The Art of Bitchdom

Today I'm up to a bit of thievery. I'm stealing a post from my friend Jumble Mash, but as it was a guest post I did for her, it may or may not actually count as larceny. I don't really care whether it does or not because my eyes hurt after staring at a computer screen for five straight hours.

Yup, this is all the effort you get from me today...just enough to copy and paste. I'm sure there are a few readers that we don't share and, therefore, have not read this particular post before today. If you did read it a few months ago at Jumble Mash, just put on your best shit-eatin' grin and pretend like you didn't.

Before my eyes completely disengage from my head, I will be popping over to catch up with as many of you as I can. Stay tuned for more guest posts coming both this week and next. Awesome stuff, folks. You won't want to miss it.

Well...here ya go.




Bitchin' ain't easy. You'd think it would be what with celebrities running around making it look like a piece of cake. Like Ellen Degeneres. Helping people and giving away prizes on fake game shows and dancing her skinny ass all over the place... What a bitch, right? It takes finely honed skill, nay, talent to perfect the art of bitchdom. I should know. I practice my craft every single day.


Just the other day, for example, I was in one of my "classes" (I parenthesize the word because I have no intention of telling you what kind of class it is. I can't have you all up in my business. I don't know you like that.) and the "teacher" was trying to recall a certain song that would go a long way toward helping her make her point. I thought I might know the song, as did several others, but none of us could think of the name. Except this one woman.


I want to interject that this woman is a psycho. Her very existence depends upon her getting married and having kids before she turns 40. She'll be thirty-nine in a couple of weeks. Needless to say, she drives me batshit crazy with her incessant whining about not having a man and not being married and not having kids. She asks everybody for advice and we all try to help her, but all she does is piss and moan some more. Maybe if she'd shut the fuck up for two seconds, she could get a man to do her. There are plenty of ways she could use her mouth to land herself a man and none of them involve whining. Just saying. Also, she doesn't listen and she always has to be right. Always.


Now for my part, I was going nuts trying to think of the name of this song. You know how you're trying to recall some tidbit of information, but it's playing hide and seek in the crumbling crevices of your rum-soaked brain? No? It's just me? Well, anyway, the teacher and I had already established that she and I were thinking of two completely different songs, but it was still driving me crazy trying to remember the name of my song, the one that was sitting on the tip of my tongue taunting me with its elusiveness.


Psycho Betty, not her real name, decided that the song we were both looking for was "The Climb" by Miley Cyrus. I said, "No, that's not the song I'm thinking of. The song I'm thinking of is sung by a dude."


She says, "No, it's not. It's The Climb by Miley Cyrus." Wow! I didn't know that bitch could read minds. Even so, her skills are grossly underdeveloped because I hear a man's voice singing in my head. I think I know the difference between Miley Cyrus' annoying feminine twang and the smooth baritone of a man. I guess when you're single for as long as she's been, the lines between bass and soprano get blurred.


By this time, I had completely given up on the teacher's song. I tried to relay this to Psycho Betty, but she didn't hear me. All she heard was her inner psycho telling her that she was correct. I went into the hall to call home and ask my ten-year-old if she could remember the song that was, at this point, about to cause either a psychotic break on my part or an early death on Psycho Betty's part. That's how much both the song and the bitch were getting on my nerves.


"'Live Like We're Dying' by Kris Allen," my brilliant daughter says.


Yes! I can relax now.


Not quite.


Psycho Betty insists, "Mrs. Hyde, the song you're looking for is The Climb by Miley Cyrus."


I lost it. "That's not the fucking song, you neurotic moron! If you say "The Climb" one more time, my foot is going to climb right up your ass." The whole class went silent, even Betty and the teacher. Oops. Let that be a lesson to all you Psycho Bettys out there: just shut the hell up and listen sometimes.


I didn't mean to go off on Betty. I actually like her and I did apologize to her later. I normally try to restrain my bitchdom in public. But sometimes...every now and then when the psychos threaten your sanity, you just gotta let that Bitch roam free.


I love you guys! Thanks for hanging in there with me!