Tuesday, 28 June 2016

I'M NOT SURE I DESERVE HER BUT THANK YOU ANYWAY!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PIGGLY WIGGLY'S MOMMY!

Sometimes God gifts people who really don't deserve it with the most amazing blessings. And other times He sees to it that we get exactly what we deserve, such as the day, 29 years ago, He gifted me with horrific back labour that would make me take His name in Technicolor vain for 16 solid hours because the nurse was a sadist who kept telling me: "Oh, it's too late for an epidural now, hon; here, bite on this piece of ... ARGH, MY FINGERS!

But I digress. This isn't about me or my suffering or even the poor three-fingered nurse who totally deserved her fate, it's about my daughter, Piggly Wiggly's mom. The day she was born was a blessing I can't even find words to thank our Father for — which is why we have gift cards. (I assume there's an LCBO up there, your majesty? Otherwise I don't think you've got any business calling it "heaven.") 

And so, my sweet child, my sunshine, my second-born:  happy birthday. Enjoy your day at the spa followed by a five-star dinner with your adorable husband, and don't worry about me and Piggly. We'll be kicking back eating organic pumpkin seeds and watching a porno. Seriously *fastforwards to the good bits* it's like it's MY birthday! 

Monday, 27 June 2016

I'D ANSWER THE DOOR, BUT IT'D SCARE YOU TO DEATH

YOU KNOW IT'S THE WEEKEND IF . . . 
I'm dressed like this. 
Actually, I put on more clothes 
 than usual just for you. And the mukluks? 
Yeah, I thought those were a nice touch.
You know what I like best about working full-time? The sheer, dirty pleasure of not having to get dressed on your days off. I like this so much I'm afraid I maybe like it TOO much. On weekends, I schlep around the house in increasingly casual looks, wearing T-shirts and baggy pants left behind by an ex (oh don't ask me which one, I don't itemize these things. They're pants, they're big, they must have been his ...) 

Over time, I've gone from wearing comfy sweats to an oversized T-shirt and pants to, well, just an oversized T-shirt.
Because when you live alone, there are no limits. You can walk around butt naked if you want to (although I don't recommend it; when you're my age and you walk past a full-length mirror in the nude, you can give yourself quite a scare).

More often than not, I lounge around all day like this, shuffling from the kitchen to the couch to the wet-bar and then back to the kitchen again. All day. For hours! 
And then one day, while I was making out with a can of Pringles and watching Crazy Stupid Love, the doorbell rang. Well holy hell. I just FROZE! I was like, WHAT THE...? I can't answer that! I don't have any pants on!

So I actually had to cower behind the curtains and watch from the upstairs window as a man stuck a note on the door informing me that I had a package and would have to pick it up at the nearest post office outlet. Because I was too naked to accept it at my own front door.

I realize that the simple solution would be to just put on some damn clothes. But the incredible all-day comfort of not wearing pants compared to the rare occasion of a knock on the door, well it just isn't enough of a lure. I suppose I'm making excuses, perhaps even displaying addictive tendencies. I may very well need clothes-wearing rehab. (And then I could bring home a pair of those baggy hospital pants with the drawstring waist.) 

But for now, sorry. There's a Jays game, a platter of loaded nachos and one big snuggly T-shirt waiting for me. So if you're planning to knock on my door anytime soon and you have a bad heart, a weak stomach or just prefer your friends to be clothed, I'd advise you to call first.

Friday, 24 June 2016

IT'S THURSDAY! WHO WANTS TO OGLE MY SAGGY LINKS?

THREE THOUSAND BUCKS IF YOU CAN GUESS WHO THIS RAGING SEX PISTOL IS. 
Haha. Just kidding. I don't have three thousand bucks, but I bet I just made you feel a lot better about the state of your own ass. (Hint: Don't Hassel the Hoff!)


Several readers complained about the "political nature" of some of my recent posts, here and here. Hel-lo! Trying to crawl out of the gutter here, people! Give me a hand up instead of a smack down, will ya? 
Anyway, to help get the offensive taste of erudition out of your mouth, I decided to offer up a buffet of fluffy, flabby and very likely surgically enhanced titillation today. I present to you, courtesy of The New York Daily Times, a gallery of photos of celebrities taking their sheepish bodies to the beach. You think YOU look bad in a bathing suit? You won't after you peruse this smorgasbord of fleshy disaster. Please get your fill of Quentin Tarantino's arse and Judge Judy's midriff, because tomorrow I'm going to be writing about Noam Chomsky, world's most boring intellectual. I might be kidding, but you won't know that till tomorrow, so for today, boobs. And Rod Stewart in a Speedo. Click here and enjoy. 

Editor's note: Several readers also complained about the "missing" link, above. All fixed now, thanks for kvetching!

Thursday, 23 June 2016

HOLY SHIT, 62-YEAR-OLD JANE SEYMOUR IN A BIKINI!

Jane Seymour, bikini, Closer magazine, Whorrified,
CLOSER, JANUARY 2014
Featuring Jane Seymour
Editor's Note: My stunningly beautiful but vile-spirited witch of a boss has something to say to all of you. *waits expectantly* 
My note: *truculently* I don't want to!
Editor's Note: *gently* Go on. Just do it.
My note: Okay, fine. FINE! So a few days ago I posted a pic of Demi Moore
in a bikini and of course I mocked the shit out of it because in case you've never read the intro at the top of this blog, it's what I do. 


Well that went over really well with the feminists but in my heart I was like SCREW YOU GUYS! Then today I happened across this pic of Jane Seymour, 62, in a bikini. And I'm not sure what an epiphany feels like but if it feels like an orgasm then I think I had one, because holy crap, people! This is what 62 looks like? I don't think I looked like that at 22. Or 32. Or ... well I can't talk about what I'll look like at an age I haven't reached yet, so we'll stop here while I'm still being nice. Jane Seymour, you do not need a tummy tuck! 

EDITOR'S NOTE: There. Was that so hard?
MY NOTE: My skin is itchy and I feel like I'm going to throw up.

EDITOR'S NOTE: I had a feeling this might happen. *mixes one part turpentine with two parts tequila in martini shaker, pours directly down boss's gasping maw*
MY NOTE: R-R-RAH! Look at that old broad in a bikini! Photoshop much? I've seen bigger tits on a ... hey, what the hell? EDITOR! *crushes empty martini shaker* This fucking thing is EMPTY!!!

EDITOR'S NOTE: Yup. All better. 

*GMILF OF THE YEAR! And while you're waiting for your inappropriate erection to subside, here are Jane Seymour's "secrets" to looking creepily hot at 62. 

Sunday, 19 June 2016

JUSTIN BIEBER FELL OFF A STAGE; IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT

JUSTIN BIEBER, MOMENTS BEFORE PLUMMETING TO HIS NEAR-DEMISE
This never would have happened if he'd been wearing a damn belt. 
(View the irresistible video evidence below.)

You know that thing that you keep wishing and imagining and fantasizing would happen to Justin Bieber, I mean fantasize so hard that it's almost like it actually happened? That thing where the earth just opens up and swallows him while he's fiddling with his ridiculous pantaloons or whatever the kids call those things nowadays? Yeah, well congratulations. It DID actually happen. On stage. In Saskatoon (which was a nice touch, Jesus; I didn't realize you too have a sense of humour, perhaps we should get together for a drink sometime!) during his Purpose world tour. Once he recovered from the shock of discovering that somebody booby-trapped the stage in anticipation of his pants-fiddling arrival, the Biebs laughed the whole thing off as a cosmic joke, telling the crowd: "Good thing I’m like a cat and I landed on my feet. That scared the f… out of me." Yeah well it didn't scare me, Biebs, in fact I am at this very moment watching this video over and over and over in an unstoppable loop and wondering if there's some way I can wish this into happening to my moron editor.


Tuesday, 14 June 2016

JEREMY MEEKS IS OUT OF JAIL. YOU'RE WELCOME

jeremy meeks
JEREMY MEEKS/INSTAGRAM
As a woman whose hilariously disastrous choices in lifemates have been the stuff of nightmares, not to mention lawsuits (memo to self: next time, maybe go for a lawyer? No wait, plastic surgeon!), I take great comfort in the fact that so many other broads are literally going gaga over convicted felon Jeremy Meeks. You remember Jeremy Meeks, don't you? The guy whose dreamy mugshot gave the Internet an aneurysm, an asthma attack and an erection, all at the same time? Yeah, well about the only thing that kept the women of the world from lining up to have his probably-psychotic babies is the fact that he was locked up for 27 months due to whatever stupid shite it was that put him in there. (Random broad: Was it murder? Me: No, weapons charges and gang activity and ... Random woman: *clutching sweaty printed copy of mugshot* Oh who cares?!?) Alas, that prophylactic barrier has finally worn out. Yes, Jeremy Meeks is out of prison and back on the market and looking none the worse for wear. And by "wear," I mean just imagine what sort of uses Bubba in cellblock D found for ol' Jerry-boy. "Meeks," indeed!

MEG RYAN LOOKS NOTHING LIKE MEG RYAN ANYMORE

HERE'S MEG RYAN HAVING TROUBLE DISTINGUISHING HER TONGUE FROM HER LIP 
 because obviously neither of them are real anymore.

I don't know what Meg Ryan has been injecting into her face lately but if you held a collagen-filled syringe to my head and made me guess I'd say "POINT THAT GODDAMN THING AT MEG RYAN! SHE OBVIOUSLY LOVES IT!" Because here is the once-adorable Meg scaring the crap out of everybody by showing up at the Tony Awards sporting a head made entirely of Play-Doh and formaldehyde. And of course Twitter immediately had a shit-fit because if there's one thing Twitter is good for it's bringin' the love. Meg herself has yet to respond to the social media cornholing because her lips don't move anymore, but if they did I'm sure it would only be to utter the same bullshit she uttered the last time she had her face rejigged, specifically: adamant denial. Meanwhile the plastic surgeons do-gooders out there are rushing to her defence and calling for an end to the "plastic surgery shaming," which makes me laugh because when Meg says it it comes out like: "plshtic shushusee shemming" and also because it's utter horse manure. I did not shame your face, girlfriend. YOU DID!