Monday, 17 April 2017


giant tiger, best friends, relationship advice, editorspick,
HAD I KNOWN I WOULD 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 some genius civic planner put a Giant Tiger right next-door to my gym, I figured I'd 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, 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. GODDAMIT! 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. 

Friday, 14 April 2017


Piggly Wiggly, Things on Piggly's Head, Whorrified, Brampton,
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 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 madras-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!

Wednesday, 12 April 2017


easter, piggly wiggly, things on piggly wiggly's head,
Well Piggly Wiggly's mom is more of a "Let's put things on the baby's head" kinda hostess. 
(See the interactive image below for more kneeslappin' good times.)

Happy Easter, everyone! Like most lapsed Catholics, I sometimes have to remind myself that this is in fact a deeply religious observance as opposed to just a three-day weekend which, after the week I just had, is as much of a miracle as the fact that Jesus our Saviour rose from the dead to hunt Easter eggs. 

I will be spending the blessed holiday with family at my daughter's home, where I can cuddle my beloved Piggly Wiggly and make sure her mom doesn't get out of hand with the head ornaments. This sort of thing can rapidly escalate from amusing prank to dangerous habit, as I learned when I tried it on the pig dog using a bowl of scalding chowder instead of a wig. The drama! The screeching! The mess! Although the aroma of chowder-dipped swine was oddly delectable and lingered for days afterwards.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go pour a martini and bark orders at the moron who's cooking the osso bucco I will bring to my daughter's and tell everyone I made myself. Oh ... and my wigs. I have to sort my wigs. If we're going to be putting things on Piggly Wiggly's head all bloody weekend, the least I can do as her grandmother is make sure they are worthy. 

EDITOR'S NOTE: *samples sauce, kisses fingertips* Magnifique! It's like velvet!
MY NOTE: *tosses empty bottle of Grey Goose in general direction of stovetop* Stop tonguing the osso bucco and come help me find my transvestite hooker wig! It's my favourite. 

EASTER EXTRA: HOVER OVER the pic below for captions.

Saturday, 31 December 2016


Will Ferrell, Anchorman 2, Whorrified,
I'll be back in two days three, max.
Anchorman 2: The Legend Continues

Making New Year's Eve plans? Allow me to weigh in, because if there's one thing I know like the back of my butt it's revelling. And Ryan Gosling's naked loins, but I'm trying to keep this one family-ish. So if you're underage stop reading right now and go help your dad's girlfriend clean the house. Whatever you do, don't stay here and click on this link and ogle the boobs. (Why, you little brat!) 

There are five things I'd like to caution you against this New Year's Eve and throughout the new year, mostly because I need all of you to be alive and reading my blog in 2014 but also because I care. 
Rest assured that I will be personally observing every single one of these recommendations tonight except one of them. And it isn't No. 2. Or No. 3. Or  ... (Editor's note: Oh fer fuck's sake. They know. They know!)

1. Don't drink too much.
2. Don't forget to wear pants. It's going to be minus-yourtesticles out there tonight.
3. Don't get on a moped. Unless you only need one of your legs.
4. Don't come to Brampton. It's ugly and there's nothing here to see because the power's probably out.
5. Don't go to see American Hustle. Will Ferrell's hairy arse in Anchorman 2, that's what you need to be looking at when 2014 rolls in.

And that's about it. I may have forgotten something but I can blame that on my moron Editor later, so y'all go and have yourselves a fantastic New Year's. See you next year! *shakes tassles, opens tequila bottle with her teeth*

MORON EDITOR'S NOTE: Dear God. I can feel her hangover already.
MY NOTE: *positions bottle carefully* Here darling, have some champagne. I insist ... 

Monday, 21 November 2016


I know we all ought to be worrying full-time about the fact that a giant orange lizard is poised to take command of the White House, but the news that Kanye West has been hospitalized for a nervous breakdown just broke and now I can't think about anything else. Because in a world where Kanye West can get away with punching paparazzi, ordering the president not to speak his wife's name and literally saying the words "I am Shakespeare in the flesh" without being straitjacked and dragged away in a net, Kanye West being admitted to a hospital for excessive ranting is a huge deal. Uuuge!  

For those of you who read the New York Times or almost anything more intelligent than TMZ, let me bring you up to speed, while simultaneously wondering why the hell you're reading Whorrified (Editor's note: I'm sure they're only here for the pictures of Piggly Wiggly). 
On Saturday night in Sacramento, Kanye interrupted his own concert to deliver an epic screed in which he slashed everyone from Beyonce to Hillary Clinton. He lambasted people for not believing the bullshit story that his porn-star wife was robbed in Paris, criticized Facebook boss Mark Zuckerberg for failing to give him $53M to get out of debt (!!!), complained that Beyonce won't attend awards shows unless she is guaranteed the top prize, and said he was hurt that Jay Z didn't visit his family after the "robbery." And in case you're wondering at what point things cross the line from normal Kanye ranting to insane Kanye ranting, apparently it's begging Jay Z to spare your life. Because he then went on to suggest that Jay Z employed hitmen, saying: "Jay Z, I know you got killers, please don't send them at my head."

Of course, epic rants are about as unusual at a Kanye concert as pants falling off at a Justin Bieber concert, but this one was so beyond the pale that there are fears Jay Z may actually have him killed. As well as fears that Jay Z may actually NOT have him killed. And so, if for no other reason than to avoid being murdered, Kanye has checked into a hospital in Los Angeles and cancelled the remaining dates of his Saint Pablo tour. 

Don't get me wrong: I'm not worried about Kanye and I sure as hell don't feel sorry for him. I just find it thrilling in a deliciously schadenfreudy kind of way. And now that I've brought this crucial item to your attention, we can now get back to the second-most important task of the day: lobbying to have the Great Pumpkin impeached and replaced by the vastly more amusing and far more capable Alec Baldwin in full Donald Trump regalia. AMERICA: WE SHALL OVERCOMB!

RELATED: * Kanye West's insanity is going to need its own blog soon
* So Kanye is actually giving the President orders now

Thursday, 10 November 2016


Is this recyclables offering to your liking? 
You'll notice I took the liberty of throwing in 
some cleavage. And a hint of bra strap. If that 
doesn't work, I guess I'm just going to have to 
sleep with you!

I'm a little late getting to my blogging tonight because it's garbage night. Which means I had to spend half an hour sorting and arranging the recyclables in an attractive fashion.

Because I don't know about the garbage men in your town,  but Brampton garbage men are fucking picky. If it doesn't look nice enough, they won't take it. I had a shouting match with one of them a few weeks ago when I came out just in time to see him turning his nose up at it and starting to drive away. When I asked why he wasn't taking my garbage, he said, "Because it offends me." Well not in those words. What he actually said was, "It's all jumbled up and I can't see what's what. It looks like you've got some non-recyclables in there."

Well I was livid. "Jesus!" I huffed. "You're might picky for a garbage man!" Which of course was the wrong thing to say because although he might have been persuaded to take my messy garbage before I said that, he sure as hell wasn't going to take it now. He drove off and left me there with my unfit detritus, and I had to wait until the following week to rearrange it in a more tempting display and hope someone else was on duty. 

Then one week I put a red bow on it. Which was sarcasm, but he either didn't get it or did get it and liked it, because he took the garbage ... and the bow. 
Next week, I'm signing up for an "artful garbage presentation" class, in which we will learn to make stinky items smell better and to arrange rotting vegetable matter into happy faces. 
Holy shit, people. When did life become this complicated?

Friday, 28 October 2016


'I'M A NASCAR DRIVER' YouTube (video below)
After giving up drinking during the week, I survived a weekend of unprecedented debauchery but the drink didn't make me as crazy as I'd hoped. In fact, I'm thinking of taking up a new spirit: Novocaine. That shit's amazing. Just look at this teenager who's as high as the Burj Dubai on the stuff, which has not only taken away her pain but also somehow convinced her that she has just "won the World Series of being the fastest NASCAR driver." 

I spotted this video at work on Friday ... oh please, like you don't trawl the Internet for cheap laughs on a Friday (and Thursday, and Wednesday, and Tuesday, and Monday). We're allowed. It's practically in the Charter of Rights. Anyway, I was immediately obsessed. I sat there, tittering drunkenly at my desk, clicking Repeat, Repeat, Repeat, like a senior on a fixed income at a 25-cent slot machine, killing off a good half hour of precious work time thanks to Annie and her Novocaine bender. My favourite moment? Exactly 3:41, when Annie points menacingly at her mom and slurs: "I'm a NASCAR driver." Annie, you are the cutest little cotton-ball stuffed dental patient EVER. (P.S. If it turns out Jimmy Kimmel-toe had anything to do with this, I'm off the YouTube for good. I hear Instagram has some great Intervention knockoffs.) 

EDITOR'S NOTE: Aw, this just warms my cockles.
MY NOTE: Of your heart.
MY NOTE: You have to say "this warms the cockles OF MY HEART." Otherwise it's just friggin gross.