Soup to Help You Poop

I am so fucking bloated. Pretty sure that will be acknowledged on my tombstone because I wouldn’t want the embalmer to judge me on my seemingly slender frame and surprise bloated midsection. Healthy digestion has never been my thing. Maybe it’s the 45 lbs of cheese I consume weekly or my liking towards public restrooms that makes going to the bathroom so very stressful.

Because of my ailment, every once in a while I have to lighten my load and guide myself into salvation with a laxative like meal. Last night, I was feelling particularly with (food) child so I knew it was time to bust out my tried and true roasted tomato soup. It’s fast, easy, healthy and will have you blissfully shitting in no time…


  1. Crate of grape/cherry tomatoes
  2. 1 lb of chicken broth (vegetable broth works if you are a loser vegan)
  3. Fresh basil
  4. 1 white onion diced
  5. 8 cloves of garlic chopped
  6. Crushed red pepper
  7. Olive oil
  8. S+P


Preheat oven to 375. Put tomatoes in baking dish, toss with olive oil, salt and pepper. Roast for an hour or until they burst open and get golden. In pot sautee onions and garlic until translucent. Add tomatoes to pot, add crushed red pepper, chicken broth and let simmer. For smoother soup, pulse in blender and re-simmer. Top with fresh basil! **If you are looking to further constipate yourself add parmesan or ricotta to make it creamy and serve with side salad and a down home grilled cheese sandwich.


Bachelorette Recap: Slut Shaming Edition

One of the many reasons I find solace and guidance whilst watching The Bachelorette is because it sheds light on many serious issues plaguing our country; racism, sexism, questionable body art, rapey menswear (I am talking to you Nick) and slut shaming. I have never been a bitch to shame a slut. In fact, I love sluts. They are like human party favors, everyone should have a slutty friend you can bring to a co-ed party. It’s just polite.

Last night Kaitlyn let her elbow tattoos guide her to penetration town with Nick and consequently got slut shamed by the media and the non-penetrating bachelors. I can’t even begin to tell you how OVER everyone’s grievances towards fill in the blank shaming I am. Body shaming, slut shaming, race shaming, status shaming, gender shaming. Everyone needs to grow the fuck up and just be grateful people even care enough to talk shit about you.

I love that Kaitlyn porked that curly headed little fuck. It makes for amazing television and if you can go out to a West LA bar, have one too many strawberry daiquiris and wake up with your landlord, why the hell can’t Kaitlyn get intimate with a guy she may end up engaged to? It’s hard for me to defend her because she spoiled the winner via snapchat and her outfits are really bothering me but I digress.

I am not someone that gets offended by the terms slut, hoe, hooker, whore or any other term that insinuates I may be a prostitute. Mainly because I have yet to become a prostitute but the day is young bitches. What worries me is how that troll Nick was the first guy to get laid? I bet he looks like a flashy worm in the buff and that gentile jew-do just does nothing for him. Never trust a guy in an ironic bowtie.

The moral of this story is to stay slutty. Don’t let anyone or any stint of Chlamydia keep you from doing you girl. Stay strong Kaitlyn, I hope you and your tattooed elbows fly off into the sunset, trojans in tow. And just remember: slut shaming is only done by people who don’t have the opportunity to be sluts. Think about it.

Dangers of The Double Tap

For those of you have been living as your BEST self and subscribe to The Bitch Bible podcast series, you are already privy to my social media catastrophe that occurred a couple of weeks ago. It was an uneventful Wednesday night and I decided to delight in my usual midweek Instagram troll. I just earned a follow from an old “boyfriend” whom I “dated” for about 16 days when I was 15 years old. We were basically a prepubescent Jewish Kimye. I weighed 76 pounds, had braces and a personality I was not pretty enough to pull off. He was in desperate need of Accutane, played Lacrosse and drove a station wagon. True love.

I had just figured he died since I had not seen, heard or spoke to him in almost a decade. I broke up with him via text message and said I couldn’t do a long distance relationship. He went to a high school 1.3 mile away from mine and geographically was very undesirable for a bitch with only a permit and a bus pass. I expected him to write me 365 letters and beg for me to take him back but that didn’t happen and our love flame was extinguished.

Cut to 2015, me sitting on the couch with a face mask on and a stiff martini exploring the depths of his Instagram profile. Boy did I dodge a bullet. I won’t blow up his spot, but this fucker really likes Lake Havasu. Not my vibe. Naturally upon seeing an anniversary collage (gag me) he posted with his new girlfriend I clicked on her tag and was overwhelmed with joy to find her profile PUBLIC. Yahtzee.

After scrolling back nearly 94 weeks back, I must have been twitching in satiation because I accidentally liked a bikini bod selfie which was ironically ALSO taken in Lake Havasu aka the land of canned domestic beer, acrylic nails and regret. Holy ball fuck. OBVIOUSLY I immediately unliked it but the damage was already done. Three hours later I received the following text from my ex-soulmate aware of my mishap. I considered maintaining a morsel of self respect and not responding but that would be far too rational. Instead I decided to almost guarantee a restraining order, enjoy.


I would say I am ashamed but that would be a lie. For more in depth analysis on this issue please listen to my podcast series and you will not regret it. Subscribe here:


Don’t worry there are NO SPOILERS IN THIS POST because I am not a heartless monster. This is really hard for me to write considering I am too afraid to utilize Google and get the full story. I am in a fragile emotional state and haven’t been this veklempt since Jake Pavelka’s proposal to Vienna.

Anyone who knows me, knows that my main reason for waking up each day and striving for lavish mediocrity is solely for the right to watch subpar reality television. In particular, any Bravo franchise and The Bachelor/Bachelorette. I have been faithful and loyal to these programs since I was practically a fetus. I don’t watch the news, keep up with any international affairs, keep oblivious views politically and still am entirely unsure if Hawaii is apart of the United States. That shit is too real, give me vapid programming, my soul NEEDS it.

It came to my attention today that Kaitlyn accidentally snapchatted a picture of her with the alleged winner of The Bachelorette. This is basically the equivalent of shooting my entire family and then robbing me of their life insurance policies so I would be forced to prostitute myself to pay for funeral arrangements. Has she NO consideration for the extreme emotional involvement I have for her journey to find love? Has she NO appreciation for my weekly evaluations of which guys like it up the ass and which ones are simply there for free booze and to live somewhere other then their mother’s house? Has she NO brain capacity to understand the life threatening consequences for her actions?

If I was ever on the precipice of a Lexapro prescription, this would push me over the edge. In fact, I am currently writing this out on my balcony and if I saw a red rose on a silver tray or heard Chris Harrison’s voice I may jump to end my own death.

Besides all of THIS, I know have to spend the next 2 months executing top notch self control to preserve my innocence and NOT FIGURE OUT WHO FUCKING WINS. I would also like to use this post as a for warning that if you even ALLUDE to the mystery man in this snapchat photo I will call Kupa and send him over to your house to beat the shit out of you.

Kaitlyn, I will never forgive you for this. Or your weird elbow tattoos. Or keeping JJ around. Or your rapping skills.




Summer is high season for the basic bitch. This is when they get to bust out their high-heeled sandals, polish off their sad Tiffany kidney bean necklace and pick up their terry cloth Juicy Couture tube dress from the dry cleaners. Is that SPF 4 Hawaiian Tropic oil stained Michael Kors watch I smell? Ah yes. School’s out and so are the basic bitches social graces. In fear of appearing pretentious and GOOP-esque with a sad “Summer Must Have” list I thought it would be better to have a list of things NOT to rock this summer.

Poolside Heels Crystal Hefner called and wants her look back. I have never understood the psychology behind wearing a platformed stiletto next to a slippery pool. In conjunction with a side tied sarong and you might as well go get that butterfly tramp stamp and get into the adult film industry. It’s tacky and quite frankly just dangerous.


Tropical Beach Towel This seems a bit dramatic but nothing pisses me off more than a brightly colored, low absorbency, tropical themed beach towel. It doesn’t matter how strong your cover up and accessory game is, being the bitch that walks in with a hot pink towel with a fucking dolphin on it is a bad look. Just fucking air-dry or stick to solids


Glasses like this… No explanation necessary.


Ruffle Skirts and/or Mullet Skirts These had their moment a decade ago. If you find yourself wearing something that even looks vaguely similar to an outfit worn by Paris Hilton on “The Simple Life” it’s time to hand off to your housekeeper.


Flower Nail Art The Hawaiian flower with the rhinestone on your big toenail is not nail art, it is a nail tragedy. Unless you are 4 years old or your boyfriend bought you a season pass to Six Flags as an anniversary present this is no longer socially acceptable. So next time your Vietnamese nail technician points her jade bangled hand at your toe and says, “You won flowah and esstra fiteen min muhssage?” JUST SAY NO. You’re welcome.

Beautiful Flower Nail Art

Your High School Bae This one goes out to my bitches that just graduated high school, I know you think you and little Timmy are going to effortlessly continue a long distance relationship while he stays home and attends community college while simultaneously being the best damn sandwich artist Subway has ever seen and you head off to ASU to pursue Public Relations while simultaneously learning how to make Jell-O shots in your dorm room, but it’s not going to work.


A Custom Ringtone If every time your phone rings, Maroon 5’s “Sugar” or Taylor Swift’s “Blank Space” plays it is time to re-evaluate your life decisions. Opt for a tasteful vibrate or any other default ringtone. I would rather hear the cry of a dying childhood pet than a personalized ringtone. Well, maybe not my dying dog. I could deal with a cat cry, they are assholes.


Bachelorette Recap

So after everyone acknowledges JJ and Clint are back door lovers, Kaitlyn pulls Clint aside and gives his vest-wearing ass the boot. I will say it once, I will say it again – never trust a bitch in a vest. Unless they are making your dirty martinis or are a fucking vampire in hiding. It always amuses me how emotional the Bachelorettes get after like 1.3 days of knowing the guys. Boohoo. When Clint gets cut, JJ goes flaccid and then demands an apology from Clint. What a butt chinned biatch. On the real, their sexual tension is OFF THE CHARTS. Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey got NOTHING on that chemistry. WHY THE FUCK IS JJ CRYING AND WHY DO I WANT TO KICK HIM IN THE THROAT SO BADLY?

The gang heads to New York to find love in the big apple. How adorable. Doug E. Fresh joins the group date and all the white midwestern guys pretend to be huge fans. Super cultural! The rap battle is the most depressing and Arian shit of all time, but lingering in the crowds is virgin Ashley (who looks hott) and creeper Nick. Conveniently, he decides to rear his Jew curl frizzed head once filming starts so he can further delay being a real man with a real career. THIRSTY.

Jared scores the one on one date and he is #STOKED. I am still judging him for wearing bright yellow converse and homeboy needs a Crest white strip in a jiffy but he’s cute in a gerbil-esque way.

ABC busts out a really ominous strange montage of dramatic NYC scenery while we hear a phone call between Kaitlyn and Nick and she still can’t make up her fucking mind. Then Kaitlyn does what any other gal dating 65 guys on national television would do, invites her side bitch to meet only after getting her weave worked by that psychopath Ashley. I am over all these cameos. If the network is looking to spice up the show cant they just hire a transgender Bachelorette? Or shoot the season from a psych ward?

Nick, hot tip: when deciding your romantic fate, don’t dress up like Mr. Rogers in a rapey maroon cardigan. Lucky for him, Kaitlyn lets him and his offensive outerwear stay and join the other guys at the hotel.

Jared is really living up to his Restaurant Manager job title in that tux. Back at the hotel, the rest of the guys bitch about the situation and all I can focus on is Ian’s hair growth situation… Jared busts out a poem Shel Silverstein would shoot himself in the asshole for. Then they get in a helicopter and blah blah blah.

For the group date, Kaitlyn makes the guys audition for a Broadway play and we all learn the dentist is a homosexual, hence the light washed denim. Chris wins the one on one date and I learn in this episode that this Cupcake boy bugs the fuck out of me. They climb up to the New Years Eve ball and he squeals with glee over seeing a big shiny ball in the flesh. Chris loves Broadway and balls. Think about it. Broadway. Balls.

Nick moves in and the rest is to be continued…

Center Stage

Everyone should know I am a very responsible drinker. I love having a keg or four of beer with dinner, mimosas on a Sunday and obviously live and breathe for a good dirty martini. Maybe it’s because I am a complete control freak or because I’m completely vain and don’t want to embarrass myself, but I really never get drunk.  When I hit the clubs in my Bebe bandage dress trolling for a Middle-eastern real estate broker with bottle service and yellow lambo ( I am kidding ew), I am in the pursuit of a steady happy buzz not a Courtney Love downward spiral.

The few times I have been slob kabob wasted I busted a heel on a pair of Louboutins, verbally assaulted someone for cutting me in the bathroom line, got in a legitimate fight with my boyfriend about the band Greenday and on my drunkest occasion did an interpretive dance in front of an entire fraternity. Seriously though, If I was ever on the precipice of life or death and “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” started playing I would willingly take my own life. It’s nauseating, whiney and nasally as FUCK. Let’s lighten the mood and discuss the time I bared my labia to a frat house shall we?

Freshman year of college I was asked to a winter formal. I was pretty nervous about going since I had just met my date and didn’t know what to expect. Also, he was Israeli and those bitches can get REAL handsy. Somehow I worked out scoring invites for some of my girlfriends so it would be a group outing. I was under the impression the guy who asked me was still sitting comfortable in the friend zone and was not looking to progress our relationship any further.  Prior to the shitshow, my legal cousin and I gallavanted to the local Food For Less for $2.99 bottles of Andre. Like I said, college was never my thing and this is what I would consider an ultimate low point. We started popping the Dom  alcohol infused urine around 1pm and by 4:00pm I was white girl wasted. With the help of my friends, paid professionals and a high pressured hose I got myself barely together by 5pm.

Our dates picked us up and we headed for a group sushi dinner. As they approached my dorm, I was almost positive we were accompanying the cast of Superbad to a sad movie premiere. I had pulled some seriously depressing tail back in the day. My date was wearing a fucking vest…a VEST. I chugged the last of the Andre to ease the blow. We went to some ratchet sushi buffet place and I started throwing raw fish at the walls to see if it would stick… it was pretty cute.

After I gracefully breezed through dinner, we headed to the formal. I was expecting to make an entrance down a double staircase with my name announced like they did on the Titanic. “Miss Jackie Schimmel of Westlake Village, CA. Lover of dogs, sequins and well-intentioned racism”. My entrance was a face plant into a plastic folding chair and the horrid realization that the venue had cottage cheese ceilings and the only food was plastic bowls of Doritos. This obviously prompted me to drink more alcohol to cope with all this AND the fact I had wasted one hell of an outfit. My date was all up on my dick. I needed to ditch him immediately, every time he would try and canoodle me I headed straight to the bar and started canoodling with my real date Andre. After my second bottle of the day I decided to really take this formal to the next level.

All of my close friends tease me for never getting drunk. They think it’s because I am neurotic or worried it will disrupt my digestive issues which is all true but the real reason is this; I get really weird. Not in a cute slutty sorority girl way, in a completely insular, solo mission, awkward way. I think something will be “so hilarious”, fully commit to it and then let no one in on the joke. In this situation, I thought it would be totally hilarious to perform an interpretive dance in front of the whole party.

I went behind the DJ booth, told him to turn off the music and grabbed the mic. I sashayed to the front of the dance floor and immediately jolted the guests with the feedback sound from turning on the mic. I demanded the DJ turn off the music. He was scared and obliged, “What’s up A E Pi!!! Who’s having a good time tonight??!!! CAN I GET A WHUT WHUT FOR ALL MY JEWY BITCHES UP IN HURRRR. Everyone if you could please take a seat and clear the dance floor there is a special performance I would like do for you all to thank you for this shitty party. Let’s DO it. Yeyuhhhh!!!” Clearly no one was enjoying my impromptu disc jockey routine.

It’s no secret that I have entitlement issues. I am uncertain how this has trickled into my comfortability with hostage performances for large groups of strangers but I have made a note to ask my therapist. Reluctantly, people started to clear the floor. Being the hospitable lady that I am, I started going into strangers bedrooms wheeling out desk chairs and bringing patio furniture inside so everyone would have a seat. I was going to make this busted frat house the closest thing to Madison Square Garden humanly possible. I dragged people out of sexual escapades, bathrooms and dark corners. No party guest was left behind – it was like a firedrill, everyone needed to be present.

I took center stage (#JodieSawyer) and cued the DJ to play the song I had asked him to. What proceeded next is all a bit blurry. My song selection was the appropriate Armageddon theme song by Aerosmith “I Don’t Want To Miss a Thing” and that irony is not lost on me… From my flashes of memory and debriefing from my loved ones who were present that day, it began with a slow crawl and ended with a leap which sounds super elegant. I even grabbed a stray streamer and had a short but sentimental ribbon dance bit during the bridge. Apparently the DJ tried to phase out the song seeing the sheer horror on my audiences faces and I got back on my mic and screamed “DON’T TURN OFF MY FUCKING SONG. I AM NOT FUCKING FINISHED, THAT’S SO RUDE.” Cute.

I was also wearing a dress that forced me to go to commando so beyond the grand finale split leg leap, there was also an appearance by my vagina. And people ask me why I dropped out of college… The next morning I woke up with bruised arms and a bloody shin which just shows my commitment to the dance. I would walk through campus a sad broken legend and 4 months later I transferred schools and vowed never to drink cheap in excess, go commando or watch Armageddon ever again…