Tuesday, 23 June 2015


"Evidence of an epic night!!! #wokeupinmyCheapKnockoffs"  
Ever since Rihanna tweeted that photo of her leg the morning after "an epic night!!!," my leg has not been able to control its jealousy. It's been nagging and whining and begging me to put on high heels and take it out for an epic night on the town so it can have as much fun as Rihanna's leg.

I tried to reason with it. 
"But you're not better yet," I said. "Don't you remember how you practically exploded in that moped accident in Bermuda?"
But my leg is a stubborn little shit, I'm learning, and so on Saturday night when friends dropped by and suggested we go out, my leg leapt up and got my six-inch stilettos and said, "Finally!"
"Nonsense," I scolded. "You're not ready for heels. Here, we'll wear these cute little flats."
Yeah, well the problem with that is flats are friggin' ugly, so as soon as I put them on even I had to admit I would rather wear the six-inchers and risk permanent nerve damage. (You can't have an "epic" night in flats, ladies. You just can't.)

So off we went, first to Teejays, a local bar where the DJ (Brucybruce) is so good that even the guy who looked like a cross between a trucker, a biker and Dog the Bounty Hunter jumped out of his seat and started getting down. We were having such a blast that when they turned on the "closing time" lights we all agreed it would be physically impossible to stop the fun train now. The momentum would have killed us. 
So we went to ... hm, what's the word I'm looking for here? ah, yes, an after-hours ... and partied some more. At one point I turned to my girlfriend and said, "I've been dancing for hours and my leg doesn't even hurt one bit!" and she snickered and said, "That's because you've basically poured an entire bottle of vodka into it."
Which I have to say was a ridiculous lie. I was drinking tequila, for God's sake. 

Anyway, the revelry continued until 4:30 in the morning, at which point someone called a cab and we coasted home in a haze of laughter and alcohol fumes, and it wasn't until the next afternoon, when we reunited for breakfast (if you can call 3 p.m. "breakfast"), that we realized two of us had lost our glasses, one of us had lost her phone and yet another could not understand where all his money had gone. 

As for me, the pain that had not manifested itself the night before had now arrived with a vengeance.
"Well I hope you're happy now," I muttered to my leg as I adjusted its ice pack. "Because last night? That was seven different kinds of epic."

LEG'S NOTE: It was okay. But I've just seen this picture of Ke$ha's leg and now I've decided we need to start going to the gym.

Monday, 22 June 2015


camouflage pattern, Jian Ghomeshi, Payless, shoes,
actually use their bathroom 
for bathing. Weirdos.
Some of my more loyal readers may remember when I did changeroom battle with some random slut and emerged victorious. (The less loyal readers will be beheaded at the end of this post. *ululates* "WHORRIFU AKBAR!") 
 It was all over a pair of cheap camouflage-pattern jeans, because here's the thing: I simply cannot RESIST camouflage patterned anything. Seriously. You could put a camouflage patterned Jian Ghomeshi on my doorstep and I'd take one look and agree to go on a date with it. (Although, come to think of it, that may be exactly the fate that sociopath deserves.)

Which is how I came to be in possession of these mouthwateringly adorable double buckle faux suede Christian Siriano camo pumps. Which is a very fancy way of saying "Payless." I was at the store with a friend on Friday and not intending to buy a goddam thing, but then I saw these shoes and stopped dead in my tracks. 
"Omigod!" I gasped. "LOOK AT THESE!"
My friend emitted a rictus grin. "Ah. More camo pattern. Moving on ... " 
But they were already on my feet and I was doing the giddy prance of the shoe fetishist. My friend tilted the box and said, "They're sixty bucks."

Shoe buzz instantly ruined. I'm on a budget at the moment and $60 for yet another pair of shoes was going to be hard to explain to my empty dinner plate. ("You're feeding us nothing? Again?" "Yeah but these shoes..." "These shoes? THESE SHOES? Can you eat pleather? Is camouflage patterned plastic a food group? 'Oh, here, hon, have some more shoe! I made plenty!' Goddam you, you crazy bitch! I'm starving!")

Gloomily, I took the shoes off and left them at the checkout counter while my idiot friend continued to look for a pair of craptastic sneakers. But no sooner had I put the box down than some chick spotted it and yelped: "These shoes are FIERCE! How much are they?" 
"They're on sale," the clerk said. "Twenty per cent off."
WHAT? The little whore hadn't bothered to share that crucial bit of information with me. I flew back to the counter and snatched the shoes out of Miss Thang's thieving hands.
"Actually, those are mine. Sorry."
"But they were ..."
"I just put them down for a sec while I ... while I ... Here," I flung my debit card at the clerk and mentally calculated 20 per cent of $60.
"That comes to $23," the clerk said.

I gulped. Really? Should I point out the mistake? Or should I simply assume that I suck at math? What would Jesus do? That's ridiculous, Jesus wears sandals, he wouldn't understand. Where IS that idiot friend of mine? We have to go. We have to go NOW! The only person in the world who understands the urgency of this situation is that IKEA lady ...

Anyway, to make a long story short, I got home, I read the receipt and realized the shoes were deeply and legitimately discounted so I can wear them without fear of being hauled away by the shoe Gestapo and they are now my favourite favourite FAVOURITE shoes. Until I stumble across a pair of camouflage patterned Manolos or Lugz or *shudders* Crocs. Jesus Christ. Do they even make those? Because as God is my witness, I would buy them.

Sunday, 21 June 2015


lorde, taylor swift, diplo, kim kardashian,
with a dull butter knife for insulting her pancake-bootied bestie, Taylor Swift.

Kim Kardashian's greased melon arse has a lot to answer for this week. Since that thing went public, no one has been able to think, write or talk about anything but butts. Not only did it suck all the headlines, a tub of lard and an entire team of photographers into its cavernous vortex, but it has also put ideas into heads that aren't used to such things. Take music producer Diplo, for example. Diplo got so drunk ogling Kim's Photoshopped arse he started the social media equivalent of a bar fight yesterday with a comment mocking Taylor Swift's pancake ass. 

Despite being perfectly accurate, this observation got Twitter's preteen knickers in a twist and before you could say "hashtag illiterate" it had turned into a shitstorm of pimplefaces rushing to defend Taylor Swift's pancake-assed honour. It would be hilarious if it wasn't so ridiculous. And the most ridiculous thing about it is that 18-year-old singer Lorde has emerged as some sort of genius hero solely on the grounds of this zippy rejoinder ...

Which basically proves there's no way in hell that kid writes her own lyrics. (And also proves you're not missing a goddam thing by not having a Twitter account.) What she needs, and what Diplo needs hell, what Twitter needs is a ghost tweeter with the searing wit of Dorothy Parker and the killing instincts of a mongoose. And I know what you're thinking: Why that sounds like YOU, milady! It does rather, doesn't it? Unfortunately I can't accept the job as I'm far too busy checking the state of my own ass in the mirror. *peers thoughtfully* It's more like a small village, actually.

EDITOR'S NOTE: And in closing, let's all watch Taylor shake what her mama gave her. (Not a pancake joke.)


Monday, 8 June 2015


Chrissy Teigen, John Legend, GQ magazine, Lena Dunham,
Jesus Christ, Chrissy: you're getting hair in the appetizers! Sheesh. Supermodels, amirite?
Anders Overgaard/GQ February 2015

Yes. Yes, you're getting another Chrissy Teigen post. For those of you who are counting, that's two eyeballsful of Chrissy Teigen in two days. I don't normally do back-to-back anybody on this blog but I will occasionally make an exception, and today is one of those exceptional occasions. Mostly because there's sweet dick-all else going on in the celebritwat world but also because I took one look at this photo and felt the air whoosh out of my head. 

When last we left Chrissy, her six-foot-long legs were gratuitously flailing all over a hospital bed while some doctor got paid actual money to rub her ankles and say, "In my professional opinion you cracked your foot bone. The chest X-rays were just a precautionary measure. One can never be too thorough ..." Then today, Chrissy and her husband, singer John Legend, unleashed this GQ photoshoot, in which they got paid actual money to do the sort of thing one feverishly imagines they do at home for free all the time. Plus they probably got to keep the clothes, which GQ has the cajones to suggest are the secret to bagging a supermodel.

Yeah, that's right; it's all about the cable-knit cardigans. What's that? You don't own one? Oh well. Enjoy your lifetime supply of Lena Dunham lookalikes. Click here to view the rest of the Chrissy Teigen-John Legend photoshoot, in which I can absolutely guarantee you she was not wearing underpants. Call it a hunch. 

Monday, 1 June 2015


lena dunham, nipple pasties, golden globes,
Because living in a country that literally tries to kill you each and every January is not sufficient temporal punishment for our sins, I, as a badly lapsed Catholic, feel compelled to share this photo of Lena Dunham's nipple pasties with you. Dunham posted this terrifying picture to Instagram just before the Golden Globes on the pretext of showing us the great care she was taking to ensure  her duck fat nipples were not exposed on national TV, but give me a break. Steel spikes couldn't have poked through that goddawful sheet of aluminum she wore to the festivities. This was just a gratuitous nipple flash, girlfriend. Don't try to pretend it was a higher calling. 

Although to be fair, it's a helluva lot less upchucky than that time she dyed her hair green to match her teeth. Shudder. I'll spare you that horror unless of course you think you'd enjoy it, in which case by all means, have a look. Oh, I'm sorry, your heart stopped? Yeah, well I warned you.

Sunday, 31 May 2015


scott disick, khloe kardashian, kourtney kardashian, rihanna, mike ford, other people's whorrors,
SCOTT DISICK GOT SO DRUNK he took a bath with the wrong sister. 
I'm going to have to go scrub my eyeballs with Listerine now.

Lord Disick just posted this picture of himself enjoying a bubble bath with his wife's sister, which is the sort of thing one should expect of hillbillies so I don't even know why I'm surprised. The Dick has the excellent excuse of being in an almost constant state of inebriation, although I don't know what Khloe's excuse is so I'm just going to assume that incest, like everything else that is wrong with this world, is okay with the Kardashians. I'm not sure whether this picture was taken before or after the Dick was hospitalized for severe alcohol poisoning, but either way, I hope that's antibacterial bubble bath or Khloe's going to get cooties. 

In other moments of celebrity genius, we have Rihanna briefly dabbling in world politics before realizing she doesn't have a fucking clue what a Hamas is, and the new poster boy for the "Put Birth Control Pills in Toronto's Water NOW!" campaign. Enjoy your weekend. I'm off to drain my daughter's liquor cabinet on the pretext of visiting my little Piggly Wiggly. (Whoever invented grandkids is a genius!) *Clink!*

Stick to what you know, Rihanna. Meaning butt shots. Independent

V. Stiviano is too stupid to realize Drake was dissing her. Bossip
Great. Another member of the Ford family has popped up like a greasy Whack-a-Mole. HuffingtonPost

World's worst parents just made Paris Hilton want a baby to carry around in her purse. TMZ 

Saturday, 30 May 2015


Coco, licious jeans, instagram, whorrified,
If you're not following rapper Ice-T's wife Coco on Instagram, congratulations. Your brain cells are probably dying off a lot more slowly than mine are. 

On the other hand, you're also missing one of the best sources of tawdry free entertainment out there because the woman routinely posts gratuitous photos of herself doing absolutely nothing and yet somehow being famous for it. Such as this most recent one of herself in a pair of stretch denim jeans. (And I would say "stretch" is a gross understatement. I don't know what those jeans are made of but I'm gonna go with "bubblegum.") 

There's also this charming family portrait of Coco and her giant hooters rendering her poor mom completely irrelevant, and my personal favourite, below: Coco performing the Flying Ass-Clap of Doom. That can't be safe.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Check out @Coco on Instagram. There's really nothing more I can say here. 
MY NOTE: Oh you really should say one more thing: we chose her "dainty pics" here. Coco's Instagram site is NSFW or for people with bad hearts, high blood pressure or who just don't like ham.