sex

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.

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.

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.

Dear Annoying Couples

I am not nearly as bitter as I make myself out to be. Granted, I self admittedly do NOT think all children or beautiful, don’t get weepy at leaves changing colors and would rather shoot myself in the asshole than watch a Nicholas Sparks movie marathon. I can however, get a wee bit mushy when it comes to love. I am cringing even as I TYPE that last sentence. The beauty of dating serial egomaniacs is that when an amazing man comes around you have the right to get a little gooey (internally). This is a very slippery slope for a closeted basic bitch like myself to navigate but once you find proper footing along with your social decency, it’s fairly easy to conclude that those feelings are reserved for you and your partner. Consider this a very passionate and strongly worded letters to people (both male and female) who feel it necessary to annoyingly publish intimate photo’s and declarations of love on social media.

We all know the couple… 18 hours can’t go by without a fucking collage, song lyric, gag-worthy Facebook comment or incredibly awkward photo of your significant other sleeping. PDA on social media is like a bacon wrapped street hot dog… sporadically it can be enjoyable and joyous (especially under the influence of alcohol) but on a daily basis it makes you sick, fat and remorseful.

Here is the issue, while you think you are solely promoting your happiness I would dare to say that doth protest too much. I understand a scattered moment of weakness where you want to scream your undying love at the rooftops, I have been there. What I cannot understand or support are the couples that unconsentually rape my retinas with their ridiculously cheesy and inauthentic declarations of love on social media.

It is always the couples that have either broken up 52 times OR are on the verge that throws a fucking non-milestone Flipagram slideshow into the mix. It’s a very passive aggressive plea to publicly reminisce on better times and quite frankly makes me want to take a shower with a blow dryer. OMG HE BOUGHT YOU A TEDDY BEAR AND SENT YOU A SAD BOUQUET OF CARNATIONS? I literally don’t give a fuck and no one else does either.

If you are a bitch posting articles from Elite Daily like “Why Highschool Sweethearts Make The Best Life Partners” just kill yourself. HOW REVOLUTIONARY. So because some freelance writer suggests that being penetrated by the same person who sat next to you in Geometry before you got your braces off is the best foundation for a life of fidelity and comfort, then you should totes do it. Just know there is a flattering article for EVERYONE and just because it’s applicable doesn’t make it true or worth sharing. OmG yOu GuYs, look aT oUr HiS aNd HeR XmAs sWEaTerS! STAB ME IN THE FOREHEAD PLEASE.

No one cares. NO one cares. NOT ONE PERSON BESIDES YOU FUCKING CARES, NOT AT ALL. You are annoying the fuck out of everyone who knows you and it’s self indulgent and delusional to think anyone besides you two sappy assholes need to be privy your intimate moments.

Here’s the harsh truth… when people are TRULY enjoying themselves, finding a steady handed Asian to capture their loving embrace is the LAST THING on their brain. Love is a many splendid thing, love lifts us up where we belong, but daily declarations of such are disingenuous and WRONG. How’s that for a poem…

Love you. Mean it.

SANGRIA STAKEOUT

On this weeks podcast with Kingsley I allude to my first documented Sangria Stakeout. Equipped only with binoculars, subpar disguises and a front row ticket to homeboys balcony we dedicated 2 hours to confirming his whereabouts. Here is the condensed footage from our excursion. Enjoy, and James please don’t file a restraining order… Hope your grandma is doing better.

Dear Leonardo DiCaprio

Dear Leo,

As I write this I am lying on the bathroom floor picking up the chunks of hair I ripped out of my own scalp upon hearing the news of your engagement. If this sounds like a suicide letter it’s because it is. For the past 24 hours I have been on a downward spiral that rivals Amanda Bynes’ 2013, Britney Spears’ 2007 and Joaquin Phoenix’s 2009.

My first emotion was anger. Angry at you, angry at her, angry at the cashier judging me for buying Nyquil, a magnum bottle of Ketel One, 4 loaves of French bread, 87 pounds of brie cheese and an assortment of razor blades aka my scorn lover suicide kit #HOWDOYOUMAKECHLOROFORM?

After the anger subsided and I did a ceremonial burning of all of my Leonardo DiCaprio VHS tapes, denial set in. How did this happen? Who is this woman? I’d like to tell you congratulations on your impending nuptials. I’d like to say I’m glad you’re settling down. I’d like to say I hope you name your yacht after her and live a long happy life together boating in Cannes. I never lied to you before and I surely am not going to start now after you have ripped my heart out and taken a huge metaphorical shit on my fucking dreams.

Honestly I hope you are miserable together and the whole marriage goes up in flames. No one has supported like me. I have loved you during your weight fluctuation, your pubis facial hair situation and even when you started driving a Prius. That’s loyalty Leonardo… something you clearly don’t value.

I named my fucking dog after you. And when people ask me why his name is “Leo” I always tell them he is named after his biological father. I assure my group of dog mothers that canine “Leo” he has my personality and your interest in humanitarian work. I am sure your fiancée owns a German Shepard named Axel and is a fucking vegetarian. OF COURSE SHE IS. Fuck her.

Sure she might be an ethereal supermodel who gives huge fucks about the environment and sunbathes topless and wears anklets and shit. Can she love you like I could? No. Does she own the Celine Dion “My Heart Will Go On” single remix cd? No. Did she see Critters 3 that you starred in around 1991? Definitely not. I FUCKING DID.

Worst of luck to both of you. My heart will not go on. You fucking let go Jack.

Sincerely,

Jackie

Faux Feminism

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bro You Basic

As a society and a generation, the past year has been dedicated to ridiculing the yoga-pant wearing, frappucino sucking, Marilyn Monroe quote posting Viking that IS the basic bitch. We chastise her for loving Yankee Candles and thinking red roses are tasteful. Being on the frontline of feminism (not) I decided it was my civil duty to shed light to an equally offensive group of millennials roaming the earth; the basic bro. GASP. Are you worried you are dating a basic bro? Here are some tried and true characteristics of the BB.

Flip-flops When I think of flip-flops, I think of guys in Quicksilver swim trunks holding a neon beach towel with a fucking dolphin on it and the whole visual makes me really upset. I understand that whilst poolside a mandal is convenient but if you’re a bro that’s consistently wearing flip-flops your mom bought you at Tilly’s you are basic and probably not getting laid.

Car Accessories If you are driving a fucking Mitsubishi with custom rims, racing stripes and a spoiler not only are you basic you are also everything that is wrong with society. I DON’T CARE IF YOU PIMPED YOUR YARIS OUT, YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE. I dare you to take one more picture of your Hyundai and post it on Instagram, seriously I fucking dare you.

Bottle Décor If you walk into a guys house and see an arrangement of 10+ empty bottles of alcohol displayed as home décor, first steal something from his medicine cabinet and then promptly leave. Let me be clear, having 2 empty bottles of Barefoot Pinot Grigio, 3 empty bottles of Andre and an empty handle of Svedka is not something to be proud of. What is the psychology behind this? Is it in attempt to let people know that you are DoWn To RagE hard aNy dAy ThAt ends iN y? Go fuck yourself.

Crossfit I’ll say it once, I’ll say it again. I don’t give a fuck and a half about crossfit. It’s really cool that you can do a 20 minute head stand and pull a car or whatever but like, I think it’s a misdirected use of discipline. If you are doing competitions and walking around with cinderblocks tied to your ankles but can’t afford HBO, it is time to reprioritize.

Gatorade The male equivalent of the Pumpkin Spice Latte. Duh.

Vegas Vegas is the holy land for basic bros and bitches alike, it’s basically Jerusalem. Bitches put on their polyblend bandage dresses, guys put on their Armani Exchange button downs and gross “dress shoes”, spritz themselves with Acqua di Gio and then think it’s cool to rent a white Hummer limo. Side note: Hummer limos are for Midwest proms and people who’s favorite food is Chicken Parmesan. The basic bro knows promoters, loves DJ’s and sweatily sips on a vodka redbull until he finds an equally basic counterpart to take back to his shared suite and then one day procreate with to make basic babies.

The Sangria Stakeout

I live my life by the following guiding principles:

  1. Slow and steady only wins a Special Olympics race.
  2. Never trust anyone who wears heels and white sunglasses poolside.
  3. It’s not creepy if it’s legal.

I have discussed in major detail my recreational stalking habits. Some girls like yoga, some girls like hacking emails. Apples to apples. I have heard many a cynic tell me that bitches who patrol others personal information are insecure. Untrue, I am inherently a curious human being and take on life with an investigative approach. I wonder about tons of things. Like why is the sky blue? What hairspray did Jon Benet Ramsey use? What is my neighbor’s social security number?

Many assume that my stalking tendencies only target a prospective romantic partner. Wrong again. I stalk anything, anyone ,and anywhere with free fucking wifi. One of my fave traditions is the tried and true “Sangria Stakeout.” The “Sangria Stakeout” is a super fun and celebratory way to confirm your boo’s whereabouts.

For instance, if a guy you are dating claims to be working late, have strep throat or be volunteering for Habitat for Humanity on a Saturday night – a bitch has the right to follow up. A casual drive by is so 2009 and quite frankly, an amateur move. After discussing this on my podcast, I felt I owed my bitches a more detailed explanation of how to execute such a manic milestone of your own.

First things first, you will need a borrowed car with tinted windows (preferably sans license plate) or a classic rape van (preferably with curtained windows and electrical hook ups). Once you have secured a stakeout vessel, you need the right company. Leave your shit stirring buzzkill friend at home. Gays really thrive in this type of social setting. Also invite anybody that knows how to put together a chic charcuterie platter. Atmosphere is crucial during a Sangria Stakeout so make a themed playlist to set the mood.

Here are some suggestions:

  1. “Every Breath You Take” by The Police
  2. “Creep” by TLC
  3. “I Drove All Night” by Celine Dion

In the common chance you find your love interest NOT at home with a yeast infection but instead, pregaming a night on the town with some hussy in a polyblend Bebe dress… you are going to need a cocktail. Sangria is the perfect beverage because it’s lower in alcohol content, travels well, could be mistaken for spa water by the police and just seems festive as fuck. A bitch keeps it simple: White wine, Sprite Zero/Club Soda, peaches, strawberries, lemon slices and mint. VOILÀ.

If you are at all hesitant to round up your bitches, rent a rape van and invest in a good manchego, just remember that knowing a disappointing truth is better than forever wondering… Information is power, people are shady and Sangria Stakeout’s are legal. Think about it.

I Hate Target & So Should You

I have been having a series of epiphanies for the last 3 months. First I realized and accepted the fact that I have never and WILL never think the television show “Friends” is funny. Then I realized that while I often talk about pop culture and celebrity gossip, I am capitalizing off of people who are most likely better looking and more talented than I which makes me hypocritical and also semi-stupid. But yesterday I may have experienced the harshest realization of all… one that not only sequesters myself from humanity but also seems totally unpatriotic. My name is Jackie Schimmel and I fucking HATE Target. If you have already blocked me on Instagram and put me on your hit list right above Abu Nazir, please give me a moment to explain myself.

The first thing that aroused my Target-hatred was my deep confusion with the checkout process at fucking Target. WHAT DICKHEAD DESIGNED THE DOUBLE CASHIER LANES? Am I in line for register 1 or 3? Why is there only gross Aquafina available in the drink cooler? How many chain restaurant gift cards, Eos chapsticks and travel packed Wet Wipes am I supposed to be distracted with before I realize that I have been waiting 37 minutes to buy a subpar Sonia Kashuk makeup brush?

Another thing that grinds my gears are the endless Designer collaborations. The whole reason you BUY actual designer clothing is to insure it’s not made of polyester and on a shelf next to a pair of Mossimo mom jeans. I will admit I was a consenting victim to the Missoni for Target riot of 2010. I pulled my labia after shoving an innocent housewife out of my way for the chevron coffee mugs. Now Nate Berkus gets to hawk $25 gold office staplers and people think they are fashion forward and progressive because they own something designed by Oprahs token homo. No, just no.

Sometimes you can’t just hate the game, you can also hate the players.. Targets customer demographic is one that I have tried to avoid like a Nigerian plague. It’s not that I hate white people in stretch pants with excess fat children, it’s just that I hate everything they stand for. Every time I drive up to a Target and see the surplus of mini vans and women in orthopedic footwear, a part of my soul dies and I consider leaving the country. People, if you are in Target buying economy sized barrels of Cheese Puffs which you allow your offspring to start eating in the checkout line, you need to seriously re-evaluate your life choices.

And beyond all this bullshit, nothing is that good of a deal. I can say with full confidence that all alcohol, toiletries, home decor and electronics are equal to or exceed the price of any other major retailers. Last week I spent $1.79 on fucking GREEN ONIONS at Target. Mossimo can go fuck themselves with their $29.99 cotton zip up hoodies and Merona should burn in hell for even thinking that thin brimmed fedoras are still marketable.

Target is the enemy. Target is insulting our integrity and intelligence. Target is everything that’s wrong with America in a big red box. Target even gave their own fucking mascot a black (red) eye.

targetdog-300x190

Expect less, pay more.

Dr. Schimmel

I have always loved doling out advice… usually in the form of a vintage Britney Spears lyric or sad bumper sticker. Unfortunately 98% of the time I am too busy thinking about when the McRib is coming back into my life to give my full attention to other peoples problems but I try and give it a solid 54%. Here is the result of that from this week’s podcast. Live your dreams.

PREQUEL SEQUEL:

Fuck Fuckboys

I am aware that I’m always 6 months late to millennial slang. A term I have been grappling (big word) with as of late is “fuckboy”. What is this mythical fuckboy? After my misunderstanding of Trap Queen (which I figured was a bitch who swaps birth control for tic tacs and traps men with a fetus) I felt it absolutely necessary to go straight to the superior source… urban dictionary.

Fuckboy (noun)

A Fuckboy is the type of guy who does shit that generally pisses the population of the earth off all the time. He will also lead girls on just for hookups, says he’s really into you but doesn’t want to deal with all the “relationship bullshit” just to fuck you. He thinks about himself and only himself all the time but pretends to be really nice. He also does really fucked up shit and then complains about people who do the same old shit as him. Once a fuckboy always a fuckboy, because fuck boys ganna be fuckboys.

Cuh-yoot. When you really think about it, potential fuckboys can only blossom into bonafied fuckboys with our permission and allowance. The key to eliminating the species is to disable the fuckboy. That is not a physical threat calm the fuck down. What I mean is that fuckboys can only be relevant if we as females ENABLE the fuck boy. The second you get a whiff of Armani Acqua di fucking Gio find the nearest chastity belt and head for the hills. An estrogenous love side-affect is that sometimes we equate all SEX to deeper feelings. While in the land of Nicholas Sparks, intimacy is all pancakes in bed, love letters and fucking swans; unfortunately the only intentions we ever REALLY can know are our own. The harsh truth is that once a fuckboy, almost ALWAYS a fuckboy. So while we are envisioning 365 letters, and dying side by side in some waspy plantation hospice a la the Notebook, your fuckboy just needs a willing (hopefully) orifice.

If he’s not taking you to dinner but is regularly sleeping with you, he’s a fuckboy. If he is platonic on the streets and freak in the sheets, he’s a fuckboy. If he doesn’t believe in labels, but his phone is full of them i.e.; “Blonde girl from Chateau” “Kylie from NYC” “Buttaface Barbara”, he’s a fucking fuckboy.

Ladies. Guys put their penises in their OWN FUCKING HAND. The same hand they high five their boss with, pump their gas with and wipe their ass with. Having a guy want to sleep with you repeatedly without any form of commitment means he is a fuckboy and WORSE you are a fuckboy enabler. Remember this as a mantra for recovery, penne before penetration. (That was supposed to be clever… Penne is a noodle often served at romantic Italian restaurants)

Playas gonna play. Talkers gonna talk. Fuckboys gonna fuck. And bitches better WALK.

Editors Note: I apologize to my family for the excessive fucks and to readers for my desperate rhyme schemes and alliterations.

LeBron Shames

Today is a day that has challenged all my serotonin levels. I know its popular to bitch about Mondays but when you are a mediocre d-list blogger/podcast host, it’s always the fucking weekend. I woke up feeling fresh and ready for my favorite night of television ahead (Bachelor in Paradise and RHOC) and went to kick off my week with a double wheatgrass shot #earthy. For the record, Jamba Juice is the WORST place to get any sort of good news. Everyone is more concerned about their free boost and although the staff is chipper, they are really just ready to get the fuck out of there so they can head back to the community college they came from. No offense…

As I waited in line my phone pinged alerting me of a new follower on twitter. As you can tell from the post below, followers are a huge part of my life. I love them more than most people in my family despite never actually meeting them. Family is bound to you by blood, social media followers have to make a conscious effort. It’s more sincere. Anyways, I check my phone to see who my new follower might be secretly praying for a minority (need to broaden my audience) and was delighted to see my new follower was a lovely chocolate man named Lebron, Lebron James. Why does that sound so familiar? Hmm. Did we go to high school together? We couldn’t have… I know every black person within a 10 mile radius of my hometown by name. I decide to further investigate.

Holy fucking shit balls. Lebron fucking James followed me on twitter. I contemplated buying a round of wheatgrass for everyone in that place but I’m jewish so that seems super fiscally irresponsible. He only follows 180 people, so naturally I assume he must be really in love with me. I knew buying those oversized hoop earrings was going to be lucrative. Fuck I am urban.

For the next 38 minutes I called every heterosexual male I knew, emailed my dad alerting him I am a big fucking deal and started thinking of cute biracial names for the bastard child I planned on having aka my child support turned shoe funds. Sienna seems too Arian and Laquisha seems too on the nose. Maybe something obscure like Melon? That could garner some good publicity.

As I settled into my local sushi place for a celebratory sashimi (had to get my raw fish fix before I was knocked up with Lebron’s child) I decided it would only be polite to send him a tweet thanking him for the follow. I figured I would utilize the perks of direct messaging as opposed to a basic tweet, that’s for gross commoners. We were basically dating.

As I went to send him a message I realized I was not allotted the option to directly message him… that’s odd? Maybe he doesn’t allow direct messages? I then scrolled through his elite selection of 184 people he follows on twitter assuming I was still one of them. After 4 scrolls I realized I was no longer apart of the club….

What the fucking fuck? Is it my hair? Am I not funny via twitter? Is it because I talk too openly about my digestion? WHY LEBRON WHY? Lebron James followed me on twitter for 43 minutes and it was the best 43 minutes of my life. Like some dumb fuck once said; Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened. Lebron, I am here when you are ready to come back to me… arms and ovaries open.

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#thewaywewere

Chocolate Dreams

This weekend, a chocolate miracle occurred. I like to think I have relatively solid self-esteem, what I lack in some aesthetics I like to think I account for with chutzpah and a killer rack. One thing that has always hindered my happiness was the absence of male African-American attention. To simplify, black men are just not that into me.

It has gotten to the point where it has become a longstanding joke with my friends that no matter what I do, I cannot pull the attention of a black man on the town. I have tried everything. From my childhood, opting to sit in the back of the bus in honor of my girl Rosa Parks to now in my mid twenties ordering Hennessy on the rocks and insisting we absorb our alcohol over Roscoe’s chicken and waffles. Trying to woo a black boo is fucking exhausting.

Last week I had the pleasure of meeting Charlamagne Tha God and in true politically incorrect form, I asked him why he thought no chocolate studs were into my vanilla samplings. Is it my ass? Do I Is it because I saw Mamma Mia in theaters eight times? Because i thought Meek Mill was an offbeat brand of granola?

He assured me that there is a black consumer for all shapes, sizes and flavors of white girls. This both comforted and insulted me. I told him I was looking for a Pharell Williams/Tyson Beckford hybrid.

Charlamagne did me the service of broadcasting to nearly 2 million people on Twitter and Instagram THIS…

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Well that’s subtle. For the record, it’s just the OPTION I have been seeking. I am in a happily committed relationship but a girl has to wonder after a quarter century why the fuck a brotha ain’t into my anaconda. That caption is aggressive as fuck and devalues the true inner turmoil I have suffered. My grandmother is beaming with pride at her little Ashkenazi princess.

As you can imagine there was some negative feedback…

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Soon after my white woman seeking black “affection” plea hit social media I have garnered the attention of 423 chocolate male suitors. From Jamal to Leroy, Hollywood to Harlem, my desperation has been heard loud and clear. I have received supportive tweets, Instagram follows and one terrifying dick pic in the process and now can continue on in my life with a spring in my step, lust in my heart and fried chicken in my fridge.

Thank you to the fine gentleman who have made my swirl driven dreams a possible reality #143 and for more insight on this please listen to tomorrows podcast with Charlamagne! You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll get 6 bottles of Dom Perignon sent to you by Drake.

Dance Like No One’s Watching

On this weeks podcast, I bravely took listener calls and showcased absolutely terrible advice devoid of any wisdom. The result is one of my proudest moments and very favorite podcasts, enjoy and I apologize in advance…