I'm no loser. I've been invited to Coachella before. Plenty of people have looked at me, pasty and winded from a short walk to my local cheese shop, wearing a full Patagonia fleece suit in July, and thought, Fuck yeah! That's the person I want to share my Indio, California, sex yurt with. My rampant fear of MRSA and my refusal to eat any food I haven't seen exit the package makes a desertscape full of porta-potties a dream destination for me. And my ability to rock a feathered headband to Palm Springs, just like my grandpa rocked his yarmulke right outta Hungary, makes me the ideal addition to any festival Snapchat.
So yeah, all the girls have asked me: Kendall Jenner, Ashley Greene, V. Hudg, Julianne H., Victoria Justice, and Dianna Agron's sister. And I've always said, "Thank you so much, but if and when I go, I'm there to fucking perform."
And that's why this year is so special. Because, like Beyoncé before me, I have been secretly developing a music/movement project that will explode brains across America and the Netherlands. It's not a band. It's not a dance troupe. It's a social ®evolution, and we're called B.I.T.C.H. ( B enevolent I ncarnation of T he C unt in H armony).
Yup. This year at Coachella, I will be joined by five of my soul sisters: Debbie Wasserman Schultz, Jill Biden, Cindy McCain, Kamala Harris, a Tupac-style hologram of Maria Tallchief — plus the spirit of Andrea Dworkin, who writes most of our original lyrics.
For those of you who need a little primer on who we are when we're NOT members of a popular Pussycat Dolls–esque supergroup, here you go:
Debbie Wasserman Schultz is a proud Florida Congresswoman; the mother of Shelby, Jake, and Rebecca; and, oh yeah, she chairs the Democratic National Committee. She has the enviable hair of a first-season Felicity and her performance style most closely resembles a young Iggy Pop. There are times I've actually had to ask her to leave some room on the pole for the rest of us.
Jill Biden is, of course, the vice First Lady and a tireless supporter of our nation's troops. She is elegant, self-assured, and principled, but we really just chose her because in the 1970s she did some light modeling work in Wilmington, Delaware, and frankly this band is not going to get anywhere without a blonde who can handle keyboards/synth. She's like Cherie Currie in St. John knits, and America is NOT ready for her.
Cindy McCain, wife of John and heiress to the Anheuser-Busch fortune, was a last-minute addition. I didn't know how much we'd have in common, aside from a forbidden love of class-C drugs — she's kind of anti-choice-ish or whatevs — but it turns out she is a ferocious opponent of human trafficking and an even more ferocious percussionist. Cindy can also do a flying split, which is necessary for our deconstructed take on "Lady Marmalade."
Kamala Harris may be the attorney general of California with a vendetta against revenge porn, but when it comes time for us to practice, you can call her the attorney general of B.I.T.C.H. because she is a taskmaster who always keeps us focused and on message. In fact, last week, when my blood sugar dropped almost two points, she brought me a Twinkie and was like, "See this? This isn't a given. This is EARNED. Now show me what you've got one more time, and then you can have a bite."