There’s a lot of hating on this blog – some may even suggest that we’re a bunch of washed up old cynical cat ladies waiting to happen. I beg to differ. We love lots of things besides poodles, Charlie Hunnam, and ourselves. Kinda. But because we’re good at it, we’re taking aim at one particular dumb dumb that needs to check herself. It’s hard to show the love for people these days and relish in your #squad because morons have ruined everything. Read: the whole Taylor Swift posse makes everyone kind of uncomfortable and tired of the cutesy thing. If she were in the cafeteria scene in Mean Girls, we all know homegirl ain’t sitting with the Plastics. Or the sexually active band geeks for that matter.
Did I mention that we’re on #TEAMKATY? (Eskimo Sisters Unite!)
I don’t hate her music, but I know that in real life she’s that girl who needs reassurance about her outfit 670,358,967 times before you finally make it out the damn door. “Does this crop top make me look fat?” “He hasn’t texted me but I see him on insta liking stuff, wahhhhh.” “OMG need to take a selfie with this adorbs spicy tuna hand roll!” I can’t. She’s also probably crap as a wingwoman, hence the need for all the goddamn supermodels. I don’t know who does her PR, but shame on you. That frosted mini wheat of a chickenhead is overexposed like my fellow Trideltas at the tanning salon in Ohio.
But let’s just say if the Feinbergs did need to throw down on the battlefield with T-Swizzle and her motley crew of randos a la Bad Blood, our team would win (duh) and it’d be comprised of people that don’t give you secondhand embarrassment (I’m looking at you, Olivia Benson).
Huma Abedin (HRC’s PIC and Ride or Die Trap Queen);
and finally, the man-stealing, vial of blood-carrying, zero F*cks-giving mastermind herself, Angelina Jolie. We salute you.