Monday, 27 July 2015


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. 


Cara Delevingne, knicks game, michelle rodriguez, victoria's secret supermodels, whorrified,
MICHELLE RODRIGUEZ AND CARA DELEVINGNE CANOODLING DRUNKENLY at a Knicks game. (I've spared you the pictures of them kissing and getting so wasted they practically soil themselves because it's an insult to respectable drunks everywhere.)

Fast and Furious star Michelle Rodriguez is making an honest lesbian of Victoria's Secret supermodel and wild child Cara Delevingne (*runs Spellcheck, frowns* "Is it just me or are there too many 'N's in that kid's name?") by finally forcing her to admit that they're dating. Because apparently this picture alone wasn't doing the job. And since that fantastically progressive piece I wrote on Ellen Page's amazeballs coming-out extravaganza, I'm able to greet this news with the enthusiasm it deserves. Meaning that I am man enough to admit that, aside from the fact that Michelle is a gender-confused much older woman with a pernicious substance abuse problem, they're perfect for each other. What could possibly go wrong here?

EDITOR'S NOTE: I had no idea Cara was gay but I suppose when one spends one's days looking at this sort of thing, it was inevitable.

Friday, 24 July 2015


caribana, Scotiabank Caribbean Carnival, moron Editor, toronto,
EDITOR'S NOTE: What the hell is going on here, you ask? Oh, let me tell you ...

Good morning, dear readers. How does this lovely Monday morning find you? And already you're thinking "Why is she talking like that? WTF is wrong with her?" Well I'll tell you what's wrong with her: she's in a voodoo-induced slumber. She's been put under some sort of Caribbean hex and it's all because she wouldn't listen to me. 

Remember how she was whining that she'd have to miss the Scotiabank Caribbean Carnival this year because the doctor ordered her to stay home and keep her injured knee elevated? Well surprise surprise: she didn't listen to him either. By 2 p.m. she was jonesing like a dope fiend, rocking back and forth, chanting "Me missin' de festival, mon!" and soon after that the hectoring began. 
"Maybe we could just go and watch from the car?" 
"Perhaps just a quick spin around the perimeter?" 
And then finally, "Editor! Fetch my Brazilian flag, take me down to the lakeshore and carry me around on your shoulders! RIGHT NOW!" 

EDITOR'S NOTE: Can you imagine trying to find someone in this crowd? 

And to be perfectly honest, after two hours of that I simply couldn't take it anymore. I agreed to get us close enough that we could park up and watch a few floats go by, but the little minx scuttled out the door the second we got within earshot of the mas bands and disappeared into the crowd. When I finally tracked her down she was chugging Wray & Nephew overproof straight from some stranger's bottle and dancing like she'd never heard the words "prescription painkillers." I tried to sneak up on her and trap her in the oversized net I keep on my person at all times (don't judge; you'd do the same thing if you had to spend more than one hour with her) but she spotted me and took off running. RUNNING! On her injured knee. Wray & Nephew will do that to you. 

EDITOR'S NOTE: That's her the moment after she spotted me and before she took off running.

By the time I caught up to her she was snuggling up to some sweaty, gold-speckled senior citizen. "Master!" I shrieked. "Don't touch that filthy perspiring mongrel, I beg of you!"
But again, did she listen? Of course she bloody didn't.
"He's not a mongrel, he's a Caribbean witch doctor!" she retorted. "One kiss from him and my knee will be healed!"
"One kiss from him and you'll need a year's worth of tetanus shots!" I said, but as I may have mentioned, she never listens to me. And now here she is, passed out on the couch, covered with cheap gold sparkles and muttering deliriously, something about "morons" and "stabbing" and "why couldn't it have been him?" Complete gibberish. And all because she wouldn't listen to me. She NEVER listens to me. She ... aaaaack! *keels over with feathered letter opener sticking out of back* 

MY NOTE: *stretches, yawns, knocks back a shot of medicinal Appleton's* It's CARIBANA, you moron! Nobody calls it the Scotiabank Caribbean Carnival but Scotiabank.

Thursday, 2 July 2015


I'VE JUST NOTICED that it looks like I am 
talking to that bottle of wine. Which is absurd. 
Because I would never do that.
(What's that, Red Knot? Did you just tell me 

I'm beautiful? Goddam you.)   

My best friend left for Paris today. Without me. Which would normally instantly nullify her "best friend" status, but she had a very good reason for that plus who am I kidding, I can barely afford my daily plonk let alone a transatlantic flight to Europe's dining-and-shopping mecca. 

On the other hand, I do speak fluent francaise and I could have come in very handy as a translator. Providing she planned to curse at everyone she met and also ask, "Where the fuck does one get the good wine around here, you euro-bastards?" 
I made that pitch to her but she was curiously resistant. 

Anyway, I was feeling a wee bit sorry for myself this afternoon so I bought a bottle of something decent and sat outside in the gazebo that almost killed four grown men and enjoyed the astonishingly glorious weather that was a consolation prize from God.

EDITOR'S NOTE: You see what your friend has done, here? She has given you an awesome, iron-clad reason to get shit-hammered.
MY NOTE: This is why she is my best friend.
p.s. Enjoy your time in Paris, my beautiful friend. Ma petite chou.You so deserve it.

Wednesday, 1 July 2015


And here we are, exactly one week after the birth of my precious granddaughter. (You can read about it here if you missed it; God, I was AMAZING. No stretch marks!) 

There are so many things I could and should be writing about today ... such as Dennis Rodman entering rehab (ya think?), which I hope is not just some North Korean euphemism for "firing squad" ... but for the past seven days this right here is all my life has been about. I'm pretty sure you get it. If not, please have Dennis Rodman check you for a pulse. Providing, of course, he still has one himself.

Anyway, just a quick note to say I'm overdosing on milk-scented adorableness and her mother right now. Please stay tuned. I won't be able to stay this pleasant for long.

Tuesday, 30 June 2015


rob lowe, memoir, love life, simon and shuster, whorrified,
and yet I see nothing wrong with this. JESUS CHRIST! I MUST BE DYING!  
From Rob Lowe’s memoir, Love Life, published by Simon & Schuster  

A dear friend (not the one who wears Crocs or the one who went to Paris without me, the one who steals my hooker shoes when I’m not looking) sent me a link to a touching story about how Rob Lowe’s heart is breaking because his son is going off to college.
"Is it just me or is there something very Catholic priest about the way he is kissing his boy’s naked shoulder," she wondered? 

Well of course, coming fresh off the high of assuming 13-year-old Willow Smith is being molested by a 20-year-old while her parents look on and eat popcorn, I couldn’t wait to clap my eyes on this fresh horror. So I clicked, and … hm. Well this is interesting. No “ew,” no crawling skin, no urge to shriek something cruel and possibly libelous about how Rob Lowe is going to be his own grandson’s father someday. 
In fact, not only did I not immediately assume the worst but I actually misted up a little and remembered the bittersweet day my own loinfruit left home for university. 

“I’m not sure I agree with you,” I emailed my friend. “This doesn't look creepy to me at all. Which obviously means I’m desperately ill and might be dead by tomorrow." *checks pulse, gulps* Is Moron Flu contagious? It is? Jesus. Well, it’s been nice knowing all of you …

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.