Friday, 12 February 2016


Drake, Johnny Roxx, Whorrified,
DRAKE'S TRAINER WORKED HARD to sculpt this Canadian bacon into muscle and, by God, he's got every right to Instagram it. Plus, Rihanna might see it ...

And while Chris Brown is busy honing his pitcher's arm while doing a court-ordered 90-day rehab stint, his arch-nemesis Drake is picking up every ball Breezy ever dropped, including: Making hit music, going to strip clubs with Rihanna and crunching his way to a six-pack. As this Instagram shows, he's currently at four-pack. (Hmm. I recommend easing up on the Moscato. I've cut back drastically on drinking during the week and it's made almost no difference whatsoever, but that's because I cheat.) Drizzy's trainer Johny Roxx tweeted this beefcake image of Toronto's hottest homie as he was about to go onstage in Oakland, Calif. I'm not sure what, exactly, is behind this newfound passion for sculpting and mean-mugging, but if I had to guess I'd say it starts with an "R" and ends with "ihanna." Good luck to you, Drizzy my boy. It's about damn time a nice guy didn't finish last.

Monday, 8 February 2016


Piggly Wiggly, Brampton blogger, whorrified, marie sutherland,

As I may have mentioned in passing on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, Snapchat and the front porch of my townhouse, from whence I bellowed the news to my neighbours, I had a very special houseguest earlier this week. I refer, of course, to one Miss Piggly Wiggly, my granddaughter and the future Queen of England

Although I've spent many, many nights at her house sometimes invited, more often simply by dint of the fact that I can pick locks this was the first time my baby has ever spent the night at my house. Because as you may know if you follow Whorrified, Piggly got off to a rough start. There were feeding issues, there were growth issues, there were hospital visits and feeding tubes and a relentlessly devoted young mother whose own health I began to worry about, but we've turned the corner now and Piggly is on pace to outweigh all of us by the time she hits her first birthday. In fact I'm beginning to suspect they're putting straight gravy in her feeding tube, because holy hamhocks, Batman! The last time I saw thighs that plump they came with a side of plum sauce for dipping. 

Anyway, when I first learned that this visit was going to happen, I lost my natural mind. I mean, I'm hobbling around on crutches with an injured knee, yet I still managed to go organic-grocery shopping, limp to WalMart to buy a new vacuum cleaner and comb the house from top to bottom for tell-tale signs that I sometimes decorate with Crown Royal. (Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just ... what if Wills and Kate stop by?) 

I could fill 15 posts with the fun my Piggly and I got up to, the cuddling, the tickling, selfies, the bonding, the aching melting joy of it all, but I think the important thing is that we managed to revive a once-proud tradition that had all but disappeared: the game of Things on Piggly Wiggly's Head. Yeah, that's right, that game. The one you all used to think was cruel but now that we've learned she's one click away from becoming royalty you're all like "Good lord, yes; get that helpless little head ready for a CROWN!" Hypocrites. *bows head, performs cleansing anasyrma* And yet we forgive you.

AT FIRST, IT SEEMED A BIT CRUEL, this Things on Piggly's Head game. But the child took to it like a Crown to Royal and by God, she enjoys it more than I do now. If that's even possible.

Wednesday, 3 February 2016


nails, manicure, brampton,
(It's called a clue. Because if I didn't provide one this game would take all day.) 

I had a day off yesterday and, as I do with all my days off, I selflessly devoted the time to bettering not only myself but also the assholetastic shitty of Brampton in which I begrudgingly live. (Which doesn't take much; the place is a cesspool even without Susan Fennell at the helm.) Anyway, I was going to just tell you what I did in that regard, but then I thought, "Why not make the little buggers work for it? Why should I be the only one striving for self-improvement? If you let them, they'd do nothing but sit around eating cheese curds all day and Googling Jian Ghomeshi." 

So. Notice anything different about me? I tried to make it a fairly easy guess since I suspect some of you are on an intellectual par with my moron editor and also because, truth be told, I can't type a goddam word with these bloody talons I paid good money for. They look friggin amazing, they're shiny and sexy and the daintiest shell-pink, but they render even the simplest tasks virtually impossible. If I make it through three days without ripping them off my fingers one by painful one, it will be a miracle. It's great being a girl!

EDITOR'S NOTE: *leans in, stares at picture until eyeballs burst into flames* I give up. Is it ... you got a new hairdo?
MY NOTE: IT'S THE NAILS! I GOT NEW NAILS, YOU IMBECILE! (Why am I surprised? This happens every single time.)

Sunday, 24 January 2016


Despite the fact that I look like the sort of exotic beauty who does nothing but run around getting massages, buying ridiculous shoes and getting her hair and nails done, I'm actually a very down-to-earth sort of person. I have no truck with pretentious poseurs (Editor's note: Only a pretentious poseur would use the phrase "I have no truck with." My note: Good point. Now fuck off) and, given the choice between decadent luxury and simple pleasures, I will almost always choose the simple pleasures. Unless someone else is paying. 
And yet, somehow, I seem to have purchased a wine aerator.

It happened two weeks ago, after I spent a perfect rainy girls' night in, guzzling red wine and gossiping about everything from boys to food to Gone Girl to boys. (It always ends up with boys.) Our hostess, Marg, was generously refilling the glasses and at one point I noticed she was pouring the Ravenswood through a bullet-shaped crystal object and, frankly, sloshing wine all over the goddam table in the process. "What the hell are you doing, girl?" I asked her. "And what the hell is that THING you're doing it with?"
"It's a wine aerator," Marg said. "It makes the wine taste better."
"BOLLOCKS!" I snorted. "I'll have another glass and decide for myself!" 

Marg obliged, out of terror, probably, and continued to explain that aerators are the new black. They take a cheap red and make it taste like a pricey one. They do in one pour what fusty old decanters used to do in half an hour: they infuse oxygen into your $10 plonk and make it taste like J. Lohr. Which is exactly the point at which the light went on in my tipsy head and I thought, "What I need in my life is a wine aerator!"

And so, not three days later, I bought one and put it on my counter, where it has sat, sheepishly and unopened, for about two weeks now. Because not only am I not really a wine aerating type of person, but I drink white wine almost exclusively on account of I don't like what red does to my bleached teeth. (Did I mention that I am a very down-to-earth sort of person?) I look at it every night when I come home from work and mutter, "What the hell was I thinking?" 
And so, not unlike this thing that I also inherited against my will, the wine aerator will be getting re-gifted. It'll be a lovely surprise for someone, I have no idea who. (Hey Liz: Guess what you're getting for Christmas!)

EDITOR'S NOTE: Maybe you were drunk when you bought it.
MY NOTE: Maybe your parents were drunk when they met and conceived you before the $2 shooter buzz had time to wear off.

Wednesday, 20 January 2016


You know how, on a Friday night here in Canada, kids like to head to the mall, eat fries and buy crap they don't need? And how if you don't encourage (read: "fund") this pastime, you are a loser parent who doesn't get it and therefore will never be as cool as Jacob/Jayden/Mackenzie/Madison/Shiloh/Zachary's parents? 
Yeah, well, forget that shit. 

The more kids have, the more they want and the less they appreciate it. 
To see this homily illustrated in poverty-muted Technicolor, you need only to travel somewhere dirt poor. Somewhere like, oh, say, Santa Lucia, Cuba, a place where tourists fear to tread because there is nothing, LITERALLY NOTHING, to do except meander the streets in wistful search of a stray pig, a bored prostitute or a random, spontaneous festival. 
I stumbled across the latter scene, above, during my ill-fated trip to this sad little corner of the world while riding a rented bicycle through the boring streets near the boring hotel . . . honestly, it was like being in a prison with palm trees.  

At first I was alarmed. "What the ...? Cannibals? Is this going to end with me with an apple in my mouth, spinning, spinning, slowly spinning?" 
Well obviously, the answer is No. First of all I don't think they can afford apples, and secondly, I had merely happened upon a completely harmless Premiero de Mayo festival, the highlight of which is covering yourself with wet sand and holding a Viva La Revolucion sign while an oblivious Fidel dies somewhere far away in his secret hiding spot, smoking a cigar the likes of which these poor bastards can only dream. 
For teens in Cuba, that's a good Friday night. At least until they get shopping malls . . .

Saturday, 16 January 2016


would eat a single scrap of food that wasn't tricked into her while we were making her look at something else. This, my friends, is a big day.

I rarely break my own self-imposed fatwah on blogging but when I do it's for damn good reason. Sean Penn dabbling in journalism and inadvertently ratting out the world's most-wanted fugitive in the process being one such reason. Piggly Wiggly being another. (I can't believe I just lumped my own granddaughter into the same dirty laundry pile as Sean Penn, but there you go. I never said I was doing this sober ... and if I did I was probably drunk.) And there, in a nutshell, is the sort of literary cornholery you're missing out on by me vowing to stay off the Internet. God, how I've missed this!
Anyway, I'm sure I had some sort of point here *peers gloomily into half-empty bottle of Bombay Sapphire* ah yes! The baby! It's been ages since I had a proper visit with her, but today I got to spend an entire day with her and I can't believe how much she's changed.

 What this picture lacks is something to indicate exactly how wee she is, but just picture an eggplant towering over her and you'll get an idea.

It's not that she's grown, exactly. She's still about the size of a large eggplant.
And it's not that she's sleeping through the night now. In fact, her mother greeted me at the door with a groan and said: "Just kill me."
"Sure! Wait ... is this a trick?"
"She was up all night, mom. ALL NIGHT. Just kill me."
And it's certainly not that she looks any different. At age 2 she still looks like a nine-month-old, albeit one that walks upright and screeches "OGGIE!" whenever she hears the neighbour's bitch barking. 

No, the thing that stopped me in my tracks today was that Piggly Wiggly has finally decided that maybe she does like food, after all. Or at least, she doesn't loathe it as much as she used to. 
One of my tasks today, the one I feared most, to be honest, was "feeding her lunch." Well this will be a hilarious waste of about 25 bucks worth of food, I thought grimly. Maybe I'll just flush two heads of cauliflower and a side of beef down the toilet and tell her mother it seemed like a less profligate option.
Because as some of you will remember, eating, not unlike sleeping, growing and anything by Sharon, Lois and Bram, is one of many things Piggly can't stand in the least. We ultimately learned there were some underlying medical issues, but still, it is a tough thing to watch a baby fight you tooth and nail when you're simply trying to feed her enough to keep a bird alive.  

But those days, apparently, are over. Because today, to my astonishment, the little chickadee polished off a bowl of watermelon chunks, a bowl of buttered noodles, a scrambled egg, a slice of gluten-free bread and, finally, a large piece of fried chicken. Which I was secretly hoping she'd be too full to eat because I wanted it myself. 

When her mother returned from work, I gleefully rhymed off the list in full expectation of tears of joy and a raise in my liquor allowance, and got only this: "How big was the piece of chicken?"
"Excuse me?" I replied. "Just months ago you'd be lying on the floor right now if I'd told you she ate that much!"
"I guess," her mother allowed. "But she won't eat that much tomorrow, I bet."  
"Tomorrow is tomorrow!" I retorted, which of course put an end to the conversation because, goddamit, how does one argue with that sort of brilliance, and also Piggly chose that very moment to make a gagging sound and hork up a goodly portion of what I assume from the brief disgusted glance I gave it was fried chicken.

We cut our losses then and there, and I took Piggly upstairs to cuddle her into naptime on a full tummy. That's right: she ate AND she slept. If her mother calls me tomorrow and tells me the child grew six inches overnight, I honestly don't think I'd be surprised. Miracles, man. They do happen. *attempts to make sign of the cross, pauses, frowns* Shit. I just made the sign of the pentagram, didn't I? It's been so long ...
for the selfless act of eating by rubbing her tum ... wait. WAIT! She's not feeding herself, she's sticking her fingers down her throat! SHE'S PULLING A BULIMIA ON US! THE WHOLE TIME, SHE WAS FAKING IT!

Tuesday, 12 January 2016


sean penn, el chapo,
 that will some day summons a lackey to have him beheaded. "You can't miss him," El Chapo will say. "He'll be scowling, unshaven, and wearing black. Call it a hunch."

Sean Penn doesn't give a rat's ass if he broke multiple laws to interview fugitive drug lord El Chapo, ruiner of lives, maker of dirty money and general all-around dirtbag. (Plus he's short and has a pig face. Not that there's anything wrong with that.) In the few days since the explosive news that Penn made a secret trip into the Mexican jungle to interview the poor man's Escobar, an adventure that ultimately led to El Chapo's capture and pending extradition to the U.S., Penn has stubbornly refused to either comment or apologize. To anyone. The FBI has said Penn will have to answer to their investigators, but one gets the distinct impression that THEY'RE the ones who will come out of that room feeling intimidated. 

It may be against "the law" to secretly meet with fugitives in their secret hiding place (while roosters crow nonstop, apparently; what good is having billions of dollars if you have to listen to that crap all day?), but Sean Penn is not your average law-abiding citizen, he's a brooding rebel with a chip the size of one of Madonna's ostrich thighs on his shoulder. The few comments he has made so far about the incident are the verbal equivalent of a jaunty middle finger. 

It's all very cocky and on-brand for Penn, the alpha male-iest of all the alpha males, but one has to wonder whether that bravado will shrivel should a recaptured El Chapo ever decide to, oh I don't know, have him assassinated in the street while Madonna looks on in horror (or so we will assume, since her  expression won't reveal it). In the meantime, while he's still with us, let's all just admire Penn's machismo. And I must say he certainly looks hot for a 74-year-old. WHAT? HE'S 55? Jesus Christ, Sean Penn! It might be time for you to give Madonna's botox smoothies a try. Just because you're a rebel doesn't mean you have to walk around looking like shit!