comedy

#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.

 

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).

collage.jpg

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.

Here Comes the Bitch…

 

Hi everyone. Sorry it has been a while since my last post. I have been volunteering my services to the Hilary Clinton presidential campaign and learning Mandarin. But actually, I have been doing nothing and couldn’t be happier. Recently, after only four death threats and one failed attempt to join Raya, my boyfriend proposed. I’m getting fucking married and it has catapulted me into a Bridezilla/Basic Bitch/ Existential life crisis.

While this is arguably the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me except for the time I bought something at Bloomingdales and talked my way into exchanging it at Neiman Marcus (and people think I have no talent). Since I have started planning I realized I am haunted by basic brides that have resurrected before me. Is it possible to plan a wedding and NOT be a self involved, fluffy haired, asshole? I fucking hope so. People get married and think they become the epicenter of the universe. The harsh truth is, no one gives a real fuck about your impending nuptials except you and like 8 other people. So while you hold people hostage like the fucking Taliban and ask whether they prefer ivory or eggshell, remember to stay self-aware, step away from pinterest and embrace these truths.

Just because you have solidified a life partner, does not mean you are the new authority on eternal happiness. Getting a Zale’s cushion cut diamond wrangled on your phalange doesn’t give you the right to judge your free spirited slutty friends. We get it. You have found the love of your life. Maybe your friend’s love of their life is a bag of Chex Mix and her Valtrex prescription.

Not to be a Debbie Downer but statistically almost 60% are destined for a second marriage or maybe a Goldie Hawn/Kurt Russell situation. So while your ironing your white button down polo shirts for your extremely basic engagement shoot, remember that before you express pity for your single friends that you have to clean underwear that is not yours for the rest of your life. Live and let live.

Getting hitched does not mean you have to start dressing like a midwestern substitute teacher who collects potpourri and ceramic figurines. I know people that could have been the spokesperson for Vegas attire. Bandage dresses (kill me), platform pumps and a clip in synthetic weave that could start a wildfire. Magically upon matrimony, they start dressing so “Churchy” and complaining about a heel height of a fucking tic-tac. Really bitch? You lived in hooker heels (#madeinchina) for a decade – don’t try.

If anything, you need to get sluttier after “settling down”. Just because you are on a diet doesn’t mean you can’t check out the fucking menu. Newsflash… guys have penises. Penises are fueled by testosterone. Testosterone makes men into primal animals. Animals that subconsciously WANT and NEED men other than themselves to want to bang their future wife because then they feel like they have a prized possession. I am not saying women are possessions just calm the fuck down, it’s a METAPHOR. The sooner bitches understand this biology, the sooner we will truly run the world.

Despite my grievances, I am SUPER excited to navigate the bitchy bridal rapids with a bedazzled life jacket, Dramamine (or Xanax) and an unsigned prenupt as my sail.

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.

Beauty Tips I Learned From Watching The Real Housewives

When you think of pioneer women of beauty trends, lust worthy weaves and day drinking in faux lashes it’s hard not to immediately think of The Real Housewives. As a passionate and unapologetic aficionado of the franchise, I have learned many a lesson from these dynamic women.

Wigs R Us. One of the great things about being a woman is the opportunity to experiment with our look. Kim Zolciak taught us that wigs are for everyone and a hell of a lot easier than busting our ass on a blow dry. While Kim’s early synthetic wigs were less than appealing, she later redeemed herself with a wig collection to die for. The housewives show us that a weave can make all the difference, just make sure it’s tight. And remember, clip on bangs are NEVER a good idea.

Faux lashes are a girl’s best friend. Apparently being a Real Housewife requires wearing mink lashes to the gym. What kind of lash glue are they using? Carpenter’s glue? The ladies love their lashes and are rarely seen on camera without them. But how does one maintain this level of glam? The secret is sleeping on your back. Whether you have to tie all your limbs to the bed posts like you are having an exorcism or putting bricks on the sides of your body, sleep like a corpse and you will wake up with perfect lashes.

Contouring is the new rhinoplasty. Melissa Gorga vehemently insists that her slenderized nose was NOT the result of going under the knife but proper shading. To be clear, I don’t believe Mrs. Gorga for a fucking meatball. That bitch got one hell of a nose job. However, a proper contour and highlight truly can give you a post-surgery nose sans the procedure bills and hush money to your surgeon.

Tan with caution. While the housewives spend their days lunching alfresco and jet setting to exotic locales, most of us sit under fluorescent lighting quarantined to a cubicle. Housewives live for a good tan. Tanning beds (Danielle Staub), natural sun or the popular spray tan? So many options! If you can’t tone it, tan it. But think Yolanda Foster’s Malibu glow and not Amber Marchese Doritos orange.

A frosty lipstick CAN get you fired. Peggy Tanous, Alexis Bellino and Adrienne Maloof were all pioneer women of the daytime frosty lip. Subsequently, they were all fired. Some would say their termination was due to lack of personality; I blame the opalescent sheen of their lip color. I’ll just say it… it looks tacky. Unless you are dressing up as Romy or Michelle, just say no.

Less is more. Ugh. I know… So boring and wholesome #kimfields. After all the shading, gluing and glossing sometimes the best thing about being a REAL real housewife is the luxury of living au natural. Like Caroline Manzo once prolifically said, “You can put lipstick on a pig, it’s still a pig.” And hopefully that lipstick is not fucking frosted.

Bachelor Recap Week 3

It’s always a sunny day at the Bachelor mansion. The episode starts with the frontrunners single mom with killer ombre hair and small featured Lauren B talking shit about Olivia the Velociraptor. Shocker. Instantly my only concern is where the fuck Lace is.

Lauren B gets the first one on one date and Olivia almost has an annuerism. “The Sky’s The Limit!” reads the date card and my two concerns are; could they at least TRY and make it look like Ben’s writing and not some disgruntled female production assistant’s and do they only plan dates that have correlate with some stupid semi-inspirational saying you may find at the bottom of a substitute teacher’s email signature “If you can think it, you can be it!” Fucking shoot me in the retinas. The women always delight in the romance of it all… negligent to remember they are sleeping in BUNKBEDS all trying to pork the same dude. Love lifts us up where we belong… on the top bunk.

Lauren B and Ben take flight and all I can focus on is that Ben is wearing a bracelet with a metal plate that says “HOPE”… and there goes my lady boner. They park their little jet plane in a super rapey deserted land plot where conveniently an above ground Jacuzzi is waiting for them so Ben can see if Lauren B is an 7 or 8 based on her bikini bod.

Back at the mansion, pretty but overly emotional half-Asian Caila sheds a tear over how hard it is to imagine him on another one on one date. Dear Caila, this is the fucking Bachelor. Stop crying and have a mimosa.

At dinner, Lauren B proclaims she only “likes really simple things”. I appreciate her game strategy and suggest all woman take notes. Being yourself is wonderful. But being full of shit is better. She goes on and on about how much she loves her dad and basically wants to bone him despite paternity. They swap stories of their cookie-cutter, Pastor guided, functional familied lives and bitch gets her rose. And just when things couldn’t get any better, ANOTHER COMPLETELY UNKNOWN MUSICAL ACT!

The group date card arrives and FINALLY Lace gets some screen time while she sits on the end of the coach gnawing at her nails twitching. The ladies are forced to compete for time with Ben which I LOVE because nothing screams girl power more than a bunch of woman pitted against eachother over a ball. That metaphor is not lost on me.

Jubilee is scared Ben doesn’t like black girls and to cover ABC’s ass explains that she is “complicated” and “not his type” so she is concerned. Little does she know Ben appears to be down for the swirl. Get it Jubs!

Queen Lace and Low Budge Mary-Kate are the goalies and something about watching them face dive puts a little spring in my step. “Balls flying at your face is never fun. But if I have to hurt myself, I’ll hurt myself.” Um same. For a moment I was SURE Olivia was going to Tanya Harding the injured girl. The losers cry and go back to the asylum, I mean the mansion.

Olivia is straight up Glenn Close. I hope Ben does not have a bunny. After Glenn steals Ben away to discreetly snip a lock of his hair, the bitches downstairs start talking about her toes and bad breath. Regardless if this is true, she is still significantly better looking than most of you so… have some perspective. “Perfection is so lame.”

Jubilee scores the next one on one date and offends the girls for calling Ben out on being late and saying shes not that excited for their date. Team fucking Jubilee. Also, did a producer slip Lace some sedatives? What the fucking fuck? Jubilee is NOT down with the caviar but very into hot dogs… I like your innuendos boo. Homegirl gets the rose and I am thrilled.

My absolute favorite moment happens at the rose ceremony when Ben somberly tells the ladies that he lost family friends in a plane crash and 2.4 seconds later Olivia consoles Ben by sharing some of her internal struggles… living with cankles. She tries to stay strong but her ankle radius is the real tragedy of the day. Like sorry about your dead friends but like I CAN NEVER WEAR AN ANKLET.

These bitches get their polyblend panties in a bunch when they see Jubilee giving a Ben a massage when she already has a rose. THIS IS A FUCKING COMPETITION YOU DUMBFUCKS, why would she forego time to expedite another girls relationship with Ben? Fuck off Amber. You are acting like an insecure petty asshole.

Then something truly terrible happens… Lace resurrects and says “Bahn… can I talk to yuh?” In her most mentally stable moments yet, Lady Lace explains that she needs to go home and work on herself. Like her tattoo says “You can’t love someone else, unless you truly love yourself.” And she says she doesn’t love herself which absolutely slaughters me because I LOVE HER ENOUGH FOR THE BOTH OF US. LACE, DON’T GO, DON’T LEAVE ME. LIVE, LAUGH, LACE. So now, I need to go take a bath with my blowdryer because I have no reason to live.

Shushanna and Jami (both of whom I could give a fuck about) leave and I am still in a post-Lace coma. Please respect my privacy during this time of need. Because you know I’m all about that Lace, bout that Lace.

 

The Bachelor Recap

Not to seem vapid and lacking any real or impactful hobbies and dreams, but reality television has a very special place in my heart. I know some of you reading this (but like, why the fuck are you reading this?) are rolling your eyes and turning your noses at the previous statement. Reality television is just garbage, unintellectual and for stupid brainless millenials to you. Go fuck a composter or your vegan leather journal made by Indonesian orphans you pretentious hipster fuckhead. Reality television is escapism and keeps my seratonin levels sky highs sans medication.

Reality television is ruining society, it’s people who were never taught the gift of judgement and can’t differentiate between observing others mistakes via television for entertainment value instead of making the mistakes on your own. Who’s intellectual now? The Bachelor for me is not only a sad 2 hour marathon of updos and sad pageant wear gone wrong, but also a real behind the curtain look at female sociology.

Here we have 208 women in a balls deep COMPETITION for a husband. The whole thing is a real mind fuck when you break it down. So you are supposed to be “authentic” while living in a mansion that’s not yours, wearing a gown selected by a wardrobe stylist, going on dates you cannot afford and have zero say in your impending marital bliss. It’s un-fucking-believable.

I can’t decide whether I have more respect for the girls who are actually there solely to find love (semi pathetic) or the one’s who are there solely to make it far enough where they can land a correspondent job on Access Hollywood and try and fuck Chris Harrison. Probably the latter.

The best part of the show are the awkward limo entrances, the bullshit job titles (fucking CHICKEN ENTHUSIAST? I love kabob but can’t put that shit on Linkedin..) and the crying confessionals. Lace is an American hero. She looks like Fiona (Parker Posey) in Josie & The Pussycats after she just poured a warm buttery chardonnay in every orifice of her body and I like it. I also really enjoyed the solemn firecrotch castaway… I hope she gets an SPF 115 endorsement deal. I also like that Rachel kept it 100 and declared herself “unemployed”. I tend to root for the girls who drink the most or are the prettiest. I am not saying that’s right, but it’s the fucking truth.

Now for the ladies I want to drown in the mansion infinity pool. Mandi (with an i) and that fucking rose on her head, needs to get punched in the vagina. When she offered Ben the opportunity to “pollenate” her I considered transitioning genders. Haley & Emily aka Dumb & Fucking Dumber are actually the worst. They are from Las Vegas (shocker) and come as some type of sister wive package deal. Their job title is “Twins”. When they said “how can you beat this?” I jotted down some ways…

  1. Have a brain.
  2. Be someone not trying to fuck the same dude as your sister.
  3. Don’t wear jewelry from fucking Icing.
  4. Or dresses from JC Penney Prom section.
  5. Have a brain?

Stock your fridge with champagne because it’s Bachelor season, the REAL happiest time of the year.

 

 

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.

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.

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.

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.

JOMO

I have been on a very spiritual journey lately. One that includes excess fromage, disguising my Ashkenazi hair in this fog (#isis) and learning how to cope with aggressive pigeons sans sedatives. It’s all been very Eat, Pray, Love. Or more like, Eat, Overpay (currency rate probs), Shove. For those of you not stalking me or interested in my whereabouts, I have been in London for the past month.

Since my arrival there have been no shortage of fabulous group activities so during the week I am rewarded with my much needed alone time. The more time I spend alone, the more I realize how socially uncultivated I am. I can go HOURS without any human interaction and feel incredibly mentally stimulated, more so than after a lengthy dinner with friends. At first I thought this may make me bipolar and it’s the voices in my head that keep me entertained. I have since realized that I must be a complete narcissist because I really fucking love hanging out with myself.

I think people assume that when you uproot your life and move (temporarily) to a foreign country it is polite to try and include said import in social plans and activities. Being that we have a very present social group here in London I have come to the harsh realization that my antisocial nature has followed me internationally.

According to the internet we are the FOMO generation. Honestly, fuck off. I hate FOMO and anyone who uses that term seriously. Fear of missing out? Did you not get hugged as a child? Why do people rely so heavily on social outings and being in the know? I would like to propose a new way of living… JOMO. Joy of missing out. I have been the poster child for JOMO since I crawled from the flaming pits of hell as a small adorable baby. I hate being invited places. The truth is if I want to go anywhere, I will just show up. I find that it has a very high success rate and I always bring a bottle of something.

When someone initiates social plans one of two things happen. Depending on my level of comfortability I will either immediately decline (my closest friends can attest) with a curt “NO” or consider the outing with a tepid “Do I have to? Will there be valet and/or snacks provided?” My other less desirable option is coming up with a very elaborate excuse. I normally lean towards a family death involving a very distant relative (less questions) which can be a real nightmare. I have accidentally had my Great Aunt Shirley die twice during a desperate scheduling conflict. With every cash bar invitation, conveniently my 98-year-old Aunt Shirley bites the big one. Time after time.

I don’t know how to put this delicately, so I wont. Every time you find yourself hungrily trying to confirm “where and when and what time and who?” with the perseverance of starved hyena, take a long hard look in the mirror and ask yourself this; why am I acting like such dependently needy asshole? Has anyone suffering from this “disease” ever considered that the reason they aren’t being invited places is because they are annoying as fuck. Brew on that for a second.

You know why an aged cheese is more expensive? Because it’s fully developed into the delectable version of it’s best self. It’s not afraid to showcase its mold or pungent smell. The cheese has spent time alone and matured. IT DOESN’T NEED CRACKERS OR A FIG SPREAD. I apologize for this cheese tangent… I have been in a sexual relationship with blue stilton for the past week. Sorry, back to the point.

The harsh truth is that if the mere thought of being alone sends you into a Lexapro prescription, FOMO is just the band-aid on the actual wound of a much bigger ailment. Go to dinner, take a trip, see a movie, go shopping, go for a bike ride ALONE. Jomo is the new Fomo.