For anyone that loves Big Little Lies, Mean Girls, and Desperate Housewives, May Cobb’s upcoming suspense novel The Hunting Wives is our newest obsession, as it’s being hailed as a Desperate Housewives set in Texas. In the novel, out May 18, 2021, protagonist Sophie O’Neill moves from her big-city life in Chicago to a small town in east Texas with her husband and young son. After settling down, she realizes her life is now quiet and boring, and she looks for a little more excitement. Sophie meets Margot Banks, who is a part of an elite clique known as the Hunting Wives. She immediately feels drawn toward Margot and her mysterious world full of late-night adventures and reckless partying. As Sophie’s involvement intensifies, she starts slipping away from her family as she finds herself in the middle of a murder investigation, and loses control over her own life.
Based in Austin, Texas, May Cobb is a novelist and freelance writer. Back in 2015, she won the Writer’s League of Texas Manuscript Contest. Her debut novel Big Woods (2018) was awarded as an Independent Publisher Book Award for Suspense/Thriller. Her writing has also been featured in Austin Monthly and the online edition of Jazz Times. The Hunting Wives comes out May 18, 2021, which I know feels like it’s a million lightyears away—but not to worry, because Betches readers can read an exclusive excerpt below. Preorder The Hunting Wives here.
(Brief setup: This takes place after Sophie’s first time skeet shooting with the Hunting Wives group and their Regina-George-esque leader, Margot, wants to keep the party going.)
Back inside, the lake house feels glaring after the darkness of the trail. Margot sinks the wine into a silver ice bucket and twists the bottle around, chilling it. Callie fetches wineglasses from the cabinet, and fills each glass to the brim.
We toast and sip, but I only take the smallest of sips so I can safely drive home. Margot tosses back half her glass and sets it on the bar.
“So…who wants to go hunting?”
“Always,” Callie says, winding a lock of coarse hair around her finger.
“I’m in!” Tina trills, rocking back and forth on her feet, her coal-black eyes squinting in a smile.
“Where?” Jill asks, demure, her face half-hidden behind her huge wineglass.
“I was thinking Rusty’s,” Margot says.
Jill sets her glass down, crosses her arms.
“Oh, please, Jilly! It’s been forever. Don’t pout. I’ll behave, I promise.” Margot goes over to Jill, puts her arm around her. There’s a perceptible shift in Jill’s demeanor, a small succumbing to Margot’s power.
I have no idea what they’re talking about, but suddenly they’re all looking at me. I take another small sip of wine, swish it around in my mouth.
“Who wants to tell her the rules?” Margot asks, her hip cocked against Jill’s, her exquisitely-shaped eyebrows hiked in a question mark.
“I will,” Callie says. This is the first time she’s addressed me directly, and there’s a trace of a sneer in her expression.
“Rules about what?” I ask, nervously giggling, clasping my wine glass.
“Oh, please,” Callie rolls her eyes. “Don’t act like you’re not bored in your marriage.”
“Maybe she’s not,” Margot says, her voice playful. “Her husband’s a hottie.”
The flush of alcohol and Margot’s hooded eyes on me make my face flame.
“I think everyone here is a little bored, except for Jill,” Callie says.
“Yeah, Jilly, what did Amazon bring you this week? Do tell.” Margot’s unwrapped herself from Jill and crosses over the bar to refresh her wine. “I want to hear all about your latest toy.”
I catch myself gawking at Jill and quickly look away before she notices.
“Ooooh, a new toy,” Callie says. “What role is Tom going to play? Will he be the police officer this time or the victim?” Callie snickers.
“You only wish you still had sex with your husband,” Jill fires back.
For some reason, Callie answers to me, “He chases me around the house, but I’m over it.”
She stretches her long legs across the length of the sofa, takes another mouthful of wine.
“So anyway, we’re all a little bored and have to let it out somehow.”
“Monogamy is so…monogamous,” Margot chimes.
The cold blast from the air conditioning has fogged up the windows, so I can’t see the lake anymore behind Callie, only the clouds of condensation frosting the glass.
My stomach registers a red-hot signal of danger; I don’t know how I feel about all this. Graham and I have never been anything but monogamous and I’m certainly not bored with him. Am I? I’m just bored, I think. But if that’s the case, why am I so drawn to Margot and why can’t I get her out of my head? If I’m honest, there’s part of me that, despite the sense of alarm that looms in the air, likes listening to them. It excites me. Makes me feel alive. Maybe the most alive I’ve felt since moving back. No, not maybe. Definitely.
“So. The rules.” Callie sits up now, rests her elbows on her knees. “There’s only two, really. We only use our first names. And, we don’t go all the way.”
I nod dumbly as if being read the instructions to a board game.
“So, you’re in,” Callie says matter-of-factly.
Again, that pinprick of danger at the back of my neck. And before I have a chance to respond, Margot fishes a set of keys off the wooden coffee table, stashes her Louis Vuitton clutch under her arm, and heads for the front door.
“I’m driving. Everyone load up,” she says and everyone rises and trails her to the entryway.
I take out my phone and check the time. 8:45. I should go home; I know I should. I certainly don’t want to get trapped all night by riding in Margot’s car. But then, I don’t want them to think I’m a scaredy-cat, either.
“I’ll follow in my own car,” I hear myself saying. My voice squeaks out of high-pitched and thin.
Margot freezes, turns around, and frowns at me.
“Early day tomorrow,” I say, casting my eyes toward the floor.
She twists back around and steps out the open door. “Suit yourself.” The others trickle out behind her. I follow.
Everyone is weaving towards Margot’s Mercedes but Tina spins around.
“I’ll ride with Sophie! In case she gets lost.”
Before Tina climbs in the Highlander, I dust a constellation of Cheerios off her seat. How Jack manages to scatter them everywhere, I’ll never understand. Tina’s perfume, powdery and floral, fills the cabin and she’s so buoyant, she seems to spring into the seat next to me.
Her husband, Bill, she tells me with a lick of pride, lifting her voice, is a home-builder. One of the biggest contractors in Mapleton. They live in a sparkling new development north of town. I’ve driven by and it’s all castle-like homes with spires and arched windows.
As we wind through the lake roads, tracking the red eyes of Margot’s taillights, I’m struck by how utterly dark it is out here and I notice, as we approach the country highway, that Margot is turning away from town, not toward it.
“So, what’s Rusty’s?” I ask.
“Oh, it’s a little honky-tonk on the outskirts of town. Margot likes to pick out-of-way spots. For obvious reasons.” She flicks down the mirror on the visor and applies a fresh coat of pink lipstick. “We don’t go much, though.”
“Hunting or to Rusty’s?”
She scrunches her curls with her fingers, studies her hair in the mirror.
“I was talking about Rusty’s specifically, but we don’t go hunting that often either. Maybe twice a month. But sometimes more. Depends on Margot’s mood,” she adds, snapping the mirror shut and darkening the interior of the car. “Margot’s appetite for men is insatiable. You’ll see.”
I instantly like and feel comfortable with her but chew my bottom lip as I ask the next question. “So, do you, you know,” I’m fumbling, can’t spit the words out.
“What? Cheat on my husband?” she asks, her voice bright and cavernous. “No. I mean, I kissed another guy once, the first time I went out with them, actually, but I hated myself for it. Bill and I are high school sweethearts. I can’t imagine being with anyone else. So, no. I’m just here to watch the train wreck.” She rubs her hands together in excitement.
The highway is empty but well-lit. Giant trees surf past us, cut by the strobe of fluorescent streetlights.
“Anyway, Margot’s in some kind of constant war with her husband, a who can one-up each other battle. Have you ever seen him?”
I shake my head no, though of course, I’ve seen him on Facebook. Just never in person. Those scorching eyes, his bronzed complexion.
“Well, he’s gorgeous. I mean, dead hot. But Jed cheated on her once in such a stupidly-typical way, with his secretary. Got caught, too, in a stupidly-typical way: sloppy texting. Margot paid the poor girl a visit to her apartment and ran her out of town. This was three years ago, but Margot does everything she can to punish him still,” she snorts, shakes her head. “She keeps him under lock and key. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t stepped out of line since, but Margot surely has.”
Tina’s fingers dance over the screen of my satellite radio. “Oooh, I love this song, mind if I turn it up?”
It’s “Brass Monkey” by the Beastie Boys and after she cranks the volume, she lowers her window and warm night air oozes through the car.
“Nights like these,” she shouts over the music, “I feel like I’m eighteen again!”
I roll my window down, too, and we both dance in our seats to the music.
As the song ends, I realize we’ve lost sight of Margot. I turn down the volume.
“Ummm, I don’t see them anymore.”
“No sweat, we’re almost there, just one last turn.”
I roll my window up, smooth my hair down, re-adjust my bra.
“So, what’s Callie’s story?”
Tina pauses for a second, seeming to consider as she fingers the silver hoop dangling from her ear. “She doesn’t like anyone who Margot might like. If you’re getting chilly vibes from her, that’s why. I think it was a full six months before she even acknowledged me. Just ignore her.”
We’re approaching a light. Tina waves for me to turn left. We head down a two-lane road.
“She’s all Single-White Female with Margot. Lives on the opposite end of the street from her, and drives the same make and model car. She wants to be her; she’s a bit obsessed with her. Her husband Trip is just a big oaf with a lot of family money. Fishes all the time. Manages the family finances. Could pass for okay-looking, though, if he dropped some weight.”
(I’ve seen him, too, on Facebook. Sort of a heavy, pasty Ben Affleck.)
I see the lights of the bar flickering in the distance. I slow the car and pull into the gravel parking lot.
“Callie and Margot went away together senior year of high school. Left Mapleton and went to that chi-chi boarding school in Dallas called Hockaday. Jill told me once that there were rumors that they were “together” while they were away. Not sure if there were ever a thing between them but Callie sure acts like it.”
Have you ever said a hilarious joke that got no laughs, only to have your friend repeat it a little louder and get all the credit? I imagine that’s kind of a small version of the feeling Claire Martin has when she gets kicked out of her band right before they get super famous for a song she wrote. Laura Hankin, famous for her “Feminarchy” comedy videos, debuts her first novel, Happy and You Know It, about the treacherous places Claire must go before she withers away in self-pity: straight into the middle of a group of young Manhattan moms, as the playgroup musician for their kids. You know, the ones who make it to hot yoga like, the day after they give birth. It’s basically like The Assistants but with rich moms, or like Mean Girls mixed with The Nanny Diaries.
If you’re looking for a hilarious read, but can’t get through a book without a little suspense, Happy and You Know It is the book for you. Claire enters a world of dark secrets, and discovers that these moms have much bigger problems to worry about than which Lululemon leggings to wear that day. Hankin, who did this job in real life, tells us what it’s actually like to be a mom in this Instagram-perfect world.
Happy and You Know It made Newsweek’s “Must-Read Fiction and Nonfiction Books to Savor This Spring” and, after reading this first look, I can already see why. The book comes out in May, and you can preorder now, but if you can’t wait that long to start it, Betches was lucky enough to get an exclusive excerpt.
New Yorkers are good at turning a blind eye. They ignore the subway ranters, the men who walk with pythons twined around their shoulders, anyone who suggests meeting for dinner in Times Square.
But on one sweltering August afternoon, when the whole city was trapped in a bubble of heat, a woman came running down Madison Avenue in a full-length fur coat, demanding to be noticed. As she sprinted by, encased in a suffocating cocoon of mink, the sweaty customers at the sidewalk cafe on 94th Street couldn’t help but stare.
Maybe it was, in part, because of her smell — the staleness of the inky black pelt she wore, plus something else, something sickly-sweet and stomach-turning. Vomit. Dried bits of it crusted the woman’s mouth. Little chunks clung to her hair. She didn’t look like someone who should smell that way. She looked rich.
Maybe it was the sleek stroller she pushed in front of her. It glided along the sidewalk, the baby equivalent of a Porsche, but without a baby inside.
Or maybe it was the pack of women chasing her.
Afterwards, when the media was just starting to whip itself into a frenzy about the so-called ‘Poison Playgroup of Park Avenue,’ one witness would tell reporters that he had known the women were dangerous all along. He had sensed it from the moment he saw them—even before they tipped their heads back and started to scream.
Claire Martin didn’t want to throw herself in front of a bus, exactly. But if a bus happened to mow her down, knocking her instantly out of existence, that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
If she were floating in eternal nothingness, at least she wouldn’t have to hear Vagabond’s music in every fucking bar in New York City. It happened for the fourth time not long after New Year’s Day, as she sat on a stool in some Upper West Side dive, performing her fun new ritual of Drinking To Forget. She’d managed to swallow her way within sight of that sweet, sweet tipping point — the one where all her sharp-edged self-loathing melted into something squishier and Jell-O-like — and had just caught the eye of a curly-haired guy nearby when “Idaho Eyes” came over the speakers, as jarring and rage-inducing as the clock radio blaring “I’ve Got You” in Groundhog Day.
She turned away from her new prospect, and leaned over the bar. “Hey,” she said to the bartender, who held up a finger in her direction, and continued his conversation with a middle-aged man a few stools down. Automatically, she drummed her fingers along with that catchy opening beat, before she caught herself and closed her hand into a fist. “Hey!”
“What?” the bartender asked, glaring.
She squinted at him, trying to make him come fully into focus. He was a big, scowling bear of a man, and alarmingly fuzzy around the edges. “Can we skip this song?”
“No,” he said.
Claire considered leaving, but the guy with curly hair intrigued her, and she liked Fucking To Forget almost as much as Drinking To Forget. She swallowed, then flashed the bartender what she hoped was a winning smile. “Please? I’d really appreciate it.”
Her smile had worked wonders for her in the past, bright and effective enough to be a form of currency. In the early days of touring with Vagabond, rattling around in a van for which they could barely afford the gas, the guys had joked about it, and had sent her into convenience stores to see if she could get them all free snacks for the road. But this bartender remained unmoved. He folded his hairy arms across his chest. “My bar, my playlist.”
She gritted her teeth, as the verse turned into the first chorus. A nearby couple began to dance, shout-singing along, the man looking into the woman’s face with pure love. In times like these, Claire thought that maybe God did exist, not as some benevolent being or terrifying father, but as the omniscient equivalent of a prank show host. An Ashton Kutcher kind of God. She took another large gulp of her whiskey. “Don’t be a dick, man,” she said, as the bartender turned away. “The customer’s always right, right?”
“I’m a customer, and I love this song,” said the middle aged man down at the end of the bar.
“Well, you shouldn’t,” she said, as a wave of nausea rose in her stomach. “They’re terrible.” She took a couple of shallow, panicky breaths as, over the speakers, Marcus and Marlena’s voices mingled in harmony. Dammit, they sounded good together. The middle aged man, apparently some kind of regular at this dive, made a wounded face, his shoulders slumping. The bartender noticed and pulled out his phone, holding it up right in front of Claire to show her the song playing on his Spotify. His finger hovered over the skip button. Then, he deliberately turned the volume up. The sound grew loud enough to suffocate her, to smother her. She lunged forward to grab the phone away from him.
As the bartender ejected her, none-too-gently, into the stinging January night, she realized that perhaps it was safer to drink alone in her apartment instead.
A month later, her cousin Thea called.
“How’s the wallowing going?” Thea asked, in her brisk way.
“I don’t know if it’s fair to call it wallowing,” Claire said. “That sounds so masturbatory. I think your band getting super-famous right after they kick you out is a great reason to become a shut-in.”
“Mm-hm,” Thea said.
Over the past couple years, Claire had spent so much time on the road that all she’d wanted from her home was a place without roommates, where she could immediately take off her pants and collapse into bed. What did it matter that her “kitchen” only had room for a mini fridge and a hot plate? She wasn’t exactly whipping up five-course meals for herself. Who cared that the bars on her window blocked out most of the natural light, or that she’d stuck up all her posters with tape instead of framing them? But now, from underneath her sheets, Claire cast a look around her tiny studio, at the stacks of boxes from Pizza Paradise starting to grow mold, at the piles of discarded beer cans, at the torn-up remains of a note her parents had sent her, reading: You can always come home. Jesus forgives, and so do we. “The wallowing is getting pretty gross,” she said.
“Well then, get up. I got you a job.” Even as a child in their tiny Ohio town, Thea had been the one who got shit done. She’d organized all the bored neighborhood kids into teams for kickball. She’d harangued all the grown-ups until they signed up to bring something for the church bake sale. And then, when her parents had discovered she was gay and threatened to kick her out of the house unless she agreed to go to a conversion program, Thea had wasted no time in getting a full scholarship to Harvard, and leaving on her own terms.
“A job? What is it?” Claire asked.
“Singing ‘Old MacDonald’ to the future CEOs of America. Some woman named Whitney Morgan emailed the Harvard list looking for a playgroup musician, so I sang your praises.”
Claire bit her lip. “That’s really nice of you, Thea, but that’s the kind of stuff I was doing five years ago. I don’t know if I want—”
“How much money do you have left in your bank account?” Thea asked.
“Um,” Claire said. She swung herself out of bed too quickly and, a little dizzy, reached for her computer to pull up her account balance. When she saw what her self-destructive spiral had done to her savings, her mouth went dry. Her rent was already overdue because she’d run out of stamps, and hadn’t been able to muster the energy to go out and buy more. And once she sent in that check, her bank account would be down to double digits. She cleared her throat. “What’s the address?”
“I’ll text you the details,” Thea said.
“Thanks,” Claire mumbled.
“I’m looking out for you, cuz,” Thea said, a note of tenderness creeping into her voice. “Can’t have you going back to Sacred Life Christian Fellowship. We’re the ones that got out.”
“Yeah, we are.”
“And Claire? Before you go, please take a shower,” Thea said. “I can smell you over the phone.”
Excerpted from Happy and You Know It by Laura Hankin, published by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2020
Gather ’round children, I’d like to tell you a story. Once upon a time, in a land far far away, there were celebrities that became famous after lots of hard work, years of failed efforts, and many sh*tty jobs, and not because they were a pre-pubescent performer with a YouTube channel. I know! It’s hard to believe, but it happened. That time was known as the dark ages the 90s. Some famous people had to waitress or bartend, and the idea of an Instagram model was just a twinkle in Kevin Systrom’s eye. I myself had to work at the movie theater on my way to the top middle management, where the Icee machine constantly exploded on me and I spent hours explaining that I did not set the prices of the food and I too thought that $9 for a small popcorn should be illegal.
But this is article not about me. This is not even about Kim Kardashian, who we all know spent her early days arranging the underwear in Paris Hilton’s closet. It’s not even about Channing Tatum, who was the real life Magic Mike before he gyrated to “Pony” on the big screen. No, this is about the other celebrities. The celebrities that had surprising jobs before they hit it big, the ones we rarely hear about because we’re busy reading about another basketball player that cheated on poor, innocent Khloé Kardashian. So today I’m here to tell you about your favorite celebrities that had surprising jobs before getting famous.
Rachel McAdams Worked At McDonald’s
The Patron Saint of Mean Girls herself, Regina George, actually deigned to ask “would you like fries with that,” for three years straight when she was in her teens. At the time she was also directing kid’s theater which “didn’t pay the bills.” I’m sure! It didn’t pay the bills and she probably ended up with the poop of a tiny human on her hands at least once (the kids I know poop everywhere). Thankfully she has been quoted saying she was an obsessive hand washer, so we know they were clean by the time she got to Ronald McDonald’s house. A major relief to all of you who frequented Canadian McDonald’s in the mid-90’s, I’m sure!
Taylor Swift Worked On Her Family Christmas Tree Farm
Taylor Swift grew up on a farm in Reading, PA, and just like with my parents, they didn’t give birth to her because they wanted her to become an international popstar, they just wanted the free labor. Taylor’s family had a Christmas tree farm on the property, and she has said it was her job to get rid of the praying mantises that resided in the trees so they wouldn’t hatch their babies in customers’ houses. It would be better for my jokes if her job was to remove snakes from the trees, but I’m sure I can come up with something about bugs too. How about this one: I’m sure Taylor just kindly asked the vermin to exclude her from their narrative, one she never asked to be a part of, and they got tf out of those trees. Okay that was bad, but I’ve only had one coffee today so please take pity.
Hugh Jackman Worked At 7-11
Everyone’s favorite X-Men (or is it man?) once worked at a 7-11. I feel like this job has its pros and cons. On the one hand, you get unlimited slurpees. On the other hand, every time I’m in a 7-11 I get the feeling that I’m 90 seconds away from a meth addict robbing the place with a sawed-off shotgun. Thankfully that never happened to our friend Hugh, probably because he was in Australia and not in Florida, but also because he’s chattier than the girl that sits next to you talking about her Keto diet, and it got him fired. That’s right, some lady complained that Hugh talked too much and 7-11 would NOT stand for that. Good to know they draw the line somewhere. My male boss just volunteered to search the ladies’ bathroom in the event of a fire, and everyone laughed. Brb going to 7-11 to fill out an application.
Miley Cyrus Cleaned Houses
This one is a little perplexing, since Miley Cyrus has been getting that Disney paper since her Hannah Montana days, but the internet says she used to clean houses. And obviously everything on the internet is true. Word on the street is that she used to work for a company called “Sparkles Cleaning Service.” Are we sure this was not a plotline on her show, because it certainly sounds like a company an 11-year-old would make up. It’s a good thing she got that experience, though, because years later she offered herself up as a naked maid for charity. God, I forgot there was that period of time where Miley was imitating in real life everything she saw in a porno. Liam and I are glad we’ve moved past that.
See, celebrities are just like us! That is, until they make enough money for their own private jet and the closest they ever get to a McDonald’s again is when their assistant forgot to fast-forward through that commercial on their DVR. Here’s hoping we all get that rich one day!
Images: Shutterstock; Giphy (2); taylorswift/Instagram
Bridezilla stories literally never get old. Don’t believe me? Read up on this one. A bride named Penny recently told Australian website, Whimn, that she tore a page out of Cady Heron’s playbook and “secretly fattened up” her bridesmaids with weight gain protein powder before her wedding. Coach Carr would be so proud.
While planning her wedding, Penny lived with her fiancé and two sisters, Maggie and Charlie. TBH, that sounds like a recipe for total disaster. If you have sisters, or have even watched a single episode of Keeping Up With The Kardashians, you can probably imagine what a terrible f*cking environment that had the potential to be. Except, unlike Kris Jenner’s golden child, Kimmy K., Penny clearly suffers from tragic middle child syndrome.
“I always felt like Jan Brady in the middle,” Penny told Whimn. “I wasn’t as hot and popular as my older sister and I wasn’t as cute and fun as my younger sister. I was just Penny in the middle.”
Penny then went on to explain that having always felt like the plain, lame sis, she couldn’t stop thinking about the horror of having to stare at her wedding photos for the rest of her life if her sisters looked better than her in them. I mean, can you really blame her? One semester in college, two of my roommates got spray tan packages and taking photos with them every thirsty Thursday was literally soul-crushing, so I sort of get it. Except clearly Penny took this way too f*cking far.
Anyway, since Maggie and Charlie are blondes with fair skin, Penny made them wear f*cking yellow bridesmaid dresses, which would have been enough of a crime tbh, but get this. Then she set out on a plan to fatten them up. Yes. Really. Each morning, she’d whip up some “weight loss shakes” for them. Only she literally emptied a tub of weight loss supplement and filled it with bulking protein powder (or like phentermine or something), and then gave them three times the suggested serving size, just to be safe. Then, she’d sit and sip her own shake, which was made just of fresh fruit and coconut water, and watch them gain weight before her very eyes.
First of all, this is certifiably insane. Also I feel like it should be illegal? Tbh, I’m just going off my American Vandal viewing experience and extrapolating. But if feeding people laxatives without their knowledge is illegal, is feeding people weight-gaining stuff without telling them also against the law? Feels like it should be.
Whether her scheme was illegal, just plain evil, or both, it seems to have worked? “By the time my wedding rolled around, each of my sisters had to have their dress altered to accommodate their thickening waistlines,” said Penny. “The day went off without a hitch and everyone had a great time. I never thought for a moment on my wedding day that I wasn’t the center of attention, or the most important person in the room.”
Yeah, this is all kinds of f*cked. I mean, first of all, I’d imagine that when these bridesmaids read this story and put two and two together, Penny is going to have some serious problems. But I guess that doesn’t matter to her, because she says she still gets happy when she sees the photos, but doesn’t feel bad because they’ve both slimmed down since. Damn, this woman needs therapy.
Images: Giphy (2)
Alise is joined by the Sup’s head video producer, Bryan Russell Smith, who is hot off his viewing Mean Girls: Live on Broadway where he spotted Tina Fey and could reportedly, “See her flesh.” After they cover a variety of subjects including the FBI raiding Michael Cohen’s office and hotel, some Russia updates, and of course, Mark Zucks’ robot testimony to Congress. After Sami and Alise are joined by Barrett Wilbert Weed who plays Janis Ian in the Broadway rendition of Mean Girls. Needless to say, the Khloe drama comes up as well.
The 2018 Women’s March is Saturday, January 20th, and while I totally understand that January is a hibernation month, it’s kind of important that you make it out of bed for this. Given the year we’ve had, I really hope I don’t need to explain why, so I’ll just jump straight into how. The main three events are in NYC, DC, and Vegas (that one’s January 21), but there are 700 similar events across the country (search by zip code here), so once again, you literally have no excuse. Find your event, gather a small group (the crowds are no joke and you don’t want to be chasing down 20+ “friends”), and then get to work making your signs ASAP. Let’s be real,
most a tiny bit of the reason you’re there is to get the Insta proving how witty and superior your sign was (y’know, right after the whole fighting for equality and basic human rights etc.). To help you rack up the most possible likes really effectively contribute to this movement, we’ve compiled a list of some of our favorite signs for #WomensMarch2018.
1. Beyoncé Options
Because you can’t go wrong with Bey, obviously some of the best signs will be song lyrics from the queen herself. A few favorites include: “Okay Ladies Now Let’s Get in Formation” and “Who Run the World?” “GIRLS” (preferably held by you and a friend, but front/back could work too).
2. ‘Mean Girls’ Options
Again, hard to go wrong with Mean Girls quotes, and there are plenty to choose from. Regina George’s “why are you so obsessed with me?” is applicable to so very many aspects of women’s lives that men take it upon themselves to police, but I’m particularly partial to her face/quote being plastered on an image of a uterus (see above). Very succinct. Another good one is the Donald Trump Burn Book entry (correctly) labeling him as both a fugly slut and the nastiest skank bitch you’ve ever met.
3. Deeply Relatable Options
Finally, if the idea of referencing pop culture seems like too much, there’s plenty of material related to our fave activities: brunch, napping, and the overall predisposition not to GAF.
Remember to stay warm out there (whether it’s with your best puffer or the flask you bring, IDC) and let’s go show our dried-up Cheez-It of a president that we’re not going anywhere. That just like, the rules of feminism.
Ugh, we’re so sorry to have to tell you this, but the Democratic Party attempted to make a Mean Girls reference and they didn’t even ask for our help. Rude.
I think we can all agree that Mean Girls quotes in reference to the bomb cyclone that is our current government are only okay when The Betches Sup say it.
The Democrats took a shot at Photoshop, and it turned out just like every time your mom tries to use emojis — literally nothing made sense and you were reminded anyone over the age of 30 should not be allowed near technology.
The Democratic Party tweeted out an edited copy of the Mean Girls DVD cover starring Donald Trump, Paul Ryan, and Mitch McConnell on their present meeting at Camp David. Sorry in advance for what you are about to see.
Dems, we get that you’re trying to get on our level, but next time maybe consult with us before embarrassing yourselves and bringing dishonor to the Mean Girls dynasty. Dishonor on your whole family, dishonor on you, dishonor on your cow (peppered in a Mulan quote to showcase our range).
Casual reminder to the Democratic Party that we are avail for taking down the GOP one Mean Girls reference at a time — it’s literally what we are here for.
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Get in loser, we’re going brunching.
New York City’s 5th & Mad Jingle Bell Rock-ing Brunch is the one time of the year when a girl can dress like a total *Mean Girls themed* slut and no one other girls can say anything about it. So the betches of Betches decided to check it out. Upon arrival, our table was covered with candy canes, condoms, no carbs, and bottomless champagne. Did I mention bottomless champagne? Yes. Plus Mean Girls was streaming on every flat screen around. Naturally, our table was labeled the Plastics. Duh. We were all wearing pink. Next to us were the Unfriendly Black Hotties, who were actually friendly af—we were all singing “Jingle Bell Rock” together when it came on. The Sexually Active Band Geeks and Girls Who Eat Their Feelings were also nearby eating their hearts out with chicken and waffles.
The Mean Girls soundtrack was also playing. You know that whole “God is a DJ and life is a dance floor…” song? Yeah, that song is a good af. And there was a random “Jingle Bell Rock” dance-off and people were like, really getting into it. I mean not just people wearing the sexy santa outfit, like everyone.
Some people dressed up as Regina’s hot mom, in full a pink sweat suit, which was actually… can I say it? So fetch.
The only thing that was missing was a guest appearance from Lindsay Lohan but I understand she’s busy, like, living in London and shit. Whatever.