I read a piece on Cosmopolitan magazine’s website the other day by Laura Beck entitled “18 reasons you’re the HBiC of your clique.”
As hopeful as I was heading into this piece, it is with much chagrin I admit I am not the Head Bitch in Charge of my clique.
At first I thought the biggest obstacle to securing the role of HBiC was my being several sycophants short of a clique.
But, the more I considered the twatty treatise, the more I realized that, even as much of an asshole as I am, I didn’t qualify for the stupefying level of cruelty and hubris one must possess in order to proclaim oneself “Head Bitch” … even more than it takes to refer to one as “oneself.”
The article lays out a dozen-and-a-half behaviors which could probably be boiled down into just a handful of personality flaws which—by the way—come straight out of the handbook on Borderline Personality Disorder.
They may as well have called this, “18 reasons you are a sociopathic asshole everyone should avoid like syphilis.”
Despite the paralyzing horror I felt while reading this condescending and intra-mysoginistic piece of pop culture putrescence, I managed to wriggle my pencil hand free enough to record a dozen or so reasons why I could never be the Head Bitch in Charge.
But a boy can dream, can’t he?
- My name – HBiC’s have names like Veronica, Samantha, Claire … my name is Benjamin, which is Jewish for “Son of my right hand.” This means I literally have a jerk-off first name. Yeah, I could go by “Ben” like the giant rat in that famous movie. I could go by “Benny” like the mental office clerk on L.A. Law played by the bad guy from “Dark Man.”
- Cheap tampons – Head Bitches in Charge use only the best feminine hygiene products. I can’t afford name brand maxi pads on my salary, and no self-respecting HBiC would be caught dead with generic tampons. (The fact that my editor had to inform me that pads and tampons are not the same thing is another reason I could never be HBiC.)
- Bad advice – Cosmo’ says to be head “B” you must be the one everybody comes to for advice. That disqualifies me. Very few people seek my wisdom, and the ones who do usually regret it. When I tell you to forgo the insurance or that I think there’s no hurry in getting that lump checked out, you may want to get a second opinion. After all, I’m out of shape, my retirement plan involves turning the house into a B&B for migrant workers, and even my dogs won’t listen to me half the time. The last time I gave someone advice was when I assured my son that the baby pumpkin-sized lump on his lower leg didn’t mean his ankle was broken. The doctors couldn’t believe he waited a day before getting it looked at. I don’t care what the X-rays said, it was just a sprain. Point is, I need to become Head Bitch in Charge of my own life before doling advice to others.
- Dress code – In the Cosmopolitan article, Beck wrote the following: “If you say on Wednesday you wear pink then on Wednesdays you best motherfucking wear pink.” To say I can barely dress myself is less a punchline and more an embarrassing admission. My fashion dos and don’ts are pretty simple and consist of two main questions: “How bad does this shirt smell?” and “Are the holes in these pants big enough to see my giblets?” I know not to wear white after Labor Day but only because fat folks should stick to slimming colors, and I’m such a messy eater that white clothing on me always looks like one of those color blindness tests or a Pollock painting. Even more importantly, though, what kind of a fucking psychopath tells their friends how to dress?
- Do as I say – Cosmo’ says a good HBiC can convince their friends to do anything. I’ve gotta say, “anything” leaves a pretty wide berth. When they say “anything” do they mean you can convince them to eat nothing but kale chips and honey mustard while wearing tutus? Or does “anything” mean talking them into helping you kidnap young boys for the Chinese sex trade? Furthermore, if you’re hanging around with people who will do anything you tell them, regardless of how dangerous, stupid or embarrassing, then what are you really the head of—the Three Stooges?
- I’m friendless – Cosmo’ says the head bitch cannot stand it when her friends do things together but without her. Ever since I became a professional hermit I haven’t really gone out with friends. It’s not that I don’t have any friends, but we don’t see each other nearly as much as we used to. But, even if we did, the idea that I should be angry that they dare hang out without me is a bit on the creepy psycho side of things. What kind of megalomaniac believes the party cannot or should not go on without them? Apparently the friendship experts over at Cosmopolitan Magazine, that’s who. Besides, as a writer, the only friends I need are Taco Bell, Phillips Union Cherry Whiskey and my dogs (and the wife). The only thing I am Head Bitch in Charge of is the liquor store down the road that delivers pizza and beer, but even they won’t come after 11 p.m.
- Bringing out the best in people – Supposedly, a real HBiC brings out the best in her friends. Back when I did hang out on a regular basis, we did one thing: drink. Functional alcoholics for the most part, we referred to the medicinal imbibing of intoxicating liquids as “partying.” Now, eating cake, doing the limbo and dancing to a live band are partying. Drinking dangerous amounts of booze to deaden the rusty spurs life digs into your ass is self-medication. I may have made my friends laugh. I may have entertained them by fighting and puking, and arguing politics with strippers … but I never made them better people. And, frankly, I have no idea how a manipulative, insecure, shallow HBiC could or would do anything to make their friends better.
- Self-certainty – According to Cosmo’, the head bitch has strong opinions and is always right. For that reason alone, a head bitch I could never be. Sure, I have strong opinions but, for the record, who doesn’t? You know what doesn’t have strong opinions? Starfish don’t have strong opinions. Dogs don’t have strong opinions. Blocks of goddamn cheese don’t have strong opinions. You know who does have strong opinions? Humans. All of them. That I don’t have a problem with. It’s the “and you’re always right” part that gives me explosive diarrhea. People aren’t even mostly right. Most of us aren’t even moderately right. Some of us are only occasionally right. I doubt myself about 837 times a day. I second guess things all the time. Should I be writing this article? Was I too hard on the guy who got drunk and smashed up my van? Did the wife really find my joke funny or did she laugh to avoid hurting my feelings? However, we’re supposed to believe that the immature, self-important a-holes reading Cosmo’ are right all the time about all things? Bitch please!
- Intimidation – Cosmo’ says the head bitch’s friends are “sliiiightly” intimidated by her, by which, they continue, they mean “occasionally scared shitless.” I hope none of my friends are intimidated by me. It’s not my job to be scary to my friends. After reading the article, I tried to think of something cool about being a bully but I was stumped. If you’re scared of your friends, you need to find new friends.
- Trendsetter – A good HBiC is a trendsetter. Actually, the article said if you eat a certain food by the pool, then everybody should be doing the same. I could never be the HBiC because I cannot imagine controlling what my friends eat. Better yet, who wants to hang out with cookie cutter clones of themselves? Cosmopolitan does realize women don’t live on the set of “Mean Girls” or “Sex and the City,” right? Even Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte were unique individuals with their own tastes and personalities.
- Being on time – I’ve always tried to be prompt and, while it was a struggle in my youth, I’ve gotten a pretty good handle on it. Of course, now that I’m on the reclusive path of Thomas Pynchon, being on-time is no longer much trouble. Leave it to Cosmopolitan to take a laudable goal and rub it in mud. I’ll let Beck speak for herself with the following quote from the piece: “You’re always on time. After all, you made all the fucking plans and being late is just rude to the person who made the plans.”
I’d go on with reasons I’ll never be an HBiC but frankly I don’t have the ego strength to respond to statements like “If someone doesn’t invite you to something they are dead to you” or the idea that waitresses deserve to be ridiculed for forgetting a food item. Unless “No, forgetting the hash browns is not acceptable!!!” means that a head bitch won’t go off on a server for accidentally leaving a dish in the kitchen.
The article ends with number 18 stating, “You win every argument.” As if being loud and mean and controlling were some virtue. What’s the prize? Oh yeah, getting to be the Head Bitch in Charge.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go be the Head Guy in Charge of Getting Some Chocolate Pudding and Cosmo’ has a great new article I want to read about how broth is the newest health trend.
Hey, maybe I could be the HBiC of Broth!