The editor of The Harvard Lampoon opines on the vagaries of bitchdom
When Charles Darwin published his essential treatise on natural selection in 1859, he forever changed the way we talk about evolution. This document would become the foundation of entire fields of study, from psychology to genetics, but not before theologians, governments, and even other biologists immediately tried to discredit it. In short, when Darwin dropped the scientific equivalent of Good Kid, M.A.A.D City, the reactions of bitches the world over were predictably, dishearteningly basic.
With regard to the ubiquity of basic bitches, not much has changed in the nearly 200 years that have since passed. In general, bitches have been around since the dawn of time, from the first sassy single-celled prokaryote. But, until recently, the bitch was always undesirable, the girl in your Garden of Eden who never could follow simple directions. Today, however, evolution has brought us something new—a wondrous breed of this ill-fated genus. Everyone can be a bitch, but it is the particular species of bitch that moves the needle.
To find a bitch of the "basic" phenotype, one needn't look further than a city-block radius on any given day. As my grandmother used to say, leaning back in her Tuscan leather armchair, Egyptian-cotton blanket wrapped tightly around her perfectly accessorized frame, “Close your eyes. Throw a stone. Hit a basic bitch.” The trappings of basicness are the components of modern existence at its least common denominators: a pumpkin-spice latte in her French-manicured hand, a complete lack of self-awareness, and a vocal inflection that makes statements sound like questions. Like the dumbass molecules of a bum-ass chain, these elements arise from the primordial ooze and link to form a simple being.
“So, like, I went to the mall?” opines the basic bitch, enthralling her flock of beta bum bitches with her honed ability to treat the simplest of activities with introspection and reverence. A trip to the mall, the fucking mall, requires two hours of conversation. She thinks her scarf from Forever 21 is vintage. She knows nothing of philosophy, politics, fine arts, business, science, language, or style. Her only area of study is pop culture, and even that she has yet to master as she mistakenly uses “turn up” as a noun.
I mentioned a female in the previous example, but basic bitchiosity extends beyond lines of gender. The male-identifying basic bitch shares similar characteristics, although often expressed differently. Basic boys think their feverish grip on antiquated concepts of masculinity somehow makes them different, or more real, than guys who don’t need to brawl or watch sports to feel like valid humans. These bros ain't loyal, and they wear their disloyalty as a badge of honor, not realizing it makes them all exactly the same. They are as shallow as their empty Natty Lights and believe the nonsensical half-sentences they say while high are some of the deepest thoughts they've ever had.
Who then, is the Bad Bitch? Who is this creature who walks heads above the rest with the confidence of a peacock, the intelligence of a jungle cat, and the unbridled sexuality of... some sort of animal it’s socially acceptable to be attracted to?
Though definitions vary, foremost, the Bad Bitch is a revolutionary. To the Bad Bitch, life is a sport, and she is winning. Basic bitches tremble when she walks into the room, their cheaply glossed mouths opening wide as they observe the Bad Bitch in her natural habitat. The Bad Bitch is the musical muse of top-grossing musicians, inspiring hip-hop artists to sing her praises in songs
When Charles Darwin published his essential treatise on natural selection in 1859, he forever changed the way we talk about evolution. This document would become the foundation of entire fields of study, from psychology to genetics, but not before theologians, governments, and even other biologists immediately tried to discredit it. In short, when Darwin dropped the scientific equivalent of Good Kid, M.A.A.D City, the reactions of bitches the world over were predictably, dishearteningly basic.
With regard to the ubiquity of basic bitches, not much has changed in the nearly 200 years that have since passed. In general, bitches have been around since the dawn of time, from the first sassy single-celled prokaryote. But, until recently, the bitch was always undesirable, the girl in your Garden of Eden who never could follow simple directions. Today, however, evolution has brought us something new—a wondrous breed of this ill-fated genus. Everyone can be a bitch, but it is the particular species of bitch that moves the needle.
To find a bitch of the "basic" phenotype, one needn't look further than a city-block radius on any given day. As my grandmother used to say, leaning back in her Tuscan leather armchair, Egyptian-cotton blanket wrapped tightly around her perfectly accessorized frame, “Close your eyes. Throw a stone. Hit a basic bitch.” The trappings of basicness are the components of modern existence at its least common denominators: a pumpkin-spice latte in her French-manicured hand, a complete lack of self-awareness, and a vocal inflection that makes statements sound like questions. Like the dumbass molecules of a bum-ass chain, these elements arise from the primordial ooze and link to form a simple being.
“So, like, I went to the mall?” opines the basic bitch, enthralling her flock of beta bum bitches with her honed ability to treat the simplest of activities with introspection and reverence. A trip to the mall, the fucking mall, requires two hours of conversation. She thinks her scarf from Forever 21 is vintage. She knows nothing of philosophy, politics, fine arts, business, science, language, or style. Her only area of study is pop culture, and even that she has yet to master as she mistakenly uses “turn up” as a noun.
I mentioned a female in the previous example, but basic bitchiosity extends beyond lines of gender. The male-identifying basic bitch shares similar characteristics, although often expressed differently. Basic boys think their feverish grip on antiquated concepts of masculinity somehow makes them different, or more real, than guys who don’t need to brawl or watch sports to feel like valid humans. These bros ain't loyal, and they wear their disloyalty as a badge of honor, not realizing it makes them all exactly the same. They are as shallow as their empty Natty Lights and believe the nonsensical half-sentences they say while high are some of the deepest thoughts they've ever had.
Who then, is the Bad Bitch? Who is this creature who walks heads above the rest with the confidence of a peacock, the intelligence of a jungle cat, and the unbridled sexuality of... some sort of animal it’s socially acceptable to be attracted to?
Though definitions vary, foremost, the Bad Bitch is a revolutionary. To the Bad Bitch, life is a sport, and she is winning. Basic bitches tremble when she walks into the room, their cheaply glossed mouths opening wide as they observe the Bad Bitch in her natural habitat. The Bad Bitch is the musical muse of top-grossing musicians, inspiring hip-hop artists to sing her praises in songs