimacy is all pancakes in bed, love letters and fucking swans; unfortunately the only intentions we ever REALLY can know are our own. The harsh truth is that once a fuckboy, almost ALWAYS a fuckboy. So while we are envisioning 365 letters, and dying side by side in some waspy plantation hospice a la the Notebook, your fuckboy just needs a willing (hopefully) orifice.

If he’s not taking you to dinner but is regularly sleeping with you, he’s a fuckboy. If he is platonic on the streets and freak in the sheets, he’s a fuckboy. If he doesn’t believe in labels, but his phone is full of them i.e.; “Blonde girl from Chateau” “Kylie from NYC” “Buttaface Barbara”, he’s a fucking fuckboy.

Ladies. Guys put their penises in their OWN FUCKING HAND. The same hand they high five their boss with, pump their gas with and wipe their ass with. Having a guy want to sleep with you repeatedly without any form of commitment means he is a fuckboy and WORSE you are a fuckboy enabler. Remember this as a mantra for recovery, penne before penetration. (That was supposed to be clever… Penne is a noodle often served at romantic Italian restaurants)

Playas gonna play. Talkers gonna talk. Fuckboys gonna fuck. And bitches better WALK.

Editors Note: I apologize to my family for the excessive fucks and to readers for my desperate rhyme schemes and alliterations.

Quarter Life Crisis Vibes

Today is my mother fucking birthday. Many would assume that I relish in all things that are centrally focused on me. This is 100% accurate in almost all aspects of my life with the exception of my day of birth. As a child I LIVED for my birthday, I wore a tiara for the major part of August, registered myself at all major department stores and would have big jam-packed birthday parties with a $25 gift minimum.

After I turned 20, something changed. What once was my favorite day of the year became 24 hours I wished I could fast forward. Jackie Schimmel, the introvert? Has hell frozen over? I have no clue what happened but for the past 5 years my birthday has been a real self-inflicted bust.

For some reason, people seem to think turning 25 is a big deal. I guess it’s the start of a quarter life crisis and you officially are no longer a member of the early-twenties club. I’m like actually considered an adult. Fuck, is this the last year my parents are paying for my health insurance? I still don’t even know what Obama Care is? Am I going to have to look into this? Shit.

So in commemoration of my early twenties self I thought I could compile a list of things I will have to retire as of today…

I feel like I need to be more mindful of my nail art. Ladies in their late twenties don’t have the flexibility to test out as many decals as a 22-year-old. Also, chipped nail polish seems completely unacceptable now that I am legally able to rent a car.

It’s probably time I stop toilet papering my grandparents house. For the past 25 years, I have spent many an uneventful Saturday night going to CVS for an economy sized pack of 1-ply toilet paper and tee-peeing my relatives homes. I happen to think this is really hilarious and keeps them youthful so I may have to hold on to this pastime for a few more years. Sorry Papa…

Become the laundress of my dreams. Whoever started telling people it’s a big fucking deal to separate whites from colors is a borderline tard. I have quarter of a century (or really only like 4 years) experience of NEVER separating jackshit and all my clothes have maintained their shapes and saturation just fine. It’s a Clorox conspiracy theory. My perfect laundry philosophy; keep the water cold and instantly fold. You’re welcome!

Exercise for “my health”. Ew I’m kidding, physical activity is the worst. As long as I can keep my neurotic yet oh so endearing demeanor and maintain my average of 5 mega calorie-burning panic attacks a month I should be able to keep my figure. I love people who say they only work out for their “health”. You don’t want a muffin top and I get it.

Become a humanitarian. As a real adult and hopefully a future part time cast member on the Real Housewives I should probably find my cause. I could be basic and go with some popular disease but I’m unique. I’m leaning towards fibromyalgia, gluten allergies or AIDS. Actually, AIDS can’t be my cause… Too real. I would need a light-hearted std to fundraise. Synchronized Swimming for Syphilis DOES have an amazing ring to it, no?

Delete my fucking Linkedin profile. I am a young unprofessional, I have no business being on there. What kind of sick fucks designed a business networking site that SHOWS who’s been creeping on your shit? Not my vibe. I have managed to avoid a real job for a few years now and am enjoying the ride. Also, no legitimate place of business would ever have me so it’s time to delete.

Utilize both Google and Webster’s Dictionary. Confusing chlorophyll and chloroform is both inappropriate and dangerous in a group setting. Also, truffle butter is NOT a luxury condiment. So thanks for that awkward conversation at Spago Nicki Minaj… Bitch.

Let the quarter life crisis ensue!

LeBron Shames

Today is a day that has challenged all my serotonin levels. I know its popular to bitch about Mondays but when you are a mediocre d-list blogger/podcast host, it’s always the fucking weekend. I woke up feeling fresh and ready for my favorite night of television ahead (Bachelor in Paradise and RHOC) and went to kick off my week with a double wheatgrass shot #earthy. For the record, Jamba Juice is the WORST place to get any sort of good news. Everyone is more concerned about their free boost and although the staff is chipper, they are really just ready to get the fuck out of there so they can head back to the community college they came from. No offense…

As I waited in line my phone pinged alerting me of a new follower on twitter. As you can tell from the post below, followers are a huge part of my life. I love them more than most people in my family despite never actually meeting them. Family is bound to you by blood, social media followers have to make a conscious effort. It’s more sincere. Anyways, I check my phone to see who my new follower might be secretly praying for a minority (need to broaden my audience) and was delighted to see my new follower was a lovely chocolate man named Lebron, Lebron James. Why does that sound so familiar? Hmm. Did we go to high school together? We couldn’t have… I know every black person within a 10 mile radius of my hometown by name. I decide to further investigate.

Holy fucking shit balls. Lebron fucking James followed me on twitter. I contemplated buying a round of wheatgrass for everyone in that place but I’m jewish so that seems super fiscally irresponsible. He only follows 180 people, so naturally I assume he must be really in love with me. I knew buying those oversized hoop earrings was going to be lucrative. Fuck I am urban.

For the next 38 minutes I called every heterosexual male I knew, emailed my dad alerting him I am a big fucking deal and started thinking of cute biracial names for the bastard child I planned on having aka my child support turned shoe funds. Sienna seems too Arian and Laquisha seems too on the nose. Maybe something obscure like Melon? That could garner some good publicity.

As I settled into my local sushi place for a celebratory sashimi (had to get my raw fish fix before I was knocked up with Lebron’s child) I decided it would only be polite to send him a tweet thanking him for the follow. I figured I would utilize the perks of direct messaging as opposed to a basic tweet, that’s for gross commoners. We were basically dating.

As I went to send him a message I realized I was not allotted the option to directly message him… that’s odd? Maybe he doesn’t allow direct messages? I then scrolled through his elite selection of 184 people he follows on twitter assuming I was still one of them. After 4 scrolls I realized I was no longer apart of the club….

What the fucking fuck? Is it my hair? Am I not funny via twitter? Is it because I talk too openly about my digestion? WHY LEBRON WHY? Lebron James followed me on twitter for 43 minutes and it was the best 43 minutes of my life. Like some dumb fuck once said; Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened. Lebron, I am here when you are ready to come back to me… arms and ovaries open.

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#thewaywewere

Chocolate Dreams

This weekend, a chocolate miracle occurred. I like to think I have relatively solid self-esteem, what I lack in some aesthetics I like to think I account for with chutzpah and a killer rack. One thing that has always hindered my happiness was the absence of male African-American attention. To simplify, black men are just not that into me.

It has gotten to the point where it has become a longstanding joke with my friends that no matter what I do, I cannot pull the attention of a black man on the town. I have tried everything. From my childhood, opting to sit in the back of the bus in honor of my girl Rosa Parks to now in my mid twenties ordering Hennessy on the rocks and insisting we absorb our alcohol over Roscoe’s chicken and waffles. Trying to woo a black boo is fucking exhausting.

Last week I had the pleasure of meeting Charlamagne Tha God and in true politically incorrect form, I asked him why he thought no chocolate studs were into my vanilla samplings. Is it my ass? Do I Is it because I saw Mamma Mia in theaters eight times? Because i thought Meek Mill was an offbeat brand of granola?

He assured me that there is a black consumer for all shapes, sizes and flavors of white girls. This both comforted and insulted me. I told him I was looking for a Pharell Williams/Tyson Beckford hybrid.

Charlamagne did me the service of broadcasting to nearly 2 million people on Twitter and Instagram THIS…

instach

Well that’s subtle. For the record, it’s just the OPTION I have been seeking. I am in a happily committed relationship but a girl has to wonder after a quarter century why the fuck a brotha ain’t into my anaconda. That caption is aggressive as fuck and devalues the true inner turmoil I have suffered. My grandmother is beaming with pride at her little Ashkenazi princess.

As you can imagine there was some negative feedback…

charchh

Soon after my white woman seeking black “affection” plea hit social media I have garnered the attention of 423 chocolate male suitors. From Jamal to Leroy, Hollywood to Harlem, my desperation has been heard loud and clear. I have received supportive tweets, Instagram follows and one terrifying dick pic in the process and now can continue on in my life with a spring in my step, lust in my heart and fried chicken in my fridge.

Thank you to the fine gentleman who have made my swirl driven dreams a possible reality #143 and for more insight on this please listen to tomorrows podcast with Charlamagne! You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll get 6 bottles of Dom Perignon sent to you by Drake.

Bachelorette Recap

If you are emotionally invested in The Bachelorette you must listen to this weeks podcast. I must warn you this is NOT for the easily offended, listen and share with your bitches if you also think Nick’s sweatervest collection is super rapey and Shaun ONLY looks like Ryan Gosling if he had a touch of the downs and only shopped the clearance aisle at Urban Outfitters… Sorry!

Bennifer

Today is the worst day. I can’t remember feeling this melancholy since Jessie Spano almost overdosed on caffeine pills on Saved by The Bell. I take celebrity couples really fucking seriously. Perhaps I am a delusional closet romantic who stupidly thinks marriage is forever and everyone shits rose petals but I am more deeply affected by a celeb break-up than those of people I actually know.

This morning my whole world was turned upside down as I was eating my “fuck my bikini bod” Belgian waffle and perusing Huffington Post. I almost choked when I read the headline announcing Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garners divorce. This hurts me in every cell, organ and orifice. WHY? They seemed so normal and wholesome. The only silver lining is that there may be a Bennifer resurrection, which would make all my wildest dreams come true. Can you imagine a Jenny From The Block 2015 remix with Ben in the new video? It’s basically the only thing keeping me sane at this point.

Thank God the Gays can get married now, we need them to drive up our countries marital success rate. Gays were BORN to plan weddings; swans, chandeliers, chincy appetizers, embellishment. Duh.

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Ben, I will stepmother Violet, Seraphina and Melon or whatever the other ones called with ease. Call me babycakes. While this is difficult for me to comprehend, a bitch must remember not to cry cause it’s over but smile because it happened. BUT if John Krasinski and Emily Blunt, Channing Tatum and Jenna Dewan or Aaron Paul and whoever his hott wife is break up… I am going to kill myself and that’s a promise.

Dangers of The Double Tap

For those of you have been living as your BEST self and subscribe to The Bitch Bible podcast series, you are already privy to my social media catastrophe that occurred a couple of weeks ago. It was an uneventful Wednesday night and I decided to delight in my usual midweek Instagram troll. I just earned a follow from an old “boyfriend” whom I “dated” for about 16 days when I was 15 years old. We were basically a prepubescent Jewish Kimye. I weighed 76 pounds, had braces and a personality I was not pretty enough to pull off. He was in desperate need of Accutane, played Lacrosse and drove a station wagon. True love.

I had just figured he died since I had not seen, heard or spoke to him in almost a decade. I broke up with him via text message and said I couldn’t do a long distance relationship. He went to a high school 1.3 mile away from mine and geographically was very undesirable for a bitch with only a permit and a bus pass. I expected him to write me 365 letters and beg for me to take him back but that didn’t happen and our love flame was extinguished.

Cut to 2015, me sitting on the couch with a face mask on and a stiff martini exploring the depths of his Instagram profile. Boy did I dodge a bullet. I won’t blow up his spot, but this fucker really likes Lake Havasu. Not my vibe. Naturally upon seeing an anniversary collage (gag me) he posted with his new girlfriend I clicked on her tag and was overwhelmed with joy to find her profile PUBLIC. Yahtzee.

After scrolling back nearly 94 weeks back, I must have been twitching in satiation because I accidentally liked a bikini bod selfie which was ironically ALSO taken in Lake Havasu aka the land of canned domestic beer, acrylic nails and regret. Holy ball fuck. OBVIOUSLY I immediately unliked it but the damage was already done. Three hours later I received the following text from my ex-soulmate aware of my mishap. I considered maintaining a morsel of self respect and not responding but that would be far too rational. Instead I decided to almost guarantee a restraining order, enjoy.

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I would say I am ashamed but that would be a lie. For more in depth analysis on this issue please listen to my podcast series and you will not regret it. Subscribe here: tinyurl.com/thebitchbiblepod

Bachelorette Recap

So after everyone acknowledges JJ and Clint are back door lovers, Kaitlyn pulls Clint aside and gives his vest-wearing ass the boot. I will say it once, I will say it again – never trust a bitch in a vest. Unless they are making your dirty martinis or are a fucking vampire in hiding. It always amuses me how emotional the Bachelorettes get after like 1.3 days of knowing the guys. Boohoo. When Clint gets cut, JJ goes flaccid and then demands an apology from Clint. What a butt chinned biatch. On the real, their sexual tension is OFF THE CHARTS. Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey got NOTHING on that chemistry. WHY THE FUCK IS JJ CRYING AND WHY DO I WANT TO KICK HIM IN THE THROAT SO BADLY?

The gang heads to New York to find love in the big apple. How adorable. Doug E. Fresh joins the group date and all the white midwestern guys pretend to be huge fans. Super cultural! The rap battle is the most depressing and Arian shit of all time, but lingering in the crowds is virgin Ashley (who looks hott) and creeper Nick. Conveniently, he decides to rear his Jew curl frizzed head once filming starts so he can further delay being a real man with a real career. THIRSTY.

Jared scores the one on one date and he is #STOKED. I am still judging him for wearing bright yellow converse and homeboy needs a Crest white strip in a jiffy but he’s cute in a gerbil-esque way.

ABC busts out a really ominous strange montage of dramatic NYC scenery while we hear a phone call between Kaitlyn and Nick and she still can’t make up her fucking mind. Then Kaitlyn does what any other gal dating 65 guys on national television would do, invites her side bitch to meet only after getting her weave worked by that psychopath Ashley. I am over all these cameos. If the network is looking to spice up the show cant they just hire a transgender Bachelorette? Or shoot the season from a psych ward?

Nick, hot tip: when deciding your romantic fate, don’t dress up like Mr. Rogers in a rapey maroon cardigan. Lucky for him, Kaitlyn lets him and his offensive outerwear stay and join the other guys at the hotel.

Jared is really living up to his Restaurant Manager job title in that tux. Back at the hotel, the rest of the guys bitch about the situation and all I can focus on is Ian’s hair growth situation… Jared busts out a poem Shel Silverstein would shoot himself in the asshole for. Then they get in a helicopter and blah blah blah.

For the group date, Kaitlyn makes the guys audition for a Broadway play and we all learn the dentist is a homosexual, hence the light washed denim. Chris wins the one on one date and I learn in this episode that this Cupcake boy bugs the fuck out of me. They climb up to the New Years Eve ball and he squeals with glee over seeing a big shiny ball in the flesh. Chris loves Broadway and balls. Think about it. Broadway. Balls.

Nick moves in and the rest is to be continued…

Side Bitch 101

We need to address an epidemic sweeping the nation and compromising our gender morale… the social outbreak of the SIDE BITCH. In life you either want to be the USDA prime filet mignon (a la cart) or the basic baked potato. It doesn’t matter HOW MANY BACON BITS AND CHIVES YOU DROWN YOURSELF IN, you aren’t the mother fucking entree. This reads harsh because it seems wildly obvious and baffles me how many side bitches live in denial.
“He works so much”, “His great aunt’s dog died”, “He has a yeast infection” the truth is, if he isn’t taking you to dinner, has never seen you in daylight and still has a parenthesis in your contact info… For example: Jackie Schimmel (neurotic bitch with blonde hair), you are the sidest bitch on the block.

I can speak informatively on this subject because I have been a side bitch. It was brief and it was brutal. He only offered me his roommates alcohol,  only saw me after 9pm on Wednesdays and I am almost positive thought my name was Jade. He would occasionally bring me to work events because I am sociable, can clean up well with a professional blowdry and know how to handle my alcohol. I was poor and would date about anyone I could steal fruit snacks from. I eventually pretended he was hit by a truck and ignored his late night calls. SIDENOTE: Anthony if you are reading this, you are short, rude and smell like latex and failed entrepreneurship. Phew, that felt good.

So let’s assume you are a few chromosomes short and are unsure if you too are the lukewarm creamed spinach in the meal of your romantic life. For your convenience here is an idiot proof list.

You only hang out on weekdays, specifically ones with none of his selected television programs. Plans are usually made an hour in advance and typically take place at his apartment or god willingly his condo, I love a man with real estate. Saturdays simply don’t exist in a side bitches world.

You’ve never met any of his friends, or if you have it was in a very large and very casual group setting. Very few details are shared regarding your relationship and sober affection is virtually non existent.

You don’t do dinner. This has a loophole for manorexics who simply are gearing up for their summer bod, but usually is because they don’t want to have the intimacy that comes with sharing a meal together. Dinner=dating=monogamy=girlfriend=death.

You aren’t friends on Facebook. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, nothing matters in life unless it’s FBO (Facebook Official) not your education, not your career, not your love life. You think you’re above Facebook proclamations? Or is that the side bitch universal code of conduct…. Think about it.

You can’t get him to accompany you to ANY event. Asking him to be your plus one at your friends wedding is basically like asking him if you can murder his whole family and then sell their organs on the black market. You find yourself bribing him to be with you. This is a low point.

You’ve heard it once, you’ve heard it 400 times… “he doesn’t do labels”. Let me be very clear, if a guy is into you he doesn’t want you to be with anyone else. It’s an animalistic testosterone thing. I am not a biologist but it’s the truth. Guys who “don’t want to rush things, don’t like labels and aren’t ready for a girlfriend” are fucking other people and probably on a Saturday.

You are reading this list and are having a mega epiphany that all of the above runs scarily parallel to your current situation. Mazel Tov, you are a side bitch. Although this is hard to accept and even harder to free up your Wednesday late night rendevous, remember it is always better to be the Filet Mignon (or Tofu Steak if you’re a sad vegan) than the fucking baked potato #ENTREELIFE

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The only thing sadder then living as a side bitch is that I spent 15 minutes out of my day creating the visual above. For more tough love download, subscribe and share The Bitch Bible podcast series here: tinyurl.com/thebitchbiblepod

TOO MANY FEELINGS

Just when you think Asia couldn’t get anymore annoying, a hotel in Tokyo opens up specifically for women to cry in. If Sanrio goes out of business or the country bans designer fannypacks this hotel is going to be booked solid for a decade.

The Mitsui Garden Yotsuya Hotel is now charging emotionally unstable women for rooms fully stocked with hydrating eye masks, make-up remover, a plethora of sad movies (Nicholas Sparks for days) and even some lotion infused tissues. This makes me want to shank myself in the ovary.

I have always been a huge pioneer woman of the ‘No Crying in Public’ movement because I think crying is like pooping or drinking excessively, best done in the privacy of your own home or well kept public restroom. When I cry, my retinas really glaze and give me this amazing greenish hue, which can be worth the emotional turmoil but I prefer to keep things at bay. Feelings happen, I get it. Too many feelings, and you may end up in Tokyo… here are some warning signs you may need a hotel reservation for the Presidential suite.

You are moved by very regular and common happenings. The first snowflake of winter, a baby bird, the smell of a stranger’s newborn. I like to limit my sentiments to the three D’s: Death, Dumpings and Degrassi.

You hyperbolize (I learned this word during my one and only semester at college) fucking everything. For example, you get stung by a bee so you become hysterical, overdramatize pain, insist you are allergic, make 45 of your closest friends come over to assist with medical treatment, realize you’re fine, then apologize profusely and cry AGAIN because the bee lost its life and vow to volunteer at a beehive preservation fundraiser.

You are constantly apologizing. Bitches with too many feelings are always worried they are bothering people. Probably because they are. I will admit there is something adorably endearing about this. Maybe because I am an ice princess and need a little osmotic feeling? I am not a doctor. Also someone please tell me what “osmotic” means.

You are simultaneously obsessed and revolted by love. Imagine what your social media profiles look like to a distant stalker, visuals are the easiest way to decipher if your emotional pendulum is too active. Do you have sunset romance scenery immediately followed by an Alanis Morissette quote? Pictures of kittens followed by a bonfire burning all your exes clothing?

When you’re up, you’re UP and when you’re down, you’re down. And when you’re not sure, fly to fucking Tokyo and get out of town.

Millenial Matchmaker

Unless you have been living in a cave or totally suck, hopefully you are listening to The Bitch Bible podcast series. It’s perfect for carpooling with the kids, family dinners and everyday guidance… okay maybe not but it’s still pretty wonderful. Please be warned it is NOT for the easily offended.

Click PODCAST tab on the menu above to listen and laugh your ass off. It may not be nice but it sure as fuck isn’t boring.

On this weeks podcast I make a public call to action to play matchmaker for my sister Ashley, my gusband Max and my producer Yimu. If you are a strapping young lad who is looking for love please submit photo and a brief bio to sayhi@thebitchbible.com but ONLY if you meet the qualifications listed below….

  1. Ages 18-80
  2. Must be employed
  3. Must own a car (not a fucking bike)
  4. Must be mostly STD free
  5. Must not own any cats
  6. Must not have any children
  7. Must be okay with recreational drug use
  8. Property owners encouraged
  9. Trust funds encouraged
  10. Trust funds and terminal illnesses even MORE encouraged.

If this sounds like you please send portfolios our way, for more info on our bachelorettes follow us on Instagram: @bitchbible and twitter @the_bitch_bible