On this weeks podcast, I bravely took listener calls and showcased absolutely terrible advice devoid of any wisdom. The result is one of my proudest moments and very favorite podcasts, enjoy and I apologize in advance…
Anyone who knows me personally can attest to the fact that I have the worst flying luck of all time. For the majority of you who only know me through the Internet, let me give a brief and 100% true record of my in-flight history.
In 2003, a Dutch woman physically assaulted me on my way to a family trip to Hawaii. My cousin and I sat behind her and may have thought it was funny to kick her seat every time she fell asleep or break out into song whilst watching Spice World on our portable DVD players #spoiled. She kept shushing us, which only made us sing louder and add some passionate hand gestures that may have interfered with her comfort level. When we got up to de-plane, I shoved my cousin into her for a domino effect and then she literally whipped around and smacked us. But actually. Like straight up turned around and slapped us in the face. The stewardess saw, told our parents (who had abandoned us in coach) and then airport security got involved… and she wasn’t allowed into the state. MAHALO! She didn’t speak a lick of English, ultimately got deported and we were police escorted to our hotel because we felt “threatened.”
In 2006, on a flight to Miami, I got seated next to a Persian family of four who reeked of lamb kabob and Elizabeth Taylor perfume. Between reapplying their lip liner and speaking at decibel that any extraterrestrial in space could hear, I was traumatized. Okay, it wasn’t that traumatizing but I did have an aversion to shawarma for a few months after that and it was difficult.
In 2013, on my way to Europe an elderly woman had a heart attack (and possibly died) in my fucking lap. Calm down, she was like 127. What I could never understand is why at that age she was sitting in Coach? After a certain age where death is probable, details are important. It would be much chicer for her to die in Business Class where she could fully recline and drink from proper glassware… what the hell was she saving her money for? Spring break in Cancun? The real tragedy is that the bitch interrupted my Gossip Girl marathon and I never got to find out if Chuck and Blair lived happily ever after.
In 2014, I flew to Nashville with a man that could not be contained by armrests and indoctrinated me into the Mile High Blood Pressure club. He had to give himself insulin shots at hourly intervals and ultimately passed out from a saturated fat-induced coma and spent four hours drooling on my shoulder while I cried because I was grossed out and my television remote was hidden under a flap of his skin.
Needless to say, flying is not my strong suit. Despite all these infractions, little did I know that perhaps the worst flight of all was not behind me.
Being the Good Samaritan that I am, as I boarded my flight yesterday in NYC and took to my luxury economy middle seat a sweet little Milano babe asked if I would switch seats with her coworker who was seated in the back of the plane so they could sit together. Her friend was a Naomi Campbell doppelgänger (aka black, tall and, probably would throw a phone at me if I didn’t oblige) so I said yes. Basically I did it for civil rights. Let the entitled white woman sit in the back of the plane… #justice.
As I gallivanted to my new seat I was pleasantly surprised to see both my row and the row next to me was jam packed with hot guys in suits. I love a man in a suit. Sure I have a boyfriend but just cause I’m on a diet doesn’t mean I can’t check out the menu. No ring, no thing. Suits = real jobs = nice dinners = happy Jackie. They looked like a row of suave investment bankers and I was instantly wishing I would have worn a more body conscious top… Guess I’d have to just rely on my quick wit and vast knowledge of real housewife trivia, because men LOVE THAT.
I joyfully sat down in between my row of dapper hotties and gave a mysterious yet coy smile. As I assessed the meat market I realized they all had name tags. Hmm… must be attending a conference! Classy!
They seemed stiff and in desperate need of a cocktail. I looked to my left and read the guys name tag “Elder Joseph” I then looked to my right and read “Elder Patrick”. All of these guys had the first name Elder? Strange. I impulsively tried to make idle chit chat and said to them, “I feel like I am the meat in an Elder sandwich! I have never met anyone by that name! It’s a very trendy name, kind of like Apple or Seraphina. Is your dad Chris Martin?” They looked at me like I was crazy.
I noticed the seemingly 30 year old man to my right named “Elder” had chosen Cinderella as his in flight entertainment and the “Elder” to my left was casually reading the Bible. Huh? I then noticed the small text above their once tantalizing nametags that read Church of Jesus Christo? Who the fuck is that? Jesus Christ’s Hispanic bastard child? Were they doing missionary work in Ensenada? Did the altar boy who go their name tags made have dyslexia? What’s with the misspelling? This wouldn’t be all that awkward if I wasn’t a shameless self-promoting troll whose iPad, laptop and cellphone weren’t DRENCHED in my logo “THE BITCH BIBLE” and sprawled in plain sight for Jesus Christo and his disciples to see… that, and I was drinking a Bloody Mary and watching 50 Shades of Grey like Satan’s wet dream.
Soon I could feel them congregating and whispering about me. What started as a potential Elder mile high love triangle very quickly became a full throttle attempted exorcism up in the sky. Nothing burns like the judgmental glare of a pushy Mormon. I made a selfless seat change in attempts to be a good person and in trade got dick slapped by Jesus Christo. I considered jumping out of an emergency exit and calling it a day, but saw the light and know I have much more awkward airplane encounters to live for.
It was rough. But nothing in this life is fair, especially in economy.
Hello kitty, my name is Jackie Schimmel and I am potentially your new best friend or worst nightmare. If you are here because you saw me on Watch What Happens Live, welcome and brace yourself. This is my sick little twisted world where I vent and offend people. Here you can find misguided life advice, strongly worded letters to Gwyneth Paltrow and even a few recipes because I am wholesome and approachable… right?
If Britney Spears has taught us ANYTHING in this world, it is that hair extensions are a slippery slope and they cant ALL be hits (#Perfume). Because of this Britney Jean life lesson, I have compiled some Bitch Bible posts to lure you into my bitchy stratosphere. That sentence sounds super rapey and I am okay with it. Enjoy and follow me on Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, Grindr, Craigslist and YouPorn.com or just on the street… Having a stalker is very chic.
And if you aren’t sick of me yet, please subscribe to my podcast series aptly named “The Bitch Bible” available on iTunes, Soundcloud, Stitcher or wherever you get your pod fix!
It is no secret that I am a highly irritable lassie. Almost anything, anyone or any place can be a trigger for me to lose my shit. I nearly had an ulcer after a friend of mine told me she was going to get her acrylic nail filled… UNLESS YOU ARE AN ESCORT OR WORK AT A DOMINOS PIZZA WHO STILL WEARS ACRYLIC NAILS? But seriously. And don’t even get me STARTED on the Toyota Yaris… I hate that little troll car.
I was particularly perturbed this morning when I heard of the #DontJudgeChallenge infecting basic bitches everywhere to take to their social media accounts and post pictures of themselves with fake acne, unibrows, disheveled hair and glasses to project societies perception of “ugly”, only to then wash it all off and reveal their “beautiful selves”. Shit like this makes me want to pull a Caitlyn Jenner and switch teams. I hate almost any social media challenges but especially ones that are primarily focused on appearance. The #NoMakeUp selfie of 2014 nearly sent me to Passages in Malibu.
To be clear, I am no stranger to a self indulgent Instagram post. Just last week I had a serious digestive breakthrough which I immediately celebrated with a bikini pic because I was fucking feeling myself. I am not ashamed of that. And if I have to nearly sell an ovary to buy a new pair of shoes, I sure as shit will post a picture of them because I am anti social and need to justify the purchase. It’s not great but it’s the truth and like Jill Zarin, “I own it”.
But less about me (@jackieschimmel) and back to the matter at hand… the #DontJudgeChallenge. First of all, there is literally nothing empowering about dressing your face in clown make-up to be “ugly” and then revealing that you are like SuPer pReTty with a killer contour and perfect lashes. Fucking gag me. What a statement! It’s super cute that you can wash all that shit off and go resume your shift at Abercrombie and Fitch. What about the bitch waiting for her Acutane prescription or a distant cousin to the Kardashians who hasn’t gotten her unibrow electrolysis treatment yet?
There are plenty of young girls who don’t have the luxury of wiping blemishes off, so these pathetic public attempts to liberate women are essentially just humble brags wrapped in faux-feminist packages.
I beg of you from the bottom of my black hollow heart, lets put an end to these exteriorly focused social media challenges because they are moronic and make you look like a huge asshole. You don’t need a “cause” to show off your shit, you don’t need perfect skin and contacts to be beautiful and you don’t need a tapeworm to rock a string bikini although it did help me a lot. Looks fade, tits drop, wrinkles form and we all die looking like gray fucking raisins ANYWAYS so let’s kibosh this shit and all go read a book, sing “Kumbaya” and swap tampons.
If you are emotionally invested in The Bachelorette you must listen to this weeks podcast. I must warn you this is NOT for the easily offended, listen and share with your bitches if you also think Nick’s sweatervest collection is super rapey and Shaun ONLY looks like Ryan Gosling if he had a touch of the downs and only shopped the clearance aisle at Urban Outfitters… Sorry!
I don’t fucking bake, here is video evidence why…
Sure I probably alienated 92% of my readers and am probably going to be sued by Ina Garten (Jeffrey call me) but the turnovers turned out delicious and at least I could use this video as evidence for any future bipolar diagnosis. Bon appétit bitches!
Today is the worst day. I can’t remember feeling this melancholy since Jessie Spano almost overdosed on caffeine pills on Saved by The Bell. I take celebrity couples really fucking seriously. Perhaps I am a delusional closet romantic who stupidly thinks marriage is forever and everyone shits rose petals but I am more deeply affected by a celeb break-up than those of people I actually know.
This morning my whole world was turned upside down as I was eating my “fuck my bikini bod” Belgian waffle and perusing Huffington Post. I almost choked when I read the headline announcing Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garners divorce. This hurts me in every cell, organ and orifice. WHY? They seemed so normal and wholesome. The only silver lining is that there may be a Bennifer resurrection, which would make all my wildest dreams come true. Can you imagine a Jenny From The Block 2015 remix with Ben in the new video? It’s basically the only thing keeping me sane at this point.
Thank God the Gays can get married now, we need them to drive up our countries marital success rate. Gays were BORN to plan weddings; swans, chandeliers, chincy appetizers, embellishment. Duh.
Ben, I will stepmother Violet, Seraphina and Melon or whatever the other ones called with ease. Call me babycakes. While this is difficult for me to comprehend, a bitch must remember not to cry cause it’s over but smile because it happened. BUT if John Krasinski and Emily Blunt, Channing Tatum and Jenna Dewan or Aaron Paul and whoever his hott wife is break up… I am going to kill myself and that’s a promise.