Somewhere between puberty and motherhood, women develop a superhuman ability to guilt other people into doing exactly what she wants. My mom reigns supreme in this department, as most moms do.

One mom in Arizona guilted her teenage sons and their friends into committing 20 armed robberies for dear old mom. She’s the real-life equivalent of Ma Beagle from Ducktales, masterminding a criminal enterprise in between soccer practices and PTA meetings.

The momvict, Cynthia Robertson, drove the getaway car in each of the 20 robberies. In order to convince the boys, she allegedly lamented about pending rent payments and car payments - laying just enough guilt on the boys to push them to a life of crime.

I understand that this is unusual behavior, even for a woman, but this crime could only be committed by a mom.

WBT Podcast: Women be trippin on the gifts they buy their boyfriends and the gifts they expect in return.

(Special guest: Em)

Subscribe to our podcasts on iTunes.

I don’t think I’m alone when I say that I’ve never entirely understood lingerie. I get that it looks good, but it seems like the more work that goes into lingerie, the faster it’s just gonna come off. That’s why I’m a lingerie-minimalist.

You can imagine my horror and disgust at the finalists for the Triumph Inspiration Awards - the Oscars of lingerie.

Finalist #1: The Suit of Armor
Oh, great. This will fulfill a childhood fantasy of mine - to have sex with Master Shredder. Now, if I could only get James Avery to talk dirty to me, I’d be in hog heaven.

Finalist #2: Spiderwebs
If a girl wore this into the bedroom, I think I would willingly give up sex for a year. I’d rather suffer through another dry spell than know that I had sex with cobweb-vagina. I’d imagine that no guy besides Tim Burton would find this attractive.

Finalist #3: Sea Creatures
As a child, I’ll admit that I sang along gleefully to The Little Mermaid’s “Under the Sea.” But that doesn’t mean I ever wanted to grow up and have sex with that song’s ensemble. I have no desire to fornicate with an aquarium, as this piece of lingerie would suggest. It’s the underwater equivalent of a “sexy cow costume.”

Finalist #4: Frowny-Mons
These underwear just seem largely impractical, in addition to incredibly un-arousing. It’s a huge frown above the woman’s vagina. If that isn’t Freudian, then I don’t know what is.

The world has lost a legend today as we all mourn the death of The King of Pop, Michael Jackson. But with all the attention pointed at the man on stage, I couldn’t help but think about the other side of the show: the fans. Since Elvis and then The Beatles, fans have been screaming until they go hoarse, cheering until they faint and trampling each other at the mere sight of these rockstars and actors. But why?

We’ve discussed the idea of Starfucking already. The girls I’m talking about are not the girls throwing their panties on stage and getting their cleavage signed. Most of these girls don’t even have cleavage. These girls don’t hang out waiting to get backstage for a sexcapade. I’m talking more about the obsessive, bedrooms wallpapered with pictures, crying if he looks at you, my life isn’t complete unless I can meet him Superfans. Teenage girls take fan-dom to a level that is incomprehensible. Superfans spend thousands of dollard to sit in the last row of a Hannah Montana concert. Superfans buy every piece of Jonas Brothers merchandise. Superfans are in the front row of a Michael Jackson concert and touch his hand when he reaches out– only to never wash it again for a year. Superfans cry their eyes dry for Sanjaya.

Superfans need to calm down. These stars don’t even know you exist and the fact that your night, or even worse, your life is made or broken by making eye contact is a little bit pathetic. Chill out. Twilight’s not worth the extremity, nor is Johnny Depp or Zac Efron. Neither are the Jonas Brothers, Hannah Montana or any other overrated pop star. Elvis and The Beatles, on the other hand…

Guys might get a lot of flack for having overly simple bedrooms. What more do you need besides a bed, a bookshelf, and a computer? But none of that simplicity ever got in the way when the mood mattered most. The bed, the bookshelf, and the desktop never got in the way of the ultimate.

Women, on the other hand, stockpile their rooms with Moodkillers - set up in a precarious maze like a life-size version of Mousetrap. The prime moodkillers:

1) The Fan
While the fan - either an overhead or a box fan - is a lifesaver during hot summer nights, it’s a mood-serial-killer when it’s time for bangarang. The breeze dries up the room like the Dust Bowl, and pretty soon, you’ve naked and un-enthused, annoyed by the wind sweeping down your plains.

2) The Cat
For Christ’s sake, put the cat outside! We don’t care if your roommate is allergic. We don’t care if the cat has slept beside you every night since you were twelve. There are few things in life as creepy and moodkilling as feline interruptus. There you are, working your horizontal magic, when a house-panther lunges onto the bed and begins licking itself. Nothing puts you in the mood like being watched and licked by a temperamental kitten.

3) The Clock
No, thank you. I do not need to be reminded of every passing second with a loud and obnoxious tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. Clocks with second-hands don’t belong in bedrooms. They belong in prisons, asylums, and Edgar Allan Poe anthologies.

4) The Chick-Rock
Sure, I like Alanis Morissette or Gwen Stefani, but that doesn’t mean I want to listen to their abrasive man-hate while I’m performing the Sisyphean task of getting us both warmed up. Please, turn off the Indigo Girls for forty-five minutes while I tend to the task at hand. Then, be my guest: You can put on the Lillith Fair playlist and rock out while I’m heading home.

So let me get this straight? The lines and creases on my right hand are going to predict how long I live, how many times I’ll fall in love, and how many obstacles I’ll encounter?

Palm reading is as sure-fire as pulling petals off of flowers to figure out if someone loves you or not. Or making major life decisions by playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

Palm reading is just like tarot cards and zodiac: an artful method of cold reading. You’ve seen John Edward “talking to dead people” on CROSSING OVER? It’s the same idea. A “palmist” looks at your hand, makes a few vague predictions, and watches as your eyes light up.

It’s really not a bad gig if you can get it. But don’t be fooled. It’s 100% ridiculous.

Women Be Trippin everywhere and all the time. Here’s the next chapter in our list of 101 Ways Women Be Trippin.

I understand dressing for girls. I do it practically every day. The goal, although not always successful, is to get one comment from a girl per day (keep the bar high, right?).

I could care less what guys think about what I wear. That’s not to say that I’ve never worn anything to impress my guy friends. A funny threadless shirt, ironic vintage shirt, rare Air Jordans or even a slick watch is a pretty good way to get all your boys excited. The point is that it still looks good. But on a daily basis, it boggles my mind.

It’s not that there is an entire population of women who dress for each other, but just that what these woman consider hot is so unattractive and unflattering, I’m dumbfounded that women continue to dress like this. There are puffy shirts that look like burlap sacks, colorful dresses that hide any sign that you have a figure at all (aka boob curtains), one-piece bathing suits, boys’ button-up shirts, high-waisted shorts, and - worst of all - hats.

These clothes are so unattractive to guys.

If there’s a reason to dress for girls besides showing off about who can spend more money on more unflattering clothes, please. Let us know.

WBT Podcast: Women Be Trippin is back with all new podcasts. In this week’s podcast, we discovered that women be trippin on their ideal dates and dealbreakers.

(Special guest: Em)

Subscribe to our podcasts on iTunes.

…I Never Spend Any Time at My Apartment Anyway
Touché, but when you get pissed at your girlfriend (or she gets pissed at you), at least you have the luxury of putting miles of distance between you two. Keeping that back-up apartment is like keeping a jacket in your car. Sure, it’s sunny 350 days out of the year, but Jesus Christ does it come in handy for those two weeks when you need it. If your girlfriend’s complaining that she never spends any time at her apartment anymore, then the solution is not to move in together. The solution is to start doing more stuff at her apartment.

…We’ll Have More Sex
This is a Trojan Horse. Moving in together will probably yield more sex and home-cooked meals and more awesome let’s-stay-in-and-watch-TV nights. But what she isn’t telling you is that moving in together will also yield more opportunities for you to disgust her - which is going to make the window of sexual opportunity close faster than the blast doors in the Swan station. I don’t know if girlfriends are actually using this line, but I have no doubt that guys are inferring it. That’s gotta stop.

…I Love to Play House
If your girlfriend tells you this, buy her a kitchen set from Toys R Us. Wanting to move in together just to play house is like joining the army because you like to play Halo. If your girlfriend needs something to decorate, then buy her construction paper and a glue stick, but do not, under any circumstances, move in with her. Giving her the keys to the castle is the surest way to have the castle burned to the ground. Skip the middleman and strike a match.

…I’m Pregnant
Game over. You’ve already lost.

Here’s a report on the matter from The Onion:

Sample lyrics:
Where the hell am I?
Who are you?
What’d we do
Last night?
Yeah yeah yeah

Can’t remember what I did last night
Maybe I shouldn’t have given in
But I just couldn’t fight
Hope I didn’t but I think I might’ve
Everything, everything is still a blur
Can’t remember what I did last night

Commentary:
Britney, I know you probably sleep around and party like you don’t have a 4 year old and a 2 year old. But it’s completely ridiculous and none of my business to hear about your date rapes. In fact, it’s disgusting. I, along with the rest of America, would rather hit you, (baby), one more time and remember the good old days when you were a virgin than hear more songs about you getting drunk and boning some douchebag who wants a good story.