Thursday, 24 April 2014


jennifer lawrence, lindsay lohan,
not to respond to LiLo's accusation
because she doesn't speak freckle. 
And also because it's bullshit.
It seems that miscarriage Lindsay Lohan didn't have is really messing with the mind she also doesn't have, because she actually had the audacity to accuse America's sweetheart, Jennifer Lawrence, of sleeping around to get roles. 

Which, coming from someone who is reportedly fellating the entire male population of Hollywood in alphabetical order, is a textbook case of the freckle calling the pot black. 

Lilo made the out-of-the-blue remarks during an interview with Kode magazine, and even if it weren't coming from Frecklevaj, I still wouldn't believe it because Jennifer Lawrence doesn't even like sex, or else why is she dating that kid from About a Boy? That'd be like a carnivore dating a goddam vegan.

Tuesday, 22 April 2014


giant tiger, best friends, relationship advice, editorspick,
HAD I KNOWN I WAS GOING TO BE SPENDING HALF AN HOUR on the floor of a Giant Tiger store while on a distress call, I'd have done my hair and worn something nattier.

The call came, as most urgent calls do, at a most inconvenient time. I had just finished a workout at GoodLife and was dressed in my most craptastic sweats and, because it wasn't MY idea to put a Giant Tiger right irresistibly next-goddam-door to my gym, I figured I'd dash in and grab a few groceries before heading home to swill vodka and ignore the housework for the rest of the weekend. No one will accuse me of not budgeting my time wisely. 

So there I was, comparison shopping, weighing the merits of no-name brand freezer bags versus the vastly more expensive but superior Glad freezer bags, when I felt my phone vibrate. GADDAMIT! I huffed, it's probably one of my obnoxious exes calling to tell me he can't live without me. BLAHBLAHBLAH if I had a nickel for every time I heard that one. 

But then I saw the name on the caller ID and realized it was actually someone I like. In fact a dear friend.
I hesitated the merest fraction of a second ... I was mid-shopping, after all ... and then answered.
"Good morning you contagious slut!" I said breezily.
The slight pause was my first clue.
The catch in her voice when she said "Fuck off you dirty whore," was my second clue. She usually says that with such affectionate panache.
"Hey," I said, a little offstride. "You okay?"

RELATED: Whorrified's super fantastic excellent dating tips
RELATED: A girl must do whatever it takes to feel better

Well that was all it took. A flood of hiccupy tears and confessions followed and so I stepped out of the checkout queu, pacing and clucking and huffing, "He didn't! No way! The bastard!" at all the right places, but it soon became evident this was a much more indepth crisis. This was, in fact, a meltdown. 

So as my friend poured her heart out about her very bad Friday night and her confusion over who was actually to blame for what had transpired ... (Bestie Rule No. 1: It's ALWAYS his fault. Even if it's her fault) ... I was drawn more and more into the orbit of crisis and out of the orbit of shopping until finally I figured "Feck it," and just plopped the grocery basket on the floor and sat down beside it and gave myself over completely to listening. 

Finally, after about 15 minutes, my friend started to sound like herself again. 
"What's all that beeping?" she asked. "Where are you, anyway?"
"I'm sitting on the floor of Giant Tiger, with my grocery basket beside me. In my hoodie," I said. "Everybody's looking at me like I'm a vagrant. If Giant Tiger had a budget for security, they'd be harassing the hell out of me right now."

My friend laughed. It was a good sound. 
"Omigod," she said. "You're trying to do your shopping and your crazy friend calls and has a five-alarm crying jag. You should blog about this!"
"Oh, honey, trust me," I said, as I snapped a selfie. "I plan to."
"That's hilarious!" she chirped. "You cheered me up so much! Thanks for listening. Oh ... and, er, you won't mention my name, right?"
"Of course not, you herpes-infested harlot," I retorted.

"Thanks beyotch," she tossed back. "You're the best."
Ahhh, friendship. It makes up for all the shitty things being a woman has to offer. 


hilaria baldwin, yoga poses, alec baldwin, paparazzi, whorrified,
OKAY MAYBE THIS ISN'T THE BEST EXAMPLE of Hilaria Baldwin striking random yoga poses because this is exactly how I sit when I'm having my nails done. 
Hilaria Baldwin/Instagram

In case you didn't already suspect that being married to a violent madman prone to erratic rages might make you a bit ... hm, what would be the sensitive way to phrase it? ... batshit crazy, Hilaria Baldwin has taken to some erratic episodes of her own. Namely, bursting into random, titillating yoga poses. In public. At the drop of a hat. Even by New York's standards, this is fairly bizarre.
Although I suppose it's one way of letting one's violent geezer spouse know that, "Hey, I can move pretty quick if I have to." It also has the desirable effect of registering her on the radar of gossip websites everywhere. That'll come in handy when she inevitably divorces Alec and launches a career of her own. Or has him put down and stuffed. That'd be the more humane thing to do.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Well actually it's not that "random"; she's a yoga teacher.
MY NOTE: Right. And my mother was an English teacher but I don't recall her ever standing in the middle of a busy street randomly shrieking Shakespeare at cabbies and what have you. Which, come to think of it, would have been pretty spectacular. "Hie thee hither, good sir! I must needs attend a parent-teacher conference, methinks!"


Coco Austin, squats, NW magazine, whorrified, Ice loves Coco,
TODAY I BRING YOU THE ANSWER TO THE TIMELESS QUESTION: 'Why did Coco Austin get breast implants?' No one will accuse me of shying away from the important issues.

For the ones and twos of you who sometimes look at Coco and wonder "Why the hell did she get those massive breast implants?", congratulations. I'm amazed you were able to look away from her massive arse. It's like staring directly into the sun. I'm also happy to report that Coco is finally providing us with a straight answer that reeks of bullshit. The pneumatically enhanced reality star tells NW website, which may or may not have asked, that she got a boob job because she "wanted to take attention away" from her butt. (Although for that to happen, she'd have to stop incessantly lardbombing us with pictures like this.) And I'm not saying I don't believe the big fat liar girl, but I would have sworn she did it because she was tired of falling over backwards all the time. The laws of physics will not be denied.

Sunday, 20 April 2014


audrey hepurn, kim kardashian, sabrina, whorrified,

And from our "Easily The Most Ridiculous Thing You'll See All Day" files, we have Kim Kardashian aping Audrey Hepburn in an energy drink commercial. In her first non-porn acting gig, Kim wears fake bangs, a black turtleneck, cropped pants and ballet flats, just like Hepburn in Sabrina, because if there's anyone who is the embodiment of the elegant screen legend that is Audrey Hepburn it's a big-arsed famewhore who tweets butt selfies for a living. 
Honestly. It's enough to make you believe in reincarnation. Wait, no capital punishment. I meant capital punishment. 

audrey hepurn, kim kardashian, sabrina, whorrified,

For those of you who are too young to remember Audrey Hepburn, here she is with William Holden in a scene from Sabrina. (And unless I missed the part where Holden talks her into getting implants and making a sex tape while urinating on her and asking her why her mother married an obvious transvestite, I really am not getting the similarity between these two women at all.)


Mother Hen: "Who put that baby in the swing
 without buckling her in? I WANT NAMES!"

I realize I thoroughly Easterblogged you yesterday, but I thought I'd update you with a few pithy anecdotes about the beautiful madness that is my family. We gathered at my younger daughter's home, the rule being that the person with the youngest child, the biggest house and the healthiest food gets to host the party. If I were her I'd start stocking the larder with pork rinds and tube cheese before the constant hosting drives her to a breakdown. The poor girl hasn't been guestless since the baby was born.  

The best part of our family get-togethers is the juxtaposition of eccentrics. On Easter, there was my firstborn, the mother hen ("Has everybody washed their hands?"), my second daughter the organic hostess, her husband, their baby  Piggly Wiggly, my brother, my Mom (the author), my moron editor (I had to bring him; the homeless shelter was closed) and of course, me (the eye candy).

We were gabbing and gossiping and enjoying the traditional Easter dinner of madras chicken and osso bucco favoured by all families who don't eat ham because it reminds them of a certain pig dog, but I had the niggling sense that something wasn't quite right. 
Finally, after the third shot of Hornitos, it hit me. "Hey! We haven't put anything on Piggly Wiggly's head!" 

A deadly quiet fell over the room while we looked at each other as if to say "Nobody thought to bring a hooker wig? What kind of family are we?" But then Piggly's mom produced a pair of bunny ears and we all took pictures (most of them turning out much better than this one but they don't have me in them so to hell with that) for a solid half-hour. "Try one with the flash!" "Turn her around and take her from this angle!" "See if you can get her to smile; tilt the ears; try it with backlighting; just one more!" 
If that child doesn't grow up thinking Easter is about how Christ died on the cross to escape the throngs of curry-scented paparazzi, it will be a miracle.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Why do those bunny ears look so familiar?
MY NOTE: Because I was wearing them the night you met me at the Playboy Club. Which reminds me, you never did tip me . . .
EDITOR'S NOTE: Take if off the paycheque you've owed me for about three months now.
MY NOTE: *whips out notepad, affixes pentagram sticker beside 'Moron Editor' column* Great idea!

Saturday, 19 April 2014


heidi klum, vito schnabel, tulum photos, whorrified, editorspick,
while wearing almost nothing but a ballcap and a smile.

Heidi Klum is on vacation in Tulum, Mexico. Her bikini top, meanwhile, is apparently on vacation somewhere else, because it hasn't once made an appearance the entire time she's been there. The 40-year-old runway goddess has been incessantly tweeting naked-knocker pics while in Tulum, as is her vacation wont. You do remember her topless-in-Tahiti junket, don't you? You don't? Well click here and see if this jogs your memory glands.

You've gotta feel sorry for her much-younger new boyfriend, 27-year-old art dealer Vito Schnabel, above. I'm told guys hate it when cougars bounce around topless in front of them. Although I must say that, considering I am looking at photos of an almost nude supermodel, I am feeling absolutely zero sexual heat while simultaneously experiencing a strange craving for pancakes with a side of stewing hen. 
(If you thought I was going to let this one go by without indulging my trademark body-shaming urges you do NOT know me. Which is wise of you.)