Friday, 10 April 2015


DURING PIGGLY'S LATEST VISIT, I NOTICED THAT SHE LIKES TO SPEND an inordinate amount of time standing at the window, calling out to the cars that pass by. Much as I like to do only I tend to do it in the nude and am much more selective of the vehicles I catcall.

Oh, hey! Hi! Remember me? Yeah well neither did Javier Bardem (or so he claims) but that didn't keep me from stalking him relentlessly and breaking my every restraining order promise to go away and stay away. Which is neither here nor there but it does speak to my inability to keep a vow. (Editor's note: You can say that ag ... My note: YOU PROMISED NEVER TO BRING UP MY THREE DIVORCES! *shoots editor point blank in the face, receives full presidential pardon*) Now. Where was I? Ah yes, vows. I know I promised to stop Whorrifying you a few months ago when I got a respectable career but in my defence, your honours, may I present Exhibit A. Or rather Exhibit PW. (My teeny tiny granddaughter, for those of you who don't obsessively check in here on a daily basis.) 

The kid came to visit me for an overnighter this week and honest to God, it was like detox for the soul. Spending time with Piggly is a rare treat these days because between her mom going back to work and that respectable new career I alluded to, we have no time for things like family or friends or cooking or, God forbid, sleepovers with grandchildren. It's called civilization, apparently. Anyway, we didn't do anything more exciting than her new favourite thing obsessively pushing her doll stroller around and around and around the living room and read books and cuddle, but oh my lord. That moment when you wake up in the morning and the first thing you see is a bright-eyed, giggling one-year-old beaming at you like she's never seen a sleeping goddess before? I'm not the most religious person on the planet but if you were to tell me that is the vessel of God's love and purity, I would say, "Nice one, heavenly Father! This is so much more impressive than your old 'Look, it's my wife's face on a grilled cheese sandwich!' trick."


Thursday, 5 March 2015


Despite my earlier vow to swear off Whorrifying anybody for the foreseeable future (note to everybody: I suck at vows just ask my ex-husbands) here is an itty bitty wisp of a post, and really I'm sure you can see why I couldn't help myself. Because, Jesus, just look at this kid! Remember a few weeks ago when we all thought Piggly was dying? Or at least trying to because good Lord, if there's no such thing as infant anorexia that's only because the geniuses who decide these things have never witnessed the grim charade that is Piggly at mealtime. The child does not eat. Like, at all. So please explain these cheeks to me. Do these look like the emaciated cheeks of a starving child or do these look like the rosy magnificent jowls of an Inuit child weaned on sunshine and blubber? Piggly Wiggly, you maddening little nutter, I frickin LOVE you. 

EDITOR'S NOTE You forgot to mention the most important thing: We have resumed the game of Things on Piggly Wiggly's Head!
MY NOTE It's not a game if it's supposed to be there. (Yup. He's still an idiot.)

Friday, 27 February 2015


whorrified, farewell, moron editor, piggly wiggly, bruce jenner,
Pretty good pout-face, if I do say so myself. Although 'someone' does it a lot better (see below).

So some sad news ... or perhaps fantastic news, depending on how much you like this blog and/or whether you prize your happiness over mine. (Haha. As if anyone would?) Yes, my friends and Kim Kardashian, I'm afraid the time has come for me to use the 'F' word. No, not that one, for once. The other 'F' word: farewell.

I've been offered a fantastic career opportunity in Toronto and will have to put Whorrified to bed for awhile. I simply won't have time plus it'd be a bad fit with the new gig. Meaning the new gig is respectable. I have to say I will miss it: I've had a helluva lot of fun debauching everything I touch and verbally cornholing celebrititties *rereads* There has to be a better way to say that — and, oh, the sheer Internet-breaking fun I would have had when Bruce Jenner finally came out as the world's creepiest lady.

Piggly Wiggly, Pout face, whorrified, farewell,

Even more heartwarming than reducing Hollywood royalty to fake tears was the introduction one year ago of the true star of this blog, Miss Piggly Wiggly. We've been through some harrowing months with that little pumpkin and I'm not smart-alecking in the least when I tell you your heartfelt comments and support along the way meant the world to us. I will continue to post occasional updates on my little Piggly because one day she will be Queen I know some of you genuinely care. Plus it might lead to a modelling career. Who knows? But for now, giving Whorrified a well-earned rest. *makes nonsensical gang sign* Over and out, bitches.

EDITOR'S NOTE So we're taking a hianus, then?
MY NOTE HIATUS, you moron!!! Honestly! You are the thing I will not miss the most. Which reminds me, I forgot to ask if this new job comes with a whipping boy ... 

Wednesday, 25 February 2015


karrueche tran, chris brown, facebook,
Hats off to Canada's border officials, who occasionally accidentally get it right. Because although terrorists appear to be able to permeate our borders with terrifying ease, there is NO WAY IN HELL they are gonna let a woman-beating, gay-bashing, rock-tossing, way-overtatted entertainer taint our home and native land. (Unless he's Mike Tyson. The rules are very clear.)

Meaning to say Chris Brown was denied entry to our great nation yesterday, disappointing hordes of ninnies who paid good sub-par Canadian money to be entertained by a man who beat the snot out of Rihanna and generally indulges in the kind of idiocies usually reserved for morons and Jamaican-ish mayors of the great city of Toronto.  

In an unusual fit of restraint, one might even say decency (except HAHA, as if!), Brown announced the news to his fans on Twitter thusly: "The good people of the Canadian government wouldn't allow me entry. I'll be back this summer and will hopefully see all my Canadian fans!" *rereads, snorts* There is no way in hell that little shit wrote that ...

EDITOR'S NOTE Why do I get the feeling Drake had something to do with this?

Monday, 23 February 2015


melanie griffith, dakota johnson, oscars 2015, irina shayk, fifty shades of gey,
has instantly become my new favourite "IF YOU LITTLE SHITS EVER DID THAT TO ME" parental moment. 

You may have noticed I completely shunned the Oscars. If there's one thing I hate more than an empty shotglass it's an awards show. Jesus, they're boring, and the Oscars is rapidly becoming the worst of the bunch. Many minds greater than mine have already dissected the quivering dung heap that was the 87th Academy Awards, so I won't bother to pile on. Although I will milk it for a few cheap slutty laughs because last time I checked, I wasn't dead yet. Or nice. I'll never be nice. I hope you weren't hanging around waiting for that to happen, because the last person who did that was my moron editor and look how his life turned out. 
(Editor's note: *whimpers* Please, mistress, might I have a spot of gruel? 
My note: SHUT UP AND GET BACK IN YOUR CAGE! You know damn well it's not Friday yet!) 

Now where was I? Ah yes. The Oscars. There were only three "moments" that I found even remotely interesting and Doogie Howser in his underwear wasn't one of them. What DID register on my radar was this:

THING ONE: John Travolta trying so hard to prove he's not gay that he came off as gayer than he's ever come off before. Is it just me or was Travolta's weird repeated grabbing of Idina Menzel's chin and spontaneous pecking of Scarlett Johansson's cheek not the most uncomfortable, unhetero depiction of manhood since Bruce Jenner's budding bosoms? Click here and tell me the guy isn't secretly picturing Tom Cruise's face right now.

THING TWO: Irina Shayk's dress. You may remember Irina Shayk as the woman gonads-for-brains Cristiano Ronaldo cheated on last month. (A move I'm pretty sure he regrets right about now.) Irina confirms she's officially looking for a new beau, not that we wouldn't have guessed because nothing says "I'm available" like going commando in an arse-baring mesh dress, amirite? It's a miracle John Travolta didn't try to butt-grind her. 
THING THREE: Just as I suspected, Dakota Johnson is not only a charmless dullard who inherited none of the marginal talents of her marginally talented parents, but she's also a spoiled brat. My blood literally boiled when she dissed her own mother on the friggin red carpet (video below). In case you missed it, and I sincerely hope you did, when an interviewer asked Melanie Griffith if she'd seen her daughter's raunchy BDSM blockbuster Fifty Shades, she blushed and confessed she hadn't. "She's a really good actress," Melanie said. "I don't need to see (that movie) to know how good she is." Which, considering what an epic piece of crap Fifty Shades is, was pretty generous of her, so of course Dakota had to snap, "All right! You don't have to see it!" before turning away and hissing "Jesus Christ." And the Oscar for best self-restraint goes to ... Melanie Griffith. Because if my kid ever did that, there'd be teeth on the floor. And they wouldn't be mine. 

Friday, 20 February 2015


kanye, kim kardashian, power 105.1, breakfast club, amber rose, giuliana rancic, furkini,
That hasn't happened yet. Although Kanye warns there's a good chance Nori will wind up looking just like this. 

And now, Kanye West will explain how genetics works in the most creepy-dad fashion imaginable, in fact he's basically encouraging people to start fantasizing about his kid. In a rambling madman interview on Power 105.1, Kanye did all the usual madman rambling we've come to expect of him "I'm a genius, bow down before Beyonce, respect my porn star wife" but really broke new madman ground when he randomly expounded on what his toddler might look like when she's a grown woman. 

To put it in context, not that it removes the "ew" factor, he was waxing euphoric over Kim's physique and commanding the world to appreciate it. "My daughter has a good chance of being shaped like my wife," he mused, probably while rubbing his hands together. Why yes, Kanye, there's a good chance any child will resemble its mother, although in this case the chances would be vastly enhanced if a small army of plastic surgeons and butt doctors were brought onsite at the dawn of her 15th birthday. If not sooner. I mean Kylie didn't start savaging herself until a ripe old 16, but it's the 21st century, for God's sake. We are not apes. Why wait?

In other equally absurd celebrilollobrigida news: 

Ellen DeGeneres has a secret 'unbelievably cute kids' farm. This proves it. Facebook

This Amber Rose/Kim Kardashian feud is DIGUSTING. And hilarious. Mostly hilarious. TMZ

Jay Z has a love child, claims kid who says he's Jay Z's love child. Daily Mail

Giuliana Rancic may be starving to death, but damn, her hair looks good! Fishwrapper

Salma Hayek says her 'overly wavy body' hurt her career. (Are Hollywood's translators on strike? Just wondering.)  ETOnline


piggly wiggly, heart tests, echocardiogram, piggly mom, whorrified,
as we wait for the anesthetist to arrive.
It's Friday. HUR-frickin-RAY! I started celebrating at precisely one second after midnight because holy hellballs, whatta week this has been. Aside from having to endure my least favourite holiday and the fact that it's been cold enough to turn absinthe to ice (found that out the hard way), there was also a dreaded day of hospital tests for a certain someone who has held my cold black heart in her hand from the moment she was born

I've often alluded to Piggly Wiggly's various health concerns on this blog, and this week, we spent a long day getting the most pressing of those checked out. When Piggly was barely two months old, she was diagnosed with four heart defects. Surgery was a "when," not an "if." Try to imagine life going on as you knew it after getting that news. Every time your baby cries, you panic. Every time she coughs, you panic.  When she naps too long, you tiptoe into the room to make sure she's still breathing. When she wakes up, you check her colour, you feel her hands to make sure they're warm, you run down the list of things the doctors told you to watch out for, and by the end of every day you're so ragged with worry you can't be sure of anything anymore. 
So yes, it's been a long year. And it was about to get longer. 

On Wednesday, Piggly was scheduled for an hour-long echocardiogram and had to be put under for it. I won't lie; we were queasy with fear. It's never easy to watch a tiny baby being anesthetised and wheeled away from you. 
"Can I come with her?" my daughter asked. 
"No," the doctor replied, kindly but firmly.
"Why not?" my daughter persisted, just as firmly. 
"Because my job is to focus on her the entire time I'm in there, and that's what you want," he said. 

piggly wiggly, whorrified, echocardiogram,
There was much more back-and-forthing but in the end my daughter acquiesced and so we sat, making small talk and fidgeting and cussing until finally, after what seemed like an eternity, our baby was brought back to us. 
And while Piggly lay on a gurney beside us, her baby breath fogging the oxygen mask strapped to her tiny face, the cardiologist cradled her clipboard and delivered the news.

In a nutshell, everything was better. Much better. Piggly has ridden through the eye of the storm and her little heart has grown stronger and larger and healthier. So much so that surgery is now not only not in the near future, but possibly not in the future at all. There are still some things they'll "keep an eye on," but the main fears, the things that kept us awake at night, have eased. 

It took my daughter a moment to absorb the news. She is, after all, accustomed to having her heart broken at every medical appointment.
"So I can let her cry?" she asked.
The cardiologist widened her eyes. "Oh, yes, for sure," she said. "Have you not been letting her cry?"
My daughter shook her head. "I couldn't ... " 
"Oh, you poor thing," the cardiologist said. "Yes, she can cry. She can cry, she can run, she can play, she'll be able to be active and do all the things other kids can do."
More questions followed, with more general assurances, and at the end of it, when the doctor had left, I turned to my daughter. "Whew," I said. "This is big."
My daughter nodded.
"This is fantastic," I said.
"I know," she said. 
"So why aren't you jumping up and down?"
"I am, inside," she said. "It's just ... I've been worried about her heart for so long I'm afraid to believe it."
Well that broke my heart, so between that and the tests and that stinkin rotten V.D. thing, this week has been all about hearts. 

Meanwhile, Piggly began stirring and of course my daughter immediately picked her up and started trying to insert foodstuffs into her mouth because never mind that the last thing anyone wants while the propofol is wearing off is food, Mom had been forcibly restrained from nurturing for more than an hour now and was going into withdrawal. MOMMY NEEDS YOU TO HAVE SOME DAMN BANANA, KID, JUST ACCEPT IT! Ah, life. Sometimes it really is beautiful. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a helluva lot of celebrating to do. *shakes absinthe bottle, frowns* Goddamit! I'm going to have to eat this with an ice pick! 

It's my Glamma's organs we should be worrying about ...