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).


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.

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.

Things I Am Bye Felicia-ing

Hiking – It’s not that I dislike nature, I actually quite enjoy it. Granted, I can think of 72 things I enjoy MORE than general foliage. My issue currently is the Instagram rape my pupils suffer daily with the overflux photos of bitches hiking. First came the juices, then came the acai bowls, now it’s the Simba in the Lion King basic ass hiking picture. Congratulations, you climbed a big pile of dirt at 6am and burned 650 calories before dawn. I stayed horizontal, watched Kathie Lee and Hoda and lessened my chances of getting Lyme disease or bitten by a snake. Who is the real winner here?

Hilary Duffs Music Career – I mean… this was cute when she had her old teeth, now it’s time to give up. Some people say you should never give up on your dreams. I am not one of those people… if things don’t come to fruition after a solid 10 tries, pursue elsewhere. Find a new dream. Become a freelance jeweler or take up welding. I love you Hilary, always have and always will but this seems So Yesterday.

Frappucinos – Apparently there are 76 new flavors. A cotton candy frappucino? What kind of sick ass bitch would order something like that? I have a few new flavor suggestions for you Starbucks, these are on the house: Diabetic Dreamin, MuffinTop Mocha, Die Alone & Cream. Listen, I can wrap my head around liquid calories that are alcoholic. But a buzz-free beverage that is nearly 50% of your suggested calorie intake is gross.

FOMO – Fuck fomo. If I hear one more bitch whine about having FOMO, I am going to hurl my body through a window, find the largest shard of glass and engrave tic tac toe boards into my own flesh until I bleed out. How do I put this gently? YOU SOUND LIKE A MENTALLY UNSTABLE, INSECURE, WHINEY DUMBASS. I feel better. You say FOMO, I say Lexapro. Wah wah, get over it. Anyone with 1/7 of a brain knows you can never judge a party by it’s pictures… a cluster of girls “candidly” huddled on a patio laughing with an aggressive X-Pro filter probably means they were only serving Svedka with store brand soda (no garnishes) and the party sucked ass – no one takes pictures when they are having shitloads of fun, think about it.

High-Low Hemlines – I shouldn’t have to explain this… in fact I won’t.

Have an amazing weekend. See you on the other side of my menstrual cycle when I am being a less angry bitter old troll.


I’m sorry if I have revoked you of my wicked yet totally charming and likeable (right?) stream of bitchiness for the past couple of weeks. I am actually not entirely sorry, sometimes a bitch needs a break to refresh, reboot and refill…

I have been volunteering at a third world country grammar school building jungle gyms and planning my next philanthropy event “Cycling for Syphilis”. I have met so many people my age who are tits deep in charity work and it just baffles me. Aren’t we supposed to save that for later in life when we’re bored and trying to fluff up our children’s college applications? Duh.

Really, I was in Europe with my boyfriend having serious sexual relations with every carb and cheese wheel in sight. On the tail end of our trip my boyfriend had a last minute change of scheduling and needed to fly back to LA four days early. I decided to stay solo and had one of the most therapeutic experiences in my short, unimportant life. I instantly compared it to the 2010 classic ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ and decided to carry on the theme for the entirety of my time alone.

EAT Holy fuck, can I eat. When you are paying for your own meals at restaurants you really get the breakdown of your appetite. When I go out I tend to split a few different things (I am a food commitment-phobe, I like to sample) so I always assume I am only eating my share. I am in for a seriously rude awakening when my metabolism slows down. Everyone keeps asking me “Did you shop? Buy anything special?” No I didn’t fucking SHOP. But I did fucking eat… EVERYTHING. Snails, veal tartare, frog legs, cheese, bread, pastries, you name it. If it could fit in my facehole, I ate it. Excess consumption + shy digestive traits = struggle. Thank god outerwear is bulky because this bitch has never needed an elastic waistband more. The best part? I don’t fucking care. Who needs a hot body when you’ve got Photoshop and charisma for days? Sure I almost had to buy an extra seat to accommodate my hot new muffin top a la Kevin Smith but who gives a fuck. I virtually didn’t have a vegetable in 2 weeks. I tried to completely emerge myself in the culture balls deep and if it seemed authentic and illegal to consume at home, I ate it. At this point I am practically bleeding Béarnaise and I would have it no other way.

PRAY LAY I am notoriously super antsy. If I sit in one place too long I become very disruptive in order to keep myself entertained. I’ll put ice cubes on people’s thighs under the dining table, start making prank calls, or just kick it old school and go into one of my standard panic attacks. I am about 20 years late to the Ritalin party. I am saving that prescription for my post-twenties weight gain. It’s easy to get wrapped up in our bullshit Snapchats, overly filtered Instagram posts and passive aggressive tweets. We are so busy editing our faux lives that we can often forget to really live and appreciate our REAL lives. I started really thinking about how lucky I was to be in a position to travel alone and how truly definitive these moments are. The truth is if you can’t just be with yourself, why would anyone else want to? I had this very strange experience of almost disassociating with my body and becoming my own travel partner. Clinically, I believe that would be considered bipolar disorder. I have so many new inside jokes with myself it’s crazy. I learned through solitude and one too many solo dirty martinis that I actually really like myself and enjoy my own company. So I wasn’t laying in the grass like a fucking vegan poet but I did learn the value of slowing down and tuning out. (Nothing else rhymed with PRAY)

LOVE SHOVE I have a wild pigeon phobia. Not like in a cute quirky way, like in a psychologically crippling, downward spiral, tears of fear way. It is ADORABLE. I want them all to die and I have never meant anything more. If I had a gun and better hand eye coordination I would devote my life to hunting and murdering every single fucking pigeon I could find. Whatever shift in the ecosystem that would cause would be worth it. My name is Jackie Schimmel, and I want all pigeons dead for a better tomorrow. In fact, in France I actually ATE a pigeon over potatoes au gratin for poetic justice. In Europe, they are EVERYWHERE. Whilst with a travel partner, it is much easier to disguise the downward spiral that ensues when I see one within 5 feet of me. Normally, I can hide behind someone I am with or close my eyes and let them guide me through the streets. When alone, I look like I have schizophrenia. I twitch, scream, cry and flail my limbs like Amanda Bynes. It’s just not something you can recover from. If I hear a wing flap I instantly burn 3,000 calories, it’s how I keep my figure. I had to externally keep composure while walking on the street simply to avoid being institutionalized. I tried mantras, deep breathing and drinking wine I poured into a travel-sized water bottle. However, none of these tactics worked out for me. When I saw a devil-bird swoop and land inches away from my face, talons first, I shoved a poor geriatric in front of me for shield and sacrifice. I did this a lot… not great but oddly grounding.

So now I am back to reality, with traces of Foie Gras still in my colon and the shrill sound of wing flapping keeping my seratonin levels amiss.

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.