#KimExposedTaylor

There are pop culture milestones that change history forever. Last night the world received a metaphorical edible arrangement in the form of Kim Kardashian vs Taylor Swift. As a squad reject, I have very personal feelings about Taylor Swift. I would rather hang out with ISIS than attend one of her holiday weekend barbeques. I am not thin or rich enough and I doubt she would be cool with my JonBenet Ramsey jokes.

As we all know, Taylor Swift is a nice girl. I have always struggled with the term “nice”. Nice is a behavior not a personality attribute. Just remember there are people who say Osama Bin Laden was NICE. I value authenticity over bullshit pleasantries which is why this story vindicates me so.

As we all know Nina Banks from Father of The Bride 2/ Jenny Humphrey aka Taylor Swift has been very vocal and self-righteous over Kanye West’s “Famous”. She gave a enthrallingly basic/victimized/ babysitters club Grammy speech jabbing at Kanye and insisting she was blindsided by the song. Innocent little cat lady. All the while Kanye West has INSISTED Taylor knew about the song. Pablo let the incident die while he was off taking a pair of scissors to a Fruit of The Loom sweatpants for Yeezy Season 5 until last night when Kim “Harriet the Spy” Kardashian Humphries West exposed T Swift with the light of a trillion Lumee cases.

Kim didn’t give us a cryptic tweet, suggestive caption or a magazine pull quote, she gave us kold hard evidence. That snapchat bomb was epic as fuck. I have never been a Kardashian fan, I find them incredibly uninteresting and tired. Except for Rob, what a strapping young sock mogul. I am kidding, he is the WORST. I must admit, Kim is my favorite.

I like to imagine Taylor Swift was home baking gluten-free banana bread, doodling in her Burn Book, watching yet another Friends rerun and manicly staring at herself in the mirror brushing her smug bob. Then her phone rings (Blank Space is her ringtone) and all hell breaks loose. She starts assaulting her housekeeper, takes a knife to her mattress, screams bloody murder and grits her teeth at her 38 cats while plotting her retaliation. She calls Karlie Kloss to see if with all of her “coding knowledge”she could take down Kim’s snapchat. Ironically, Karlie doesn’t ACTUALLY know how to code (side note: if you aren’t privy to Koding with Karlie please look into it, living for models pretending to be nerds and burger enthusiasts – stfu).

So instead, further perpetuating the victim mentality, Taylor responds by saying she didn’t know he was going to refer to her as “that bitch” and feels violated by being recorded without her knowing. Really? Remember when you professed to have no idea about Kanye’s song and there is a fucking VIDEO of you encouraging creative liberty? Bitch please.

The reason people dislike Taylor is because she seems void of authenticity. It started with the faux suprise everytime she won an award “what? me? no way! I can’t believe it. I am such an underdog!”. Then she took a big preaching shit all over Amy Poehler and Tina Fey after they made a miniscule joke about Taylors dating life. Instead of shaking that shit off (HELLO its an award show, if you get to do what you love and make millions of dollars doing so you can take a joke) Taylor shifted the narrative to feminism and voiced her concern for “pitting women against eachother…” shut the fuck up.

We can’t forget about Nicki Minaj pointing out that all MTV VMA nominations were in favor of slim women and Tay Tay made it ALL about her only to reconcile for an opening performance together. Ugh. Then most recently, Taylor willingly preferred and agreed to have a psuedonym as a writer on “This is What You Came For” and then oh so skillfully manipulated the narrative that she wasn’t getting proper credit. HUH? I just can’t.

Word on the street is that Taylor has a potential lawsuit against Kimye for releasing he phone call/ recording her without her permission. Unfortunately I know the extremities of these privacy infringements because I was almost sued by an emaciated busboy/ DJ (#PumpRules) but luckily he is too poor to prosecute. Taylor, bitch to bitch, if you choose to press charges not only will you have the rhythm of Gumby with Parkinson’s, you will also be a total narc. Darling, you are kinda a nightmare dressed like a day dream.

 

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The Art of Giving

I have been pretty open about not really believing in Karma, feeling it is mostly a scare tactic and have grappled with my own contribution to the universe after many a martini. Last week I had a situation that reaffirmed many of the existential life crises.

After spending the last few weeks traveling (#humblebrag) my Ashkenazi Jew fro had hit maximum brillo pad capacity. Being in desperate need of a deep hydration hair mask, I saddled up my pooch in his illegal service dog vest and walked to my local Rite Aid to load up on some vodka and argan oil treatments. As I approached the entrance I saw a family of 4 standing with a sign that read “Homeless with 2 babies to feed. Anything helps, God Bless”. This isn’t going to come out right but here I go. I avoid homeless people like the plague. Sticks are free, find a tin and make some fucking music. Provide a service for compensation. Begging seems so half assed. This is America.

This homeless mother of 2 infants caught me in a very vulnerable state. “Sorry I don’t have any cash.” As I walked into Rite Aid with my hypoallergenic pup, one of her small children locked eyes with me and was giving me Sara McLachlan beaten puppy eyes. All the sudden I started hearing the familiar “In the arms of the angel… Fly away from here.” Fuck.

I was basically already in the clear, strolling right past them into the fluorescent lighting when I had a very out of character heart pang and decided I was due for a good deed. I begrudgingly turned around, went up to the mother and told her I didn’t have cash but would be happy to buy her some groceries. In my head, I though condoms would be the smart purchase personally. As I led her into the store she immediately grabbed a shopping cart. I was hoping she grabbed it as a possible guesthouse and not to fill with goods on my dime.

I suggested we go to the baby supply aisle because I am a philanthropist and immediately this bitch starting throwing shit in the cart like it was the fucking Supermarket Sweep. I’m not talking generic brand diapers and wet wipes… this poverty stricken asshole was hawking Jessica Alba locally sourced organic burlap diapers and aloe vera infused ass wipes. Um no. I suggested we gravitate towards thing with a yellow sticker but she clearly wasn’t listening. Soon the cart was overflowing with 70lb containers of organic formula, paraben free bottles, even some fucking toys and coloring books.

If I were alone I would have put the kibosh on this immediately. But other shoppers were giving me such nods of approval, one person even offered me a warm shoulder grab and said he was honored to witness such selflessness. That was a first. I considered asking him if he wanted to go halfsies on the final bill but contained the urge.

My attempt at a good deed was now making me resentful. I was gritting my teeth and murmuring things under my breath like “Want to go to the fucking Ivy after this? Do your babies like crab cakes? Perhaps a fresh orchid for your tent?” I grabbed my $38 hair mask feeling less guilty than I had a mere 16 minutes ago and got in line with my new sponsored family. Solely because there were like 6 other people in line I decided this was my mitzvah for the decade and I needed to suck it up and be gracious. Although every time I saw the woman peruse through the bins in the line I gave her wrist a quick slap.

Finally, I was at the register. The cashier started to ring up everything and I looked around at the Rite Aid staff and fellow shoppers and gave them all a nonchalant shrug that said “Hey! I do what I can. Humanitarian by day, good time gal by night. It’s no biggie.” For 32 seconds I was Mother Teresa. I considered buying a pastel sweater set, organizing a can drive and eliminating the word “cunt” from my lexicon… giving back felt so right. “Alright miss, your total is $463.28.”

It was over as soon as it begun. No fucking way. This was a defining life moment. I took a second to gather my thoughts, take a deep breath and figure out how to navigate this situation. Should I hand my card over graciously or am I going to shatter my short-lived image of grace and humanity?

“Oh fuck no. Can you give us a quick second?” I asked the cashier. I pulled the homeless woman aside and explained to her that I too would be homeless if I had to pay for all of these goods. I know found myself bartering with her item by item. “Do you really need this economy sized formula? Can you still produce milk from the tit? I hear it’s better for brain development and then maybe one of your sons can be a brain surgeon and get you a condo in the valley. Also rattles are a luxury item. Void please.”

After we had the store manager void 7 items, I then made the executive decision we needed to exchange our remaining goods for the generic brand which resulted in 5 very embarrassing PA announcements “Manager to register 3, we need to exchange the Honest Company diaper rash cream for the Rite Aid brand equivalent.” This homeless woman was NOT happy about her Supermarket Sweep going generic and had the nerve to tell me that if I didn’t need my $40 hair mask, her children could have new toys.

After 28 minutes of checkout drama, I was able to get my charity bill down to $120 and left Rite Aid with my head held low and truly bitter towards the whole experience. The woman hugged me, blessed me and I was on my merry way. I decided to grab a reflective iced tea at Starbucks and call my mom to brag about what a giver she had raised.

When I walked outside I saw my new rescue family standing on the street with the cart full of merchandise and imagined they were headed to the freeway underpass and got the same familiar heart pang that got me into this whole mess. A real full circle moment.

Until a brand new Honda mini van pulled up curbside, trunk popped (automatic) and her husband started loading all the shit I just bought into their car. My jaw dropped and rage filled my body. The doors slid open (luxury) and this “homeless” hooker started to buckle her kids in their seemingly non pre-owned car seats. I had to get closer.

As I approached the van I noticed Despicable Me playing in the fucking headrest TVs. Yes I said it, HEADREST TVS. What the fuck? They sped away presumably to their Bel Air estate before I could confront her and I sat their feeling helpless and taken advantage of. For my own state of well being I have convinced myself they LIVE in that car hence the leather interiors and built in entertainment system. God, I hope they live in that car… Is that awful? Nope.

Anne Frank once said, “No one has ever become poor from giving.” No offense to Anne, but she didn’t get out much. The moral of this long winded and sure to be polarizing story is to never let someone shame your hair product selections, a small act of kindness is worth more than the grandest intention and always carry cash.

Gilded Dildo’s by Gwyneth.

Some people find joy in the sound of a child’s laughter, the sight of a baby bird learning to fly or the smell of a freshly baked apple pie. I find all life’s satisfaction within the release of a Goop gift guide. Just when you think… “Hmmm… maybe GP is just like one of us?” She assures our tax bracket and us that indeed she is not.

The Goop newsletter is my main source of cardiovascular exercise. I sweat, I laugh, I ponder all life’s unanswered questions “are truffles mushrooms or chocolates?” and then I have a good cry and blow my nose into $5 dollar bills.

Much to my dismay, this week Goop delighted us with a Sex Toy Guide. So EdGy! After waiting in line at the supermarket, perusing tabloids and reading headline after headline with GP saying, “I am not a prude!” (only someone prude as a fucking Duggar sister would say that) I abandoned my shopping cart and beelined to my nearest computer.

I am super emotionally invested in these Goop gift guides because I live with the eternal hope that one day she is going to include a fucking Mossimo tunic from Target or an IKEA throw pillow. Not that I would purchase either but at least I am concerned with my relatability factor.

Gwyneth, you have truly outdone yourself. What a minx. Don’t let the macrobiotic diet, personal shaman and truffle oil fountain fool you. Kill me.

Amidst the various $400 nipple clamps, $540 leather whip and the bargain $20 anal beads, Gwyneth Paltrow (Heidi Fleiss) also recommends a $15,000 24-karat gold dildo… THERE she is!

Okay. Firstly, I need a list of all people who own this device and it’s manufacturers because they all need to go find a (tall) roof and jump off of it.

If someone is shoving $15,000 up his or her orifices it better cure cervical cancer or own a private plane. How do you keep the gilded dildo clean? Take it to a jeweler? Like next time you are at the mall, just pop into Zale’s and ask for a quick polish while you go wait at the food court eating Hot Dog on a Stick? Do you know how many corn dog popsicles you could buy for $15,000? AND they are the same shape. Connect the dots bitches… I am just sayin.

Gwynny, I admire your complete disregard for self awareness. Poor people are no fun and give shitty birthday gifts. Never change, stay goopy and hopefully the gold plated dildo doesn’t turn you labia green.

Love always,

Jackie Schimmel

No-Chella, No-Problems

This year I made the responsible and conscious decision not to attend Coachella. At first it was because my digestive system couldn’t weather a weekend of eating Spicy Pie and for the price of accommodations and artist passes, we could buy an ocean view condo. Also, my people did enough time wandering the fucking desert.

Last year I attended and had 4 mental breakdowns, gained 6 pounds and wore a metal head wreath that I still haven’t forgiven myself for. With every peace sign, crop top and snapchat of trust fund babies pretending to be SuPeR into LCD Soundsystem a bit of my soul dies and reaffirmed my decision to sit this year out. Is it fun? Duh. Does it bring out the worst in people? Yes (please see below).

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People tend to go all Silverlake at Coachella. Bitches (and bros) pretend to know and love obscure bands, dress differently, Nashville filter themselves till their fucking phalanges bleed and all while professing that this weekend “changed their lives”. Shut the fuck up Vanessa Hudgens. It’s a music festival. It’s fun as fuck I get it. But if your life epiphany occurs next to a blow-up neon caterpillar it’s time to get your head out of the asshole you shoved molly inside of and grow the fuck up. I can’t with these people. Maybe the floral crowns and chokers are cutting of blood circulation to the brain?

Also, everyone is on drugs. “Nuh-uh Jackie, I didn’t do drugs! I am there for the music.” Go fuck yourself, EVERYONE IS ON DRUGS. I have no problem with this. I am not a drug person but I hold no judgment to those more free spirited than I. For me it’s the idea of these bitches in body chains shoving vials of cocaine up their vaginas like the Mexican Cartel that concerns but also intrigues me.

Then there are the people who bring their fucking kids. So you’ll spend hundreds of dollars on a ticket (I’m assuming general admission) but can’t drop $40 for a fucking babysitter? You’re baby is getting hot boxed ma’am. I strongly believe there should be a Child Protective Services booth right next to the Heineken Beer Garden. “Little Timmy, finish up your bottle, Diplo is about to start!” No, just no.

Beyond all of this, there is a serious social stratification (big word) that sets the mood as separate but definitely not equal. I’m talking about General Admission, VIP and Artist. The harsh truth is, I would never engage in sexual activity with anybody in General Admission. Mostly because there is a big chance they are sleeping in a fucking tent and shitting in a port-a-potty. VIP allots you shitting in a porcelain throne and you don’t have the same Auschwitz level security entrance. Artist passes are ideal if you want to be escorted in a fucking golf cart and drunkenly sway next to fucking Rihanna. It’s called the Coachella Caste System… one day we will read about this in our grandchildren’s textbooks.

As bitches everywhere comedown from their post-Coachella commas just remember it’s not you, it’s your head wreath. See you next year Coachella.

Bachelor Recap: Hoe-metowns

Holy fuckballs, its already hometown dates. This both excites me and depresses me. What the hell am I supposed to do on Monday nights once this is over? How will I go on? Do I need a Lexapro prescription? It’s all too emotionally strenuous.

The first hometown is with Amanda in Laguna Beach. I kept fantasizing that Stephen Coletti is secretly her baby daddy and Hilary Duff was going to do an impromptu performance of “Come Clean”. If you don’t get that reference leave this site and never return. They start the date with a playdate on the beach so Ben can meet Ombre’s kids. Full disclosure; I cried like a newborn when she reunited with her spawn. Listen, Amanda’s kids are cute. I was impressed by their gladiator sandals but had to knock them down a few pegs for the pigtails… it’s a bit Sundays at Church basic for me. And when I say they are cute I mean that half-heartedly. Calm down. Not all kids are cute and it’s detrimental to society to imply differently. But despite all of that, I can’t imagine their connection is strong enough for Ben to be an Insta-dad. Finally, they slip the kids some Benadryll PM and Ben assures Manders that her family was “awesome” kk bye.

Next, Ben heads to Portland Oregon to see Lauren B. I like her and think she is an obvious frontrunner but I need her to chill with the flannel and invest in a professional blowdry. They food truck hop and then head to a whiskey museum. My kind of a date! Not having kids is so refreshing. Is Lauren B always cold or drinking too many sulfites? Her nose is always so red and it concerns me. Lauren’s hott sister is clearly skeptical about Ben and Lo’s relationship so in attempts to get more screen time (which I’m assuming gave her a gallery of triple digit like-worthy #TBT instaposts) pulls Ben aside to get the dirt. In the reality TV moment of my dreams, I was praying Lauren’s sister had one too many glasses of Sangria and tried to make a move on Ben. But instead I was jolted back to planet earth as Ben started fucking crying whilst explaining his feelings for Lauren. Just stab me in the ovary. Or give me Ben’s “hope” bracelet and let me hang myself from a Bachelor mansion balcony. Ugh.

Jojo. The bitch that seems too mentally stable to be on the Bachelor. UNTIL she approaches her Dallas condo and finds a dozen red roses (gag). She assumes they are from Ben but once she starts reading the accompanying 86-page letter attached realizes they are from her ex boyfriend. To be honest, I immediately assumed this was a Cher Horowitz moment from Clueless like when she would send herself flowers and chocolates to make gay-boy Christian jealous. Totally something I would bust out on a hometown. Fucking Chad. I could go into details about Jojo’s thirst trap brothers and shit like that but let me cut to the chase. The moment where Jo’s mother swigged that wine straight from the bottle was the realest moment in television history. Especially since at dinner they were sipping from Baccarat. Ben was like Vivian from Pretty Woman navigating their extensive silverware. Jojo’s family is single handedly keeping potpourri and faux floral enterprises afloat. The takeaway is that Jojo’s mom should be cast on Bachelor in Paradise.

Finally, Ben heads somewhere to meet Caila’s fambam. Guys… “My dad is the CEO of a toy company” was so Gretchen Weiners I can’t even. So they awkwardly build a playskool dream house and I’m bored as fuck. I really liked Caila’s family. I desperately wish her mother would’ve opted for effing Invisalign but I digress. Caila assures her family that Ben is the one and wants to tell him she is in love with him. Either the Filipino food that was served kick started some impulsive bowel movements so she needed to find a toilet ASAP OR she totally pussed out because bitch said nothing. Fuck she has great hair though…

Amanda gets sent home (saw that one coming) and I will miss her demure Cinderella nature and severely aggressive ombre hair. Fuck I miss Lace. Until next week bitches!

Dear DJ James Kennedy (Part Duex)

Dear DJ James Kennedy,

Hey girl… it’s me, Jackie. Again. Hope you’re doing well. Just kidding, you are literally the worst. Before I begin my second attempt at contact, I would like to clarify that your hAtErZ are not your MoTivaTeRz because you are a fucking busboy at Sur. Also if you are reading this and telling yourself that shit like this makes you relevant, please know it doesn’t… I am simply low on material and love an easy target that is not intelligent enough to defend themselves and proudly displays their douche-ness to an extent that I am able to comment on it without repercussions.

As a journalist I find it my civil duty to make contact with you. Like Carrie Mathison risked her and Brody’s livelihood by hunting Abu Nazir and Diane Sawyer ventured to the Middle East for a nationally publicized sit down with Sadam Hussein, I too am reaching out to sit down face to face and go over some of your questionable behavior. My problem is not the fact that you dress like Kate Moss, think you are headlining Coachella (#saharatent) because you can make playlists on Spotify OR the derogatory way you speak to and about women. It’s your inability to acknowledge what an asshole you are. Perspective is everything… did I just give you your album name?

From one slender physiqued young lady to another, help me, help you, help myself, help the world, you’re the help. You is not kind, you is not smart, you is not important. I wish Octavia Spencer delivered a shit pie to your shared apartment. When you told Lisa that you are responsible for her burgeoning business at Pump, I almost vomited. Just because you have a free 30-day trial of Garage Band, a disappointing H&M blazer and a Yelp profile does not mean you are Calvin Harris. “You can read the yelp reviews, they are waiting for a cd.” I literally want to get this tattooed on my forehead. And then stab myself in the forehead.

I understand that you were probably very perplexed upon learning that you inadvertently ate another mans ass… the true shame is that he was a football player and not LA Reid or someone that could get you an internship at a record label. Music executives need their dishes cleaned too, share your gifts James.

Sometimes I think I am being too hard on you James. But then you start speaking and I feel complete permission and validation in my words. Please know you have an invitation to discuss our issues face to face perhaps over some mini bottles of Seagrams. Dance like no ones watching, rap like no ones listening and eat ass like you have never been hurt.

Love always,

Jackie

Things I Kurrently Kan’t With

Sorry I haven’t been actively blogging lately. I have been in a great mood lately and tend to only do my best work when I am angry or super menstrual. Lucky for you and my vagina, I am menstruating (#notpregnant) so I knew it was time to delight my bitches with some updates on my life.

Firstly, I have started wearing Uggs. I feel like I should probably go get a Wal-Mart credit card and go buy some fucking Warm Vanilla Lace body spray because isn’t that what people in Uggs do? This is a true story, I am quoted in my high school yearbook saying, “Uggs are UG” a decade ago (I won ‘Best Style’ #humblebrag and that tidbit was all I could come up with as a style philosophy). At the time, this was very controversial. I lost like 7 friends who swore by a Hollister jean skirt and Ugg boot combo after that was published. So as you can imagine, as I ventured to Starbucks this morning in leggings and my very vintage Uggs I felt like a super cunt traitor but also amazing.

Also on an entirely unrelated note… someone called me a pedophile on twitter. Just because I innocently called Hilary Duff’s 4 year old son hott. I would like to go on record and say that I stand by that statement. Seriously though have you seen him? Hottest 4 year old I have ever seen. If the one upside of sexism is that as a woman it’s less pedophilic to call kids hott, then please let me take advantage of that. Kaia Gerber is hott as fuck. She gets Cindy Crawford genealogy AND a lifetime of Casamigos Tequila. Romeo Beckham… please call me when you are 18. Or 17. Or 12.

Fuck “friends day”. The best part about making harsh statements against these fabricated Facebook holidays is that people get so offended and immediately start to defend themselves for taking part in the propaganda. If you are a regular cyber stalker like yours truly, you don’t need a sappy computer generated slideshow to reminisce. Firstly, you don’t even like 60% of the people pictured and secondly, no one gives a fuck. Publicly celebrating FrIeNdS dAy is like publicly celebrating your menstrual cycle after a pregnancy scare. Or like a Ramona Singer “New Beginnings” party. It’s self indulgent as fuck.

And lastly, on this day February 3, 2016, I initiate yet another Kardashian Kleanse. Because after 3 painful episodes of Kocktails with Khloe, 26 disgruntled reader emails attacking me for calling Caitlyn Jenner an asshole and 487 hours of watching Kylie Jenner’s snapchat and crying myself to sleep – I just kan’t do it anymore.

I miss Lace.

Eff 2016

Most people say the Holidays are the season of love, joy and spirit. If there is ever a part of my year that makes me hate everyone and everything it’s this very time. Something about a festive acrylic nail, caramel popcorn, and the misuse of sequins compasses the opposite effect for me.

So we made it through Hanukkah/Christmas. I only had to acquire like 4 gift receipts, an art of which I have mastered … for distant relatives a simple “I love this discounted Warm Vanilla Sugar bath set that will make me smell like I’m from a broken home in Riverside – but I am allergic to jojoba oil” always does the trick.

After my exchanges are made, I have digested the 542 latkes impregnating me AND made a quick visit to my therapist to work through a serious altercation with my neighbor who has yet to take down her glittered Jack-o-lanterns from Halloween AND decided to put both a nativity scene and a fucking LIGHT UP REINDEER on our communal grass area (I hope you read this, I hate you so much) – New Years was lurking.

I have and always will have a serious distaste for New Years.  New Years is a real dick because it kickstarts this faux soul searching that I just can’t with. You should know that with every polyblend bandage dress, plagiarized inspirational quote and 2015 collage a part of my soul dies. If you suck, your year is going to suck. That’s a bit harsh, medical traumas excluded – that shit isn’t your fault. But honestly, save your inspirational quotes for a sad plank of wood to hang in your kitchen right next to your bowl of potpourri (horrible).

People who are really into New Years Eve are the same people that have a default picture that was taken 6 years ago and try to consign their Juicy sweatpants because they “still have value”. For the record, I chopped up my Juicy tracksuits over a decade ago and made the terrycloth wardrobe travesty into rags that I use when I bleach my bathtub and toilets.

To be honest, I still think of years in terms of school years so the pomp and celebratory nature of bringing in the New Year is totally lost on me. Firstly, I had a great year so I am not looking to entirely re-jig my format. Granted, I could work on some type of public filtering system (like not using the adjective “cunty” with strangers) and it wouldn’t kill me to try and be more social… I’m fucking kidding, my anti-social nature is my favorite thing about myself #neverchange.

Here’s the truth, some people wake up everyday and give it 100% and I prefer to hover at an attainable 83% so by the time January 1st rolls around I feel content in my slightly above average functionality. Set the bar low, and how far you can go!

Another thing that I will never understand is people who let a manufactured holiday initiate a Ramona Singer inspired renewal. People start issuing insincere apologies and faux forgiveness so they can bust into 2016 tOteZ dRaMz FrEe, Korbel in hand. Some pseudo religious life ruiner said that forgiveness is unconditional… only assholes say shit like that. Here’s an idea … don’t fuck up badly enough that people WON’T forgive you. If someone chooses not to forgive you, it’s probably still your fault.

I am not proud of all my actions this year, back in October I had a 3 week klepto stint at CVS. It’s not my fault if they have a malfunctioning self checkout system and a Sally Hansen Quick Dry nail polish slips into my shopping bag. And maybe some travel sized deep conditioner. But I am not apologizing and in return don’t expect forgiveness from the Beauty Department Supervisor.

So as we embrace 2016 with open arms, abused livers and as you dust off your Bebe dress and return it to it’s garment bag (NOT) in the back of your closet, just remember if you were an asshole in 2015, you will probably still be an asshole in 2016. Happy New Year.

Dear DJ James Kennedy

Dear James,

There are a myriad of reasons I dream about hitting you in my luxury European vehicle that I don’t take selfies with because #decency. Firstly, I truly envy your ballerina body. I have always dreamed of having the same body type as Maureen from Center Stage minus the whole bulimia factor. Cooper Nielson would totally fuck you and give you the Swan Lake solo so congrats on that.

The way you talk to not just women but human beings in general is appalling. I don’t know how to politely tell you this but I’ll give it a go … you are a mediocre looking busboy with an entry level BMW and a laptop with some fucking stickers on it. You have no physical, mental, emotional or social qualifications to behave the way you do. Nobody does, but especially not you. Who spits on somebody’s door and then justifies it by saying “it wasn’t even a loogey”. I am so embarrassed for you.

You say you were born into the music industry, not sure if anyone told you this but having George Michael as an estranged godfather and rubbing peanut butter on the backs of your arms so your bff aka George’s dog can lick/bite it off and give you an erection does not make you some musical prodigy. I am fairly positive you will not be in consideration for a Grammy with this shit.

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Payne? Cuzzi in the SWEET (*suite)? Dumb or dyslexic? You decide.

Watching you on Watch What Happens Live officially sent me over the fucking edge. I can handle your butt chin, your size 23 waist, your delusional ego and even your Jimmy Nuetron hairdo but NO ASSHOLE FUCKS WITH MY DAILY NIGHTCAP ENTERTAINMENT. You and Lala are like a cautionary tale for our generation. I burned 3,000 calories just from pure rage watching that nightmare.

I am hopeful this letter finds you well. I can imagine my thoughts will inspire some new smash hit “fuCk dA hAteRz feat LaLa KenT” and you will headline Coachella this year if someone can cover your shift at Sur. The invitation to appear on The Bitch Bible podcast is on the table if you would like to settle our beef before the New Year. I will bite the shit out of your arm. Ain’t nobody that I’m feeling like I’m feeling you.

Love you forever. Never change.

Best,

Jackie Schimmel

Victoria’s Secret Show

 

The truth is, it’s super hard to articulate my feelings about the Victoria Secret Fashion Show without sounding like a bitter, diabetic, troll. In theory (and some people’s reality) the opportunity to even aesthetically qualify to strut down a runway in a jewel encrusted vagina cloth with a bouncy blowdry and a 2 foot long thigh gap is super flattering. God knows, no one is asking me. But we all have to recognize that women gathering around the television to watch these female specimens in a fashion show (where you can’t actually purchase the “fashions”) is ridiculous.

Firstly, everyone calm the fuck down. This isn’t going to be some proclamation of feminism just stating the obvious. My absolute favorite part of watching the Victoria’s Secret Show is watching the behind the scene clips of the models being “so goofy and relatable”. Supermodels, they’re just like us. Except better looking and hungry. Taking selfies, lip syncing, being bff with all the other models. I wan’t just one supermodel to look into camera and say “I love cocaine, hate everyone here, have only eaten ice chips and an occasional Splenda packet #cheatday, fuck off.” But NO! Being an angel is all giggles, cheap body spray, glitter and acrylic underwear.

When the angels are not prancing around in pink robes and dancing backstage, they are also getting supes sentimental. Martin Luther King had a dream… and so did Kendall Jenner and Gigi Hadid. Even if being a supermodel is your “lifelong dream” how can anyone even rationalize saying that out loud. My dream is to have like 18 houses, more jewelry than Jaja Gibore and bi-quarterly tapeworm so I can stay thin sans exercise but for social decency sake, I am not going to fucking admit that. I’d make some shit up like “I just want to be a strong voice for my generation” or like “help needy children and rescue stray cats in Somalia”. No thanks. Just lie.

My second favorite thing about the VS Fashion Show is the obvious angels that were simply hired to comply with some racial quota. Like the overly spirited Asian girl who never quite nailed her end of the runway pose. Are you winking, are you kissy facing, having a cerebral palsy situation? Poor girl. I am going to go on a limb and assume that 43% of these bitches don’t even speak English.  So you really can’t blame the girls for awkwardly lip syncing to all the performers music. They could be singing Hitler’s manifesto and they would have no fucking idea because they are just PeRkY aS fUcK.

The 24 hours after the show is what I like to refer to as Basic Bitch Dooms Day. Everyone complains how they never want to eat again, vow to get an ass like Adriana Lima or celebrate their “normalness” by posting pictures of themselves eating a pizza in rebellion. This is fucking stupid. Shut the fuck up. I get the attempt at irony but it’s as sad and redundant. 

Also, poor Ellie Goulding, here she is fully clothed singing her little heart out and is background blur to some Scandinavian amazon with big pink balloons taped to her ass slow-mo blowing kisses to a camera man with a boner. Granted, I would sell my sister to a brothel for abs like Behati Prinsloo but like… it’s just never going to happen and I am okay with that. These woman are obviously beautiful and I live for embellishment so I get the allure, but let’s all live and let live.

Whatever your feelings are post-show just remember that we live in a world where Facetune is $1.99, Spanx are crotchless, lighting is everything and Victoria’s lingerie is made of fucking polyester… that bitch.

Yolanda & David Foster Split

Some declare that the holiday season is “the most wonderful time of the year” to that particularly chipper group of people who believe that; go fuck a poinsettia. All the colorful lights, tinsel and Best Buy gift cards can not disguise this month for what it really is… the beginning break-up season. It is with a very heavy heart and fresh refill of generic brand Lorazepam that I inform you of the latest celebrity couple to end their marriage and maybe my faith in humanity.

Today Yolanda Lemontits Foster and her husband David Foster announced they are getting a fucking divorce. The irony is not lost on me that this news has surfaced on the premiere date of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills but what’s truly confusing is the dissolution of this marriage. If Yolanda Foster can’t make it as a wife, how the fuck am I supposed to?

“Sadly we have decided to go our separate ways,” the couple tells PEOPLE in an exclusive statement. “We’ve shared nine beautiful and joyous years together. During that time we experienced love, friendship and the inevitable challenges that come with managing a marriage, careers, blended families and health issues.”

This news has gutted me to my core and made me take a deep look into my own relationship habits. This is a woman who stood up at EVERY FUCKING DINNER PARTY and gave her husband a Bar Mitzvah worthy speech of gratitude in his honor. Do you know how many fucking chickens she roasted? Picnics she brought to his office? She deserves half of his fortune just for maintaining their glass fridge so pristinely.

To quote Yolanda, “”I absolutely cater to my husband’s needs. And I love doing it. My husband is king in my house and I think that’s the way it should be. That’s what keeps two people together. My husband is a genius.” Yolanda fails to understand that the true secret to men is keeping their ego at bay and making a direct correlation to all their personal success and your support. The male ego is the devil. You want them to be secure enough to give you a girls night, but insecure enough to keep them faithful and in love with you. It’s that simple and that complicated. Too much ego stroking and you’ll be packing up your lemon grove.

I love Yolanda and think she is the epitome of a trophy wife, unfortunately David may have too many other trophies on his piano. I will be doing the master cleanse for the next hour to sit shivah for the former Foster couple and taking the picture of their Malibu infinity pool clad mansion of my vision board because love doesn’t live there anymore. I can’t even… goodbye “my love”.

Goop Gift Guide 2015

There are times when I really start to question humanity and spiritual justice in this world. But just when my faith has almost dissipated the universe throws me a bone and I can see the light once again. Normally these spiritual awakenings come to me in the form of a Goop Gift Guide. Nothing and I repeat NOTHING gets my blood boiling, my heart bursting and my palms sweating like the release of a super Goopy curated list of things that nobody could or should have.

Like not that I am some fucking humanitarian but there are kids starving and carrying bowls of rice on their head somewhere, I am pretty sure we should throw some cash their way before spending $6,000 on a fucking caviar set. Ladies and gentleman, I am proud to present you the 2015 Goop Holiday Gift Guide (this is NOT a drill, this is 100% real).

ROLEX WATCH DAYTONA BLUE $14,968.94Because there is nothing radder than a custom, neon-blue watch” I can think of something radder Gwyneth, it’s called social awareness and likeability. Also thank you for being so accurate with the pricing. God forbid you round up the number six cents. Every penny counts!

THE ROSEWOOD HANDLE TRUFFLE SLICER $40If you own a truffle slicer…” I applaud Gwyneth for suggesting a gift under $12,000. However, I am not sure this is an a appropriate stocking stuffer.

CEDES MILANO TOOTHPASTE SQUEEZER $244Better than a chip clip!” Okay now I am starting to get angry. A mother fucking toothpaste squeezer? I am pretty sure it makes more sense to buy an economy sized supply of Crest at Costco then invest in a machine to squeeze out every last morsel of toothpaste. I would put my life on it that this bitch doesn’t own a fucking chip clip.

HERMES MAH-JONG SET ABOUT $46,000There’s a waiting list” I would like a copy of that waiting list. This is actually revolting. I adore the casual price estimates, Gwenyth is just like at the office slicing truffles and all “It’s about $46,000 not entirely sure. Whatevs. Brb gotta go get Apple her new gold-plated mechanical pencils #singlemother.”

SENNHEISER ORPHEUS HEADPHONES $55,000 “Because some audiophiles really do need $55,000 headphones” Like a recording of people gagging while reading this list? Even the way she spells “audiophiles” makes me want to die. I want to take the truffle slicer from above and slice my retinas at this point because it is all too much to handle.

18K GOLD DUMBELLS $125,000Speechless” Go fuck yourself.

WORLD VIEW EXPLORATION AT THE EDGE OF SPACE $90,000We want it.” Ironically this is still a teacher’s salary less than the fucking solid gold dumbells. “Happy Hanukkah Aunt Jodie! This year instead of the usual Target giftcard I am sending you to the edge of space. Have fun! XO, Jackie”

ULYSSES TIER STANDARD SURVIVAL KIT $12,500Give life, everything you need for a full two weeks.” How woodsy of you Gwyneth. What the hell is in the kit? Tracy Anderson? Hermes china? Preserved Foie Gras? I’d prefer the cash k thanks.

Tis the season to be Goopy. Fa la la la la, la la la VOM.

Dear Brooks Ayers

Dear Brooks Ayers,

Firstly, I must thank you for blocking me on Twitter. There is no way I could truly illustrate all the ways you disgust me in 140 characters so a public letter is really the only way to go. I have always said you should never trust a man in light wash denim and I want to thank you for proving this theory true. Also Brooks, you look like you shouldn’t be permitted within 650 feet of any elementary school so congratulations on that.

It is one thing to fake a relative’s death to avoid dinner plans. I do that shit ALL the time, my great Aunt Esther has already died 8 times conveniently when a Nancy Meyers movie is on and I have an open bottle of Vueve. It’s a whole other level of vile to lie about having fucking CANCER. To even concoct such a story you have to be the sickest of fucks.

What makes you a real scumbag is that you not only LIED about a diagnosis, you then solidified your corruptness by doctoring fake medical records. What a fucking moron. This is 2015; we have cars that drive themselves. You think no one is going to disprove your faux illness because you give your side bitch Vicki daily affirmations? You are a pussy. I hope a stray cow roaming outside the low income duplex where you live in Montana shoves it’s hoof up your ass and knocks a veneer out.

I desperately hope Vicki was not in on this hoax, as I have loved Vicki passionately ever since she assaulted that poor Asian man for the “family van” incident of 2008. I have loved her age-inappropriate party dresses, her chin and her heinous kitchen rooster forever. Love is blind, but not that fucking blind.

People die from cancer. You have not just insulted people who are battling this life threatening disease but also the families suffering and undermining the hard work of physicians everywhere. I am not “going to pray for you” Brooks because you are an asshole and you need more than a bedside prayer. Jesus may forgive you but I sure as fuck don’t. Go fuck yourself Brooks, because probably no one else will you evil hillbilly.

Love always (not),

Jackie

My Cuntry Tis of Thee.

I have learned a lot about myself whilst living in London. I have learned that drinking everyday does in fact NOT make you an alcoholic, just a much happier person with more regular bowel movements (I’m serious – instant vacation constipation solution). Also, white strips clearly have not made their way across the pond… tea stains people. But I would have to say that the true takeaway from my time abroad is that I have absolutely no shrivel of elegance, manners or social graces.

I have always considered my nonchalant cursing, harmless rape jokes and mild racism very charming and ironically hilarious in the homeland. God knows my main way of bonding with strangers is giving unsolicited updates on my current digestive state and I will admit, it totally works. People find me odd, unfiltered and 83% of them even applaud me for being so “real”. Today I came to the harsh realization that although I am in a country where I speak the language, I may not be translating.

My day started with a quick trip to the pub aka my living room. The great thing about traveling for an extended period of time is that you are still technically on “vacation” so drinking during the day is acceptable. I have convinced myself that drinking with almost every meal is helping me avoid any type of food poisoning or airborne germ ingestion because alcohol kills germs therefore keeping me healthy. I love myself for this logic. After a cheeky pint and Scotch egg, I got my bloated ass on a fucking bike to pedal off the fleshy side carriages growing around my waist. Let it be known that I have almost died 38 times since I have been here on fucking foot. I ride a bike like someone who has cerebral palsy, a glass eye and a small case of the downs. Flailing limbs, gasping for breath, rosaceous red face. No one is safe.

17 minutes in I decided it was time for a break and I moseyed into a place for high tea a friend had recommended. Walking into any London restaurant in Lulu Lemon leggings is almost the same as announcing over a PA system that you are a stock-girl at Wal-Mart and go on lots of cruises… not chic. Luckily, I don’t give two fucks and have taken my love for ironic work out attire to the United Kingdom. I asked the cunty hostess for a table for one and she gave me an up down that made me feel like Vivian not being allowed to shop on Rodeo Drive. She told me she was unable to seat me because I was violating dress code…. She pointed to a sign that read “No Trainers”. I immediately responded “Oh honey, this ain’t a training bra. I need serious underwire for these d-cups or it would look like I am hiding extra large scotch eggs in my waist band if you catch my drift” while I made a super inappropriate hand gesture miming my low hanging boobs. I thought and still think this is HILARIOUS. Cunty McCuntingham, Duchess of Cuntville did not think so.

I told her that technically my “trainers” (translation: sneakers) were Miu Miu and probably worth more than all her fucking pretentious internal organs and I wasn’t leaving until I spoke with a manager. Begrudgingly I was seated at a corner table by the dirty dishes, moved from said table twice and then finally ordered myself a high tea spread. Soon they brought out a variation of utensils, dishware, condiments and glassware that overwhelmed me. So many fucking spoons. I blame my parents for pretty much everything, but I especially blame them for never enrolling me in cotillion. I was served my tea with some weird strainer mechanism that looked like something I would find at my gynecologists office… here are the following Google searches from my 3 hour high tea.

“Is it rude to be on your phone at high tea?”

“How many calories are in a scone?”

“Do people in London take food home from restaurants”

“How do you know if you have a tapeworm?”

“Where does Emma Bunton live?”

“Tazer guns in London”

“Miu Miu sneakers”

“Jackie Schimmel”

“Easy diuretic recipes for one”

“Is hair tinsel still in?”

“Justin Bieber penis pictures”

“In what countries do people eat dogs”

“Perks of kale enemas”

“Jackie Schimmel” (yes, again)

After a pot of Earl Grey, 5 finger sandwiches, some lemon mousse, a glass of champagne, a macaron and enough death glares to make me self implode I started to feel like Shrek’s slutty sister. One thing you should know about me is that I do not leave food on my plate. I would like to say it’s for some political reasons, like starving kids in Africa, but it’s really just cause I am Jewy as fuck. Baby leaves no finger sandwich behind.

I flagged down my waitress and asked her if she had a to-go box so I could take the rest of my pastries home. She looked at me like I asked her to give insert a rectal syringe up my ass. Repulsed. “Um… I will go ask.” Okay… I watched her first go to Cuntella Deville (the hostess) whisper to her then motion in my direction. Then the hostess went to what looked like a manager and started laughing repeating whatever tragic suggestion she had just heard and cocked her head towards my table.

The manager came to my table and alerted that they do not provide take-away materials. “Do you just have like some saran wrap or something?” Too far. “No ma’am.” “Foil? A paper towel? A spare hairnet?” “Sorry ma’am we don’t do take away, most restaurants in London don’t.” Seriously?

I was instantly catapulted into a defining paradox. I had two options, two destinies, two kinds of bitch. I could either eloquently gather my things, reapply my lip-gloss, leave minimal gratuity and part with the beautiful untouched finger sandwich (singular), raisin scone and pistachio meringue OR shoplift the clothed napkin, wrap up the food as quickly impossible, shove it in my purse, tell the hostess she is a Super Cunt and jump on my getaway bike. I couldn’t let social decency change me. I propped my purse open in my lap and very discreetly managed to fit all the food in various compartments over a 20-minute span. I would take a bite, patrol surveillance and shove. With the drop of my final meringue, I darted out the door and felt elated.

By the time I got home most of my souvenirs were wet, smooshed and ruining the lining of my purse. But it didn’t matter. Justice had prevailed. I was emulating the land of the free and the home of the brave. I am a fucking American. I did it for my country. Nobody puts Baby in a corner, insults her jewel encrusted sneakers and then doesn’t let her take her extra food home. Live free or die hard.

Manners are like assholes. Wait, that doesn’t work. Social graces are like assholes. That doesn’t work either. People are assholes. Miu Miu sneakers are not the same as fucking Reeboks and if you pay for it, you should be able to take it home in a proper styrofoam container.

Faux Feminism

I am over faux feminism even more than gluten free baked goods. Maybe I am ignorant, delusional or as Kylie Jenner called me “the downfall to our gender”. I consider myself a very strong, successful-ish, proud woman. Granted, I capitalize on glorifying the term bitch and wear the label loud and proud. I try not to get political or speak on social issues mostly because I am a college dropout and don’t spend enough time researching my stance. One thing I cannot seem to hide from is the oh so trendy cause of the moment; Faux Feminism. Before you start throwing tampons at me, let me be clear, I am an authentic feminist. I owned 15 collectors edition Spice Girl dolls for fucks sake. What I can’t get down with, is the bullshit faux-femme crusade raping my content state of womanhood.

Before we call anyone a true feminist we should question whether they are victimizing or glorifying us as the fabulous bitches we are. If we want to truly be equals constantly separating ourselves seems pretty fucking stupid. When we make things about gender, race, age or social status we detract from the solutions and actually create more of a divide.

As far as in concerned women are vessels for human life, aren’t expected to pay for their own drinks AND have way stronger chances of surviving any cruise ship that hits an iceberg #neverletgoJack. Women are fucking superheroes. Civilization literally depends on us. Besides being able to pee in public with more finesse, I don’t see why being a man is necessarily easier than being a women.

I am not an idiot, I know the statistics (kinda) but also know that bashing men is not productive. Do all feminists hate the male population, get offended by basic chivalry and want the term semester to be called the ovester? No. Do those particular feminists deviate from the basic principles of equality? Fuck yes.

I feel like the major problem here is quite a few “feminists” are actually detrimental to basic Girl Power #bitchyspice. Women posting pictures of themselves scantily clad all for feminism? Bitch please. You just had a tape worm and are feeling yourself. It’s not a crime, own it. Don’t make you taking photos of your 4 finger thigh gap a social issue. Especially if you are going to later complain about being “objectified”. You have a hott body and you want to show it off before you hit 30 and shit starts to sag, trust me I get it.

Having a man want to wine and dine you also doesn’t label you as an inferior. Um hello? Being treated like a lady should empower us and show respect. I don’t want to pay for my fucking filet on a first date so sue me. If anything being personally chauffered, fed and fawned over gives us a very obvious advantage. Hot tip: you don’t have to put out just because he let you order your own entree. For the record, assholes come in all shapes and genders. Men can be mistreated, underpaid and sexually harassed also. So if we are using men as a benchmark how does that really guarantee us equality? Ever heard of a Masculinist March? Samesies.

It’s these and so many more contradicting factors that make the trendy ideals of “feminism” so counter productive. Obviously there are far more important issues with unfair wages and other disadvantages. All I am saying is let’s focus on solutions and positive momentum instead of furthering a divide.

I fucking love being a woman. I have great boobs, can wear sequins without judgement and haven’t opened a door since 2002.  Rome wasn’t built in a day, it took years for Britney’s hair to grow back and I am still waiting for Spice Girl the Musical to come to the states. The beauty of a glass ceiling is that if properly Windex-ed you can see right through it #girlpower.