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.



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,


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),


Vanderpump Rules Recap

Without sounding overly dramatic, Vanderpump Rules is kinda the only reason I wake up every morning. It gives me faith, it gives me hope, and it gives me self-esteem. I would give all internal organs to attend every single fucking staff meeting. Obviously I would never wear that heinous shirtdress required because it looks like a sad wet seal clearance shmata BUT I would be happy to sit in a dark corner sipping LVP Sangria and observing all the shenanigans. There are reality stars, there are actual celebrities and then there is the cast of Pump Rules. As I am currently living in London, I had to wait an entire day before I had access to the premiere episode. I don’t want to seem too egotistical, but I have never loved or respected myself more for executing such patience and self-control during those wretched 24 hours. Andy Cohen you owe me $2.99.

Naturally the season starts off in a staff meeting (#dreams). I love that the girls have invested their tip money/minimum wage pay and gotten extensions. Right out of the gate we learn that James is making his mark in the music business. I love that he thinks he is fucking Steve Aoki because he has a “residency” at fucking Pump. He is amazing and I would probably date him if I were single if he upped his 3 series BMW to a 7 series and like got me screeners for the show…

I will say Scheana has finally found her look. The make-up has gone from bad YouTube tutorial to a more natural and fresh look and I am proud of her. Katie’s bull nose ring is giving me anxiety. Jax looks like he joined a Fight Club fan group at a community college. How old is he? And who the fuck is his plastic surgeon? Helen Keller? As a Jew with extensive rhinoplasty knowledge I have never heard of using skin from your ear to patch into your nose.

Next we see James lingering in the infamous back alley at Sur where the cast rolls up in their budget sedans and smoke their cigarettes. James and Kristen have a heated exchange about Carmen or Jax or Tom or fuck I don’t even know. I was more focused on the discreet sneaky cinematography. Can somebody say Golden Globe nomination?

Finally, Kristen rolls up. She has been focusing on her t-shirt line and not acting like a psycho. Samesies. She is really screwing up James Guetta’s DJ vibes, which is fucked cause he has like 50 people who pre-booked on Open Table to impress.

James says he would rather lose his relationship with Kristen than hurt his dj “career”. Then he imparts us with this morsel of wisdom “Girls come and go… Dreams are with you forever”. These are moments that give me more joy than the cry of a newborn or the news of a tax return being deposited into my overdrawn checking account #hustle.

In the next scene we are once again welcomed into Jax’s humble 250 square foot studio and greeted by his censored penis. He then gives him mom his 12 second MTV cribs tour. “Here’s my closet. Here’s my microwave. Here’s my twin bed. Here’s my futon I bought on Craigslist.” God I love this show.

Just a day at the salon with the 2 Toms… cute? Tom (not a Jew) Schwartz decides to get a fucking perm. Mid curl, he decides he is ready to propose to Katie. Nothing sparks a desire for marital bliss like a day at the salon with the boyz.

Scheana is turning 30 so the gang is dressed in garb spanning a decade. Kristen shows up uninvited with nipples and labia in tow. I just want everyone to know that Scheana’s party is in the same venue as Kendall Jenners Sweet 16. You are welcome for that information.

Ariana and her bob have a come to Jesus moment when she doubts the authenticity of her and Scheana’s friendship. It’s really hard to take anybody seriously because of the plethora of synthetic mushroom cuts. James looks like name is Peggy and he buys all his produce at a Wal-Mart circa 1973. Then he starts chugging fireball. I guess that’s what rock stars do… Oh wait.

And so it begins.


Apparently #squadgoals is a thing. My personal squad consists of my crazy best friends (I may actually be considered the most stable in my posse which is mind-blowing), women I am bound to by blood #GrandmaGloria and my bikini waxer Rhonda. It’s a pretty glamorous crew, what can I say. Since I am a d-list podcast host and have started moving in more exciting social circles, I felt it necessary to create some honest boundaries with celebrities I don’t want in my future #girlsquad.

JESSICA ALBA Jessica Alba’s Instagram account and interview persona makes me want to take a shower with my blow dryer. I can honestly say I would rather go out for cocktails with a box of hair than her. Honest cleaning supplies are dope though so mazel tov to that Jess.

TAYLOR SWIFT Calm the FUCK down. Not to be a name-dropping asshole but I’ve met T Swift in an intimate setting and we kinda “chilled”. I was drunk and hangry so our impending friendship was overshadowed by my ancestral gravitation to the late night buffet spread #Jewish so a deep friendship between us didn’t blossom. She is really … nice. Unfortunately nice people bore me. I guess the real problem would be her not accepting someone who thinks Helen Keller jokes and light hearted racism is hilarious and casually uses the adjective “cunty” into her squad. Also it’s kinda only cool to BE in Taylor Swift’s girl squad if you ARE Taylor Swift. Otherwise you are just a minion clapping at award shows or awkwardly walking down a runway next to a bitch in a beaded leotard flailing her limbs around while singing “Style”.

ZOOEY DESCHANEL Maybe it’s the bangs, the harmonica I assume she carries in her tote (she would never call it a purse it’s a “tote”) or the plethora of 50’s housewife dresses. If wholesome had a poster bitch it would be Zooey Deschanel and it is so exhausting. If I was ever on the precipice of life or death and a She & Him song came on… I’d voluntarily choose death. I need her to randomly start wearing leather pants and let her bangs grow out. I need her not to constantly act like she is Ella Enchanted meets a girl at Coachella widdling wind chimes. She also just had a baby she named Elsie Otter as in the slippery barking sea mammal so there’s that #qUiRkY.

BEYONCÉ Just too fucking introverted. Too many boats, too many bikinis, too many black and white documentary clips. I can’t keep up with that.

CAITLYN JENNER People who truly have zero prejudices are not afraid to insult people whether they are gay, straight, male, female, trans, black, white, purple. I don’t get a lady chub for Caitlyn Jenner just because she transitioned and it’s politically correct. Despite the fact that her public transition was incredibly brave, will save lives and is amazing for the Tran community – I still think Caitlyn is an asshole. And I hate her cardigan sweaters so there, I said it, sue me.

LENA DUNHAM I still kind of love her but also think she takes on too many issues and over intellectualizes EVERYTHING which would not work out with me long term. But like, still kinda want to be her bff.

People I would like in my fictitious girl squad: Ilana Grazer and Abbi Jacobsen, Helen Mirren, Cindy Crawford, Lady Gaga, Goldie Hawn, Kristen Wiig (basic), Caroline Stanbury, Amy Schumer, Isla Fisher, Sophia Vergara, Lisa Ling, Hoda Kotb (filling my racial quota with last three) and my ultimate frenemy Gwyneth Paltrow.

J Law & A Schum Are Writing a Movie

I hate people who awkwardly love a celebrity they have never met solely based on their public persona. I realize this makes me a major hypocrite because I would give away all of my organs to attend just ONE themed dinner at Vicki Gunvalsons house. White girls love three things indefinitely; iced coffee, Sex and The City and celebrity bffs. Bitches everywhere lost their box bleached MINDS when photos surfaced of Jennifer Lawrence and Amy Schumer vacationing together.

OMFG. People in the same industry hanging out together? Mind blown. Now I sound like a cynical asshole. I mean obviously deep down I wish I was the third blonde on the back of that jet ski or after a digestively succesful week, I could have replaced JLAW on the top of that pyramid. God knows that would never happen, I don’t poo on vacation. Anyways, word just came out that now the duo is writing a fucking movie together. This makes me nervous for a plethora of reasons.

Firstly, nothing breeds mediocrity like a doting friend. Some celebrities like to surround themselves with “yes people” which makes sense since most of their crew is on payroll. Whoever gave the movie “Tammy” written by Melissa McCarthy the green light should actually be fired and then shot. Secondly, mixing business with friendship is always a bad idea. You shouldn’t shit where you go to watch The Bachelorette… does that make any sense at all? Thirdly, I will probably get nailed for saying this but… I didn’t think Trainwreck was funny. It felt like a sad rip off of 12 different romantic comedies and was dark in an uninspiring way that added no depth to the plotline. I am not saying I could write anything better but I am allowed to be a judgemental coward through my computer screen #troll.

Just because you CAN do something, doesn’t mean you SHOULD. Like Sarah Jessica Parker for example… have you seen her shoe collection? If kitten heels and every fabric swatch from Chicos had dirty unprotected sex, there you’d have it. Or Hilary Duff’s music career revival. It wasn’t working for Lizzie and it isn’t working for you. Like just come out with a line for Macy’s and call it a fucking day. I secretly hope their movie is amazing because #girlpower and I end up feeling like a bitter old bitch but after “Tammy” I need to protect myself. Jen and Amy, I wish you the best of luck on your endeavor and will be awaiting my invite to the next tropical girls trip, metamucil in tow. Love you.


Bitches You Shouldn’t Trust

This list is incredibly arbitrary and fueled by rosé and benadryl. I am sorry if this offends anyone. Just kidding I don’t give a flying fuck, I have gained 3 pounds and am suffering from 7 spider bites. Shoot me in the face. Have a lovely day. 

Never trust a bitch whose favorite color is PURPLE. Purple is for Quinceañeras and Barney the rapey dinosaur. Anyone over the age of 8 who loves purple is either a mentally unstable substitute teacher, Justin Bieber or colorblind. It’s a terrible color and should be banned from the rainbow. Lavender is tolerable (although I also don’t trust people who use pretentious color labels like Chartreuse, Mauve, Fuchsia, etc – get over yourself) but straight up PURPLE is appalling.

Never trust a bitch who doesn’t like pickles. How does one not enjoy a crisp kosher dill? I have only found one instance that has proven me wrong on this theory. 99.9% of people who don’t like pickles are raging sociopaths and generally unfortunate.

Never trust a bitch who “doesn’t watch television”. Bullfuckingshit. Oh you think you’re so above basic entertainment value? How artsy. What are you doing INSTEAD of ever watching tv? Taxidermy? Murdering your neighbors? It’s just creepy and odd and usually not true.

Never trust a bitch who doesn’t let their children wear two piece swimsuits. This is just a quirk of mine. I used to work at a summer camp and always categorized the mothers in accordance to what swimwear they put their kids in. Bikinis? Cool. Tankinis? Traditional. Heinous Speedo tiedye one pieces? Basically Amish. Rash guards and zinc? Social Services.

Never trust a bitch who always wears false lashes (in particular STRIP lashes) I am talking to you Lilly Ghalichi. If I was on the precipice of life or death and my one task was to successfully apply faux lashes to grant me life, I would die a torturous death.

Never trust a bitch with no long-term friends. If you haven’t known and stayed friends with at least one person you went to elementary school with, you are probably an untrustworthy asshole. If you haven’t stayed close with someone you have known for over 2/3 of your life something ain’t right.

Never trust a bitch with a “Facebook Stage Name”. If your name is Christina Rosenberg, you don’t need to go by Chrissy Rose. Use your own fucking name, this isn’t the Spearmint Rhino. 

Bad Blood

Taylor Swift is premiering her new music video this Sunday and every celebrity and Serayah (who is that?) are in this fucking video. I can barely get my 84-year-old Grandma to do my half hour podcast series and Tay Tay’s locked down the entire CAA client list. Rumor is the song is about Katy Perry and I’m hoping for full-blown passive aggressive awesomeness. Secretly I think Taylor is sending a message a la Regina George like “Lol Katy, all these celebrities hate you too! Go hang out with Demi Lovato and be miserable! “

Famous people should literally never complain about anything. You are the luckiest sons of bitches on the planet. Someone recognized me at Target 3 weeks ago so I’m basically a local celebrity but still have managed to stay super down to earth despite my wild success. Let’s be clear, I would do a lot of weird shit to further my career. I’m not above it. I’d fake an illness, lose a limb, gain 400 lbs, smuggle some drugs. Hustle has no moral compass and I’m comfortable with that. I curse the day I was born without any serious physical defects… I’d probably have an endorsement deal by now. OR get cast in this music video.

Maybe I am delusional but I feel like Taylor would really love me. She’d be hesitant at first because I cuss so much and exercise casual racism for shock value but soon she’d use me as an external outlet to say all the things her publicist won’t let her. She’d become super dependent on me and I’d allow it while I secretly poison her cats and decide it was worth the emotional turmoil because we only fly private which I love.

So far we have Gigi Hadid, Cara Delevigne, Jessica Alba, Lena Dunham, Ellie Goulding, Hayley Williams, Ellen Pompeo, Serayah McNeill, Lily Aldridge, Kendrick Lamar, Karlie Kloss​, Zendaya​, Martha Hunt and Hailee Steinfeld​. WHAT THE FUCK IS MARISKA HARGITAY AND ELLEN POMPEO DOING IN HER VIDEO. Who’s next? Fucking Vivica Fox? At least that would make sense cause she would be filling a racial quota. Who the hell do I need to rescue a cat from and bake with to get in this video? I’m coming for you Lorde.

Kylie Jenner Hates Me

It’s Monday morning and I am in an Instagram tiff with Kylie Jenner. As I sat sipping my green tea, perusing the internet and reflecting on life I was all at once swarmed with text messages and phone calls. At first I thought they finally found Tupac or a new Zankou Chicken was opening up. Why else would everyone be contacting me with such urgency?

About 20 minutes prior, I casually put this photo on the @bitchbible Instagram account (#plug) all in good fun…


Then this happened…


#NOTIDEAL. I was then catapulted in the moral battle of defending myself, doing damage control and/or capitalizing on the situation like any other shameless media whore would do. Naturally I choose to focus on the latter. This is coming from place of ZERO JUDGEMENT but she was obviously cruising her own hashtag because I never tagged that bitch. Maybe she is stalking me? Maybe not.

Despite being a pretty ballsy bitch on the exterior, I am kind of a pussy in real life. I don’t handle conflict well and would be a much better woman if Kris Jenner were my mother. You can imagine my internal struggle on how to handle such a situation.

Like I always say, when life hands you lemons, infuse them into a simple syrup, mix with vodka and CHUG. For the next 30 minutes I frantically pondered my damage control. Do I apologize? Permanently avoid Calabasas as if it were infected with Ebola? Make a sex tape with Johnathan Cheban? Start a clothing line? Buy the 7th Tyga album ever sold? (Side note: who IS Tyga? Hopefully Kris is working an getting his ass a Frosted Flake endorsement) Now I will NEVER be friends with Kendall and Gigi! Fuckity fuck fuck.

In my defense, unless Ky-ky attended an early morning sample sale or a kitschy consignment store, the shorts retail for $60. Perhaps $20 in Kardashian Kurrency konverts to a normal persons $60? I don’t know, I am not a mathematician. ALSO “GTFO out of here” translates to get the fuck OUT OUT of here which is super confusing. Besides that Kylie kinda handed my ass to me on a black and white chevron platter available exclusively at Sears.

Was it nice? No. Was it malicious? No. Has it gotten me more followers? Yes. And that bitches… is the silver lining. I saw Kylie Jenner wearing army pants and flip flops so I bought army pants and flip flops. Bye dolls!

Dear Gwyneth

Dear Gwyneth,

I have been meaning to write to you since you named your child Apple. I will admit that if we ever meet face to face and are in the same tax bracket I will immediately delete this letter and try to penetrate your social circle (and your ex husband). I know you are probably busy finding the latest $780 sweat band to declare a summer MUST HAVE on Goop, but I hope you can take the time to acknowledge some of your recent public glitches.

A couple of months ago you declared in a magazine article that you are “incredibly close to the common woman”. Seeing that your net worth is an estimated $140 million dollars, this is difficult to comprehend. From an Oscar, performing at the Grammy’s, a cookbook, a blow dry bar, your bestie Beyonce and the bane of my existence GOOP, I hate to break it you sweet cheeks you ain’t common.

Most recently, you broadcasted that you would accept the NY Food Stamp challenge and feed your family off $29 for the week. Poverty challenges aren’t like a game of hopscotch you played at your elite sleep away camp. It’s cute that you felt the need to publicly broadcast your Food Stamp Challenge and bring awareness to the cause. However I am not sure they sell organic kale at the local Food for Less. If you wanted to properly fulfill this challenge I have a hot tip for you; Cup a Noodles, economy sized Bagel Bites and a fucking sugar daddy. Girls just want to have funds. Also did you really need to buy 7 organic limes? If this was a first offense, I wouldn’t be writing you but as a fellow blonde Jew with entitlement issues I felt it necessary to offer some insight.

I get as a public figure you are trying to use your platform to spread awareness. For that I will not fault you, however the juxtapose of your attempts to be relatable and your overwhelming pretentious bullshit (hi Goop) makes you completely un-likeable. Like borderline Anne Hathaway status. You have been quoted complaining how hard it is to find a bikini wax in Paris, how your children gravitate towards organic produce and nuts and that whole “conscious uncoupling” nightmare I JUST CAN’T. Goopers also delighted us with this recent quote…

“I am who I am. I can’t pretend to be somebody who makes $25,000 a year.” THEN DON’T GWYNETH, JUST DON’T.

I mean, Country Strong is the best movie of all time so for that I thank you. Yes, I have the soundtrack and no I am not ashamed. Gwyneth – even the way you spell your name is pretentious. You’re delusion is oddly inspiring. From gallavanting about Europe with your macrobiotic green juice, hawking $1300 pinky rings and casually using the verb “imbibe” in one of your Goopy (and gaggy) newsletters – keep doing you girl. And have Moses call me in 8 years.

Love always,


PS Gwennie, freshly shaved truffles are actually NOT available at most supermarkets.

#RHONJ Recap

AFTER A FULL WEEK OF ANXIETY RIDDEN ANTICIPATION WE GET TO HEAR THE TAGLINES AND….I haven’t been more underwhelmed since the last Barney’s Warehouse Sale. What the fuck? Like for Melissa I was thinking something like “I’ve denied having a nose job, and I will also deny Tarzan as long as I am shacking up in this rental home.” This was a huge disappointment.

So it’s Christmas time in the old swamp land. Faux J-Lo aka Melissa is not ecstatic about her boujie decorations in her seemingly nice rental home. Antonia isn’t pleased either … things could be worse babycakes… you could be Gia right now. Nicole and Ter-es-uh hang out at their parents house #chic and more offensively wear fucking santa hats and drink out of puffy painted wine glasses. This scenario might actually be my version of hell. Oh wait I spoke to soon, no – my version of hell would be spending 20 minutes at Amber Alert’s house. After only being acquainted with Amber for one week, I can guarantee this much is true. A) Her children are going to need intensive psychiatric assistance B) She definitely has invested in the entire Brighton sterling silver jewelry collection C) I would rather eat my childhood dog for a snack then ever be in a burning building with her. She WOULD have a fucking whistle… she’s like the adolescence nazi.

How does Dina stay zen with all those fucking chatchkies everywhere and Lexi has really come out of her awkward stage with flying colors and a very intriguing highlight situation. Now we head over to the good ol Giudice palace for some good ol kosher fun. Did anyone else see the irony in Tre wearing a shirt that read “OOPS”? Yeah girl…fraud is such whoopsie! I don’t give a shit what anyone says, I love Teresa Giudice and I just don’t care who knows it… you heard me. Haters are gonna hate, but I just LOVE LOVE LOVE.

Nicole and Dina have brunch fit for a cougar in a fedora and then we move on to Hitler with a weave (aka Amber’s) home where she is running fire drills and I need to refill my dirty martini just THINKING about how badly I want to punch her in the ovary (which she would probably appreciate given her blatant disdain for children). I am so loving Melissa and Teresa getting along. Plus I call dibs on Melissa’s youngest son in 18 years because he is a totally hott tot. Too much? Whatever.

Some boring shit happens then we join the Gorgas, Giudices and Wakiles for a cousin Christmas dinner, where they exchange weird ass gifts and pretend Juicy isn’t months away from getting his ass ripped apart in prison. Sounds pretty normal to me. Side note: Why can’t Rosie be a housewife? Until next week bitches…


Team Hova

Everyone and their less attractive sister have been losing their SHIT over this Jay Z/ Solange elevator brawl. The good news is that this is Solanges biggest hit in years… Or ever. Who is Solange again? So now she is front page news for going apeshit and attacking Jay when we should be focusing on the real crime here…that jagged bowl cut Tina Knowles gave her. Although I am forever in awe of Yonce, her glowing complexion, impeccable weave and Swarovski encrusted leotards, I am not thrilled with the way she is handling this.  I get this isn’t her “beef” but she is the nucleus of this situation so I am going to need her cooperation.


Why the fuck is she smiling? Super fun night out with my hubby and mentally stable sis! #LAWLS. She just sat in the elevator calm as fuck while her psyche ward escapee sister attacked her husband. Side note: I am so over celebrities professing to be “really private and introverted” – bitch please. Hey Bey, why don’t you call up Sasha Fierce and let her handle this one. Everyone rips me a new asshole when I have expressed this and I get she is being demure, reserved and classy but seriously? Don’t pull that ish with me Bey, I am sure you are “super shy”. That’s why you can perform in front of 20 million people with your labia hanging out. Own your shit and please folks be grown ups and release a statement.

First Solange deleted every photo of her and Beyoncé off of her Instagram and Twitter feed like a 4th grade bitch. First of all, if Beyoncé was MY sister I would never post photos of myself next to her. Obviously… THEN Beyoncé takes the “high road” like more mature 11th grade bitch and posts 300 cryptic Instagram pics with her and Solange being all lovey dovey #thewaywewere. When my sister and I get in arguments we yell at each other at the top of our lungs, take a few low blows, verbally attack each other, slam some doors then go get frozen yogurt… like fucking adults. In reality, them NOT addressing the situation and utilizing social media for people to draw their own conspiracy theories is far more dramatic than the alternative. 

Xanax prescriptions everywhere are being refilled like wildfire over this. How the fuck are we supposed to function properly with so many unanswered questions. Perhaps this all a pharmaceutical sales ploy. LIKE WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED? Could a bitch get some audio? Can’t the government pixelize the footage and hire a CIA trained mouth reader to see what the conversation is? Priorities people. We have all heard the 645 possible stories why Solange attacked. Maybe Hova is cheating, Solange got too “turnt up” (we as a society really need to stop using this phrase) or she was just super pissed that she was dressed as a goldfish all night. I call BULL on all of this. I am convinced that Solange has been dealing with deep-rooted anger management problems since she was never EVER made a member of the ever interchanging Destiny’s Child. They went through like 16 different fourth members. That has got to burn. Maybe “Bug-a-boo” was written about Solange after she begged and pleaded Daddy Knowles to let her in the band? Like not even for one week during the interim of Michelle Williams jumping on board? Like not even as an extra for the “Say My Name” music video?

The only conclusion I have drawn from this little scuffle is that I am totally Team Hova. Not only was HE the victim here, HE is also the only one not being a little passive aggressive biatch all over the internet. There is some serious vakakta feminism shit spread all over this situation but I am not nearly smart or articulate enough to comment on it. Jay, I am super down to be your vanilla boo. And if my goldfish ratchet bowl cut sister ever attacked you, I wouldn’t be chilling in my Givenchy gown spectating like a pussy. I am sure I am going to get colossally stung by the Bey Hive … but long hair don’t care. Bitches be cray, I love you Jay. #mrscarter 


Daily Disgruntles

I am sure this is a huge shock to you but I am one highly irritable bitch. Everynight I wake up at 3am (the witching hour) and my mind races. I think about what I am going to eat for breakfast, pray that my constant state of constipation will subside, wonder if am I still the highest bidder for those Miu Miu heels I’ve been dying for, contemplate why glue doesn’t stick to the inside of the bottle, consider selling my eggs for 30k to give me some extra cash flow. The list goes on and on. I also start to think about shit that REALLY pisses me off. If I was an intellectual and deep bitch, I am sure I would be upset with people who litter, steal, are racist, antisemitic, don’t recycle – whatever. For the record, recycling confuses the FUCK out me. I’m a one-bin woman if you catch my drift… Unfortunately, these are not factors that keep me up at night. I tend to jot these discrepancies (no idea what that word means) down on my notepad I keep on my nightstand. This morning I decided to delight in my mid-night bitch fests and see some things that have really been pissing me off lately.

Bebe – This place is a rhinestoned tracksuit selling, polyester bodycon dress pushing, mesh insert whoring HELL. The name is appropriate because just hearing it makes me want to go buy a BEBE gun and shoot myself in the trachea until my larynx bleeds to death. For research purposes, I went into Bebe last week to see how they were doing. The second I got the whiff of the store’s fragrance (a blend of daddy drama, overdraft fees and acrylic nails) I immediately felt like I needed to slap on some lip liner, buy a Coach bag and start drinking fucking Moscato spritzers. How does this place even stay in business? The salesperson proudly exclaimed they had just got plenty of new summer dresses (SHOOT ME) and insisted I try on this tragic polyblend maxi dress because after 2.6 seconds of first impressions “it totally looks like your style”. I have never been more offended in my entire life… literally.

Small Children – Not to sound like an asshole, but I am not one of those women who thinks every child is cute. In fact, I have met many a kinder that I strongly feel should be quarantined in a cage. Certainly not at a nice restaurant shitting themselves at the table over while I am trying to shove truffle pizza down. It’s called a babysitter… or a crib with a lid on it. I know I will be totally obsessed with my own children but can’t pretend that they are all adorable. They just aren’t. What kind of twisted reality are we creating for the next generation if we blindly fawn over them regardless of their personality, looks or wit? Then you have the friend who fucking INSISTS you spend hours on youtube watching every dancing baby video the internet has to offer. So you sit in gridlock, watching a baby dancing and singing for 4 minutes too long while everyone LAWLS their ass off. Unless the climax of this video is the mediocre looking baby walking into a screen door or being humped by a puppy, I am not interested. Chill your ovaries.

Exercise – It is not that I am against physical fitness… it’s just that I have a lot better things to do. I know every girl in LA prides themselves on cardio barre, spin class, pilates and fucking juice cleanses. Mazel tov bitches. I have bigger fish to fry. I get plenty of cardio in (you should see me at a sample sale) and can work a Lululemon sweat suit with the best of them but give me a break. Also, it’s just so boring to talk about. We all want to be skinny bitches, I so get it and I surprisingly take relatively good care of myself. I am shallow like a kiddie pool and take pride in my 4 finger thigh gap but bitches be busy and sorry kittens, can’t make it to fucking Soul Cycle. I have shit to do.

Ariana Grande – Okay her voice is next level insane. And if she ends up recording one of my boyfriends songs I will have to probably delete this but listen… doesn’t she seem like such a C-U-Next-Tuesday? And why does she always look so fucking worried. Those eyes, she is going to have to inject the fuck out of her forehead. And that hair. I mean I know my tresses are only comparable to an over processed tumble weed diluted with extensions from some Ukrainian bitch but STILL – what is happening over there? Not to sound like Willow Smith but I be needing that hoe to whip her hair back and forth. I just don’t get it.

Candy Crush – If I see one more notification on Facebook alerting me that some dumbfuck I went to middle school with got to the next level of Candy Crush I am going to delete my Facebook account (just kidding – I need the free portal to self promote). I have never played Candy Crush but if I did I sure as fuck wouldn’t be publishing it on my newsfeed at 1pm on a WORK DAY. Gentlemen, some words of wisdom: if you ever want to get laid… please don’t invite a bitch to play Candy Crush, Farmville, Words with Friends, Angry Birds or whatever uninspiring app you are diddling away at in your mothers basement. It’s just not sexy. It’s called mystery people.

Dopplegangers – You literally can’t give yourself a celebrity doppelgänger without looking like a total asshole. To publicly declare that you look just like Kate Upton when you really look like Kirstie Alley circa 2008 is just embarrassing. And let’s say by chance you DO look eerily similar to a particular celebrity… it is still not okay. I’d like to think I look like a young Michelle Pfeiffer with Adriana Lima’s body but let’s be real, that is a huge crock of bullshit.




Dinner and a … Restraining Order?

First dates are literally my version of hell. I get so nervous and over analyze everything. What do I wear? What should I order? Will I accidentally start discussing my faulty digestive system? What if he makes me pay or should I not even offer? Is it a bad idea to bring my own blue cheesed stuffed olives for my martini like I usually do? It is all such a mind fuck and my neurosis really can’t handle all of these pressing precautions. I have only recently discovered how fucked I would be if I was single. When out of my comfort zone, my overall bitch factor becomes astronomically heightened and to say I become unapproachable would be the understatement of the century. Just this past weekend I went out for my best friends birthday and within one hour at the bar I had 3 altercations with various patrons. One guy jokingly called my girl a “loser” for politely denying his offer for a drink and messed with her hair. My inner Medusa shot back within 1.3 seconds as I yelled “Don’t you touch her you fat fuck.” He then told me I looked like a sofa which REALLY pissed me off since I was wearing a fabulous new brocade top that I completely wasted on such an unappreciative crowd. I concluded with “LIKE I WOULD EVER TAKE FASHION ADVICE FROM SOMEONE WEARING MOTHER FUCKING OAKLEY SUNGLASSES YOU SHITHEAD. GO BACK TO THE CAGE IN THE INLAND EMPIRE YOU ESCAPED FROM…FUCKHEAD. AND I DON’T LOOK LIKE A SOFA. FLORALS ARE IN AND THIS WAS EXPENSIVE. FUCK YOU!” But, actually #classy.

When Baby gets out of her comfort zone I become a huge C-U-Next-Tuesday. It’s not wonderful but I must accept the things I cannot change. Needless to say, my first date track records are not something I am proud of (ehem… that time I dated a gay guy). After some happy juice aka my slightly dirty vodka martini, I usually can loosen up and try and project the faux façade of a seemingly mentally stable, fun, all around “good time gal”. So not me. However, there are some dating situations that can never be comfortable… even if the Goose got ya feeling loose. The worst of first dates cannot compare to the extremely traumatizing and potentially life threatening nature of my first date with Dave. Dave was a senior producer at a show I was working at and he had been stalking me for months. This was a rarity given that I am used to doing most of the stalking. He would casually allude to events I had attended without his knowledge, friends of mine I had never spoken of to him and information one could only find from researching the scary depths of my Facebook page. But hey, who am I to judge. I have googled potential suitors until my fingers bled. After one too many weekends Saturday nights alone in my apartment drinking alone and watching that fat fuck Ina Garten make the perfect risotto for her blatantly homosexual husband Jeffrey like a fucking loser, I decided I needed to have a little adventure and finally accepted his date offer.

He invited me over to his home and said he wanted to cook me dinner. In hindsight I should have counter offered to meet at a public space, something less rapey, but being coworkers I figured he wouldn’t be able to kill me and bury me in the backyard. Right? When I got there he had a beautiful cheese plate waiting for me and I instantly felt at ease. Imported cheeses does that for me. After insuring further digestive complications with shoving 3 lbs of blue stilton down my throat, Dave put the gorgeous rack of lamb he made in the oven and we went to the front patio to have drinks. Wow. This was going so well. Could it be possible I was having my first big girl mature dinner date? I had barely dropped any f-bombs or made any Real Housewife references. Fuck, I felt mature. Who knows? Maybe soon I would start watching the news, stop ding dong ditching as a pastime and hiding my housekeepers purse for fun. His phone had been ringing off the hook and he kept politely silencing the calls. “You can totally get that if you need to!” “No it’s not important” Awww, he totally loves me. Minutes later we saw a car speed across his street, then rush around the cul-de-sac almost decapitating a little Hispanic boy playing catch with his Abuelo. What the fuck? The car came to a screeching halt right in front of Dave’s house and some innocent looking petite blonde revealed herself through the window and screamed at the top of her lungs “FUCK YOU AND THAT WHORE. YOU ARE A LIAR. I AM GOING TO KILL MYSELF. YOU SAID YOU LOVED ME. FUCK YOU” She was hysterically crying, SCREAMING and started throwing shit from the passenger seat onto his front lawn. Um… refill anyone? “Jackie you need to go inside NOW.” I waited there stunned and sickly entertained at this shit show. What the fuck is happening? This was fantastic. “JACKIE. INSIDE. NOW. SHE IS DANGEROUS.” Okay so this was actually happening. I grabbed my cocktail (priorities) and hesitantly headed towards the door. “LOCK THE DOORS JACKIE. ALL OF THEM. CALL 911” Um, pardon?! Holy ball fuck. I probably should have followed instructions but the only thing I could think to do was grab the cheese plate, top off my drink and perch myself by a window and watch what was happening outside. She got out of the car and started sprinting to the front door screaming at the top of her lungs. This bitch clearly had escaped some mental ward. I checked for an ankle monitor or straight jacket. Nada. He intersected her mad dash and firmly grabbed her by the shoulders and was hushedly demanding she get the fuck out of here and the police would be their soon. She began hitting him in the chest over and over while still uncontrollably crying. Soon his grip softened and they started having one of those long awkward hugs. She wiped her tears they had a quick laugh and she got back in her car and drove away. He had a cigarette outside, came in and said “So sorry about that. You must be starving. I’ll go check on the lamb!” SERIOUSLY? A reasonable person would grab their shit and run for the fucking hills. But this bitch really likes lamb. BAHHHHd decision (get it… bah like a lamb? I hate myself)

He eventually explained that they had broken up a few months ago and she had since gone on a total downward spiral. She sporadically would drive by the home that they formerly lived in together and plead for him to take her back. She hadn’t done one of these scorn woman drive bys in months so he hadn’t even thought about the consequences of having me over. On this particular evening she was not expecting to see Dave and myself perched on the patio. “She has a really good heart but is very mentally unstable.” Well that’s just fucking fabulous. About 2 hours later, the front beams of Psycho Sally’s car peered into the living room. She was baaaaaaack. The engine turned off and the bitch was on foot. Dave immediately went to the front yard but she stealthily averted her entrance to the side yard. I sat there ready for the show. Shit where was my drink? I started chugging. I heard the side door keylock rattle. HOLY BALL FUCK. THIS BITCH IS GOING TO STAB ME “DAAAAAVE!!!!” I saw my life flash before my eyes. Would I die before I even got to see my upcoming Real Housewife reunion? I am too young to die. At least not like this! This is so not a chic way to go. I’ll smell like lamb for the coroner. Fuck my life! “JACKIE COME WITH ME GET IN THE CAR” the doorknob continued to rattle as Mental-case Mindy struggled for entry. I RAN to the front door and got in Dave’s car barely escaping this crazy bitch. “Where are we going?” “Somewhere safe. I am so sorry to put you through this.” I didn’t want to seem like a terrible person but this was turning into the most exciting night of my life. I hadn’t had an adrenaline rush like this since last summer’s Barney’s Warehouse sale where I had to wrangle a Alexander Wang backpack out of a feisty Asian woman’s claws (asians lose their gyoza for designer travel bags… they rearry rearry do).

We headed to a nearby restaurant aka our Bunny Boiler security base. Dave received another slew of threatening text messages. He decided his only option was calling the police. An hour later we were given the green light to return home as Fatal Attraction Fiona was in custody. When we returned there were 4 cops waiting for us. She had tore his house upside down. I had left my leather jacket which she had used kitchen scissors to defile and basically overturned every piece of furniture, broken every dish and destroyed anything in her path. The house was a total warzone. I was actually super impressed. She seemed so petite, clearly that bitch had been up in da gym. I would never have the upper body strength to overturn a chaise lounge. Dave filed a restraining order and the girl was apparently arrested. Although being questioned by the cops was incredibly romantic I felt it was best for me to head home and leave Dave to deal with the authorities. I drove home and wondered how the fuck any of this could be real and more importantly if I was going to be reimbursed for my leather jacket. I started to empathize for the poor girl and started wondering whether I should visit her in jail and bring her some magazines and a fresh loofah…

I am sure many of you are reading this thinking, this CANT be true. I promise you it is 100% accurate. Some gals get flowers, dinner and a movie. This bitch gets death threats, a police report and 5 days of post-traumatic constipation. I look back on this evening with extreme fondness, gratitude and am happy I am able to share such a whimsical evening with all of you.

Bitch Bible Prophecy: First dates are the ultimate preview to the rest of your impending relationship. When the universe (or local police men) give you clear signals (like a motherfucking RESTRAINING order) finish your cocktail, be gracious and GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE.