Thursday, 21 August 2014


Kiara, 12, (left) and her sister Shakira, 16, seemed shy but the second the cameras started rolling Shakira went all Sasha Fierce on me. LIKE A BOSS! 
Video courtesy of my moron editor

If you're wondering why it's been Radio Silence here on Whorrified for a few days, it's because I've been in jail. (Kidding. If they didn't lock Scout Willis up for this terrorist attack on our senses I think my Travelling Corn Dog Show and I are safe.) No, the truth is, a friend has two cousins visiting from Barbados, so I offered to fulfill my selfless court-ordered community service role as a global outreach ambassador by taking these perfectly innocent children to the CNE and showing them a good time. 

Meaning I forced them to perform for my moron videographer, gave them fake chores to do while I cooled off in the beer tent ("See if you can find 'Ricoh Coliseum' on that useless map they gave us, will you? Take your time ..."), took them on rides that scared the living crap out of them and then traumatized them by forcing them to watch me perform my traditional Consuming of the Corn Dog ritual. It's a foodstuff I wouldn't THINK of ingesting on any other day of the year, but the CNE corn dogs? I don't know what they put in those damn things but I will tell you this: if there's a grainy cellphone video out there of Rob Ford consuming one of them in somebody's basement I will not be surprised. 

Anyway, the moral of this story is that the entire day went off without a hitch, meaning no one got sick, injured, drunk or lost. No, wait, that's not quite true: Kiara did give us one hell of a fright for about 15 seconds there, going missing in the teeming throngs at the exact moment I was slathering my corn dog in various lubricants. But I got down on my hands and knees and begged for divine tubular intervention, and she came pelting back just in time to catch me inhaling my last gobble. You can't tell me that's a coincidence.

Barbados, Canadian National Exhibition, CNE, corndog, the ex, toronto,
I consulted the Mystical Corn Dog for directions as to the whereabouts of our missing Kiara AND IT OBLIGED!

Monday, 18 August 2014


attempting to gain unfair advantage by scaring the living crap out of the ice. Cheating! 
I wasn't going to blog today because I'm on vacation and feeling a little, er, *kicks Jose Cuervo bottle out of view*  indisposed, but goddamit, this ALS Ice Bucket Challenge? It just keeps happening. Celebrities have decided it's their new favourite chew toy and they won't let go of the bloody thing, they're throwing themselves at it like naked pit bulls on the proverbial pantleg of opportunity (*wit not my own; that's pure essence of George Dubya). So today, for one last time, let's humour the mad bastards while simultaneously milking their idiocy for laughs. (Trust me, they'll never clue in unless you tell them. I do it to my moron editor all the time.)
And so without further ado, I present you with today's Ice Bucket Challenge Chumps and Champions: Three who fail epically and another two who pass with flying shrivelled colours.

FAIL: LADY GAGA That isn't ice water, that isn't a bucket and what the hell are you made of anyway, hermaphrodyte juice? Shudder.

FAIL: CHARLIE SHEEN I'm sure they love that stunt at the whorehouse but it's not really the gist of this challenge at all, is it Charlie my boy?

FAIL: OPRAH As usual, she has to talk everyone around her into a state of catatonia before getting to the point.

WIN! WIN! WIN! EMBLEM 3 Never heard of you. And also there are only two of you so that's a stupid name. But anyone who does the Ice Bucket Challenge in the NUDE instantly wins the blue ribbon, so, er, well where the hell would you like me to pin this damn thing? I can't even ... wow. Oh right. ICE water. 


ALS Ice Bucket Challenge, justin bieber, rob ford, neymar,
and his boy nipples and his lip fuzz took the challenge, thereby rendering it ridiculous. 

Welcome to Monday, where all you need to know is this: hashtag ALSIceBucketChallenge. Yes, the public awareness campaign that somehow grew magical testicles and seduced everyone into doing exactly as it commands is taking the Twitterverse by storm because it's ridiculous and titillating at the same time. It's basically just a big nonstop wet T-shirt contest you can ogle and feel good about it. 

For those of you who don't follow Twitter, #ALSIceBucketChallenge is this "thing" where celebrities people pour a bucket of ice water over themselves and then dare someone else to do the same. And if that sounds stupid to you that's because you don't understand how celebrity works. Meaning nipples.  

Everyone from Rob Ford to Justin Bieber to J'Lo has taken the icy plunge (ostensibly to benefit research into the grimly horrific disease, but let's be honest, Justin Bieber wouldn't know what ALS was if it put on a pair of stilettos and said, "$250 an hour and not a penny less; I got kids to feed") and fans are tweeting themselves in a masturbatory frenzy as they try to keep up with the plunges OMG Drake! OMG JLo! OMG Gaga! I mean my God, you're NOBODY if you haven't poured torrents of ice water over your privates and then tweeted about it. 

And I know it's for a good cause so it is with no small amount of self-loathing that I confess that I AM ALREADY A LITTLE SICK OF THIS BRILLIANTLY STUPID CAMPAIGN. Not because I don't want to raise funds for ALS but because I smell Kardashianesque famewhoring all over it and I can't unsmell it. I mean seriously. Can't I just GIVE you a hundred bucks and not have to look at pictures of Rob Ford's greasy wet pants sticking to him in all the wrong places. Please? PLEASE? PLEASE???

EDITOR'S NOTE: Although may I just say, and I may be gay biased, that this video of Neymar taking the ALSIceBucketChallenge is the cutest thing since bunnies!

Friday, 15 August 2014


piggly wiggly, things on piggly's head, whorrified, marie sutherland, brampton blogger,
Eyeball rolls can't be far off.

Oh, pardon me, is someone getting BORED with having things put on her head? Does someone find Glamma’s obsession with taking advantage of her limited motor skills tedious and jejune? Well then someone is basically issuing what Glamma would call a challenge and is forcing her to take this game to a whole new level. A WHOLE NEW LEVEL, BABYCAKES! *makes I’m Watching You gesture* See you on Tuesday.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Uhhhm ... she’s a goddam six-month-old baby.
MY NOTE: *signals Jinxy cat, watches as he flushes moron editor down the toilet* If I wanted your opinion I'd give it to you.


CR fashion book, north west, kim kardashian, kanye west, kimye, chanel,
Michael Avedon/CR Fashion Book

Yay! It's Friday. And although it's almost noon I'm not even the least bit drunk as a lemur, so let's celebrate my saint-like morals by mocking the Kardashians' complete lack of them. Because here is Kimye's baby, North West, making her modelling debut in CR Fashion Book wearing diamond earrings and goddam Chanel at age 13 months. 
As I'm always saying to Piggly Wiggly's mother, it's never to soon to pimp your own child out to the highest bidder. In fact, considering this is the Kardashians we're dealing with, I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner. If they could've got that in-utero camera back out of pregnant Kim's vagina instead of having it swallow it alive in what onlookers would later describe as the most terrifying thing they've ever witnessed ("It's like it had teeth!"), I'm sure it would have. In fact, why does this kid have clothes on? Kris Jenner obviously had nothing to do with this photo shoot.

In other Kardashian horrors, we have the little missus revealing what little North West's first words were: “Mama,” “Dada,” or “How much does it pay?” and also stepping out in a tasteful outfit that will leave no doubt as to why Anna Wintour put her on the cover of Vogue magazine. The woman is nothing if not an unstoppable tsunami of flesh a fashion icon. TheSuperficial

Wednesday, 13 August 2014


ME IN THE MOMENTS B.B.S. (Before Biblical Storm)
Captioned: "I kind of love my new hair," which was apparently all it took to drive God absolutely mad with indignation.

I famewhored myself on social media yesterday and it did not go unnoticed by anyone. Including God. (He follows me on Instagram; I don’t know why you’re surprised.) It started when I got my hair done and, for a change, I kinda liked it. I've finally found a hairdresser who can pummel my frizz into submission, rendering it straight and sleek as a beaver pelt in under half an hour. So naturally I immediately thought “selfie,” despite the fact that I routinely verbally sodomize the Kardashians for doing this very thing. (Although to my credit, I at least have the decency to crop my bare arse out of my selfies. Most of the time.)

Anyway, "someone" up there was obviously watching this unbecoming ego bloat because without word of a lie, the very second I hit send and stepped off the bus, thunder rattled the skies and a deluge of biblical proportions rained down on my head. I'm not even kidding. It came out of nowhere. I emitted an ear-blistering shriek and ducked under a nearby tree ... yes, I know, not safe etc etc, I don't give a fuck, people, MY HAIR WAS AT STAKE ... and waited for the downpour to abate. "It can't keep up like this for long," I told myself. And I was right. It didn't. It came down harder and harder, and within minutes it was a pounding downpour that had soaked through the hat, the shopping bag and the shirt I'd draped over my head.

"Please, sweet Lord," I murmured, "I know I'm a bit of a jerk sometimes, but if you could just let my hair get through this unscathed, I'll behave. I'll stop saying mean things about Susan Fennell's ugly mullet. I won't swear ... as much." And it seemed to work, because within minutes the rained eased up a bit, so I made a run for it. 

 Sheltering under a tree, naively believing my hair might still have a chance. FOOL!

But I’d barely made it half a block when I realized it was just taking a deep breath so it could blow it out even harder. The rain was literally grabbing at my hair with both hands now, making jerking-off gestures with its raindrop fingers, laughing uproariously. I may have been hallucinating at this point. I don’t know, all I remember is darting into a bus shelter, cursing like a gangster, thinking I was alone and then hearing an anxious voice ask: "You okay, miss?" 
I wheeled on him like it was all his fault.
"NO I AM NOT!" I shrieked at the poor bastard. "MY HAIR IS RUINED! GODDAMIT! AAAAAAGGHHH!!!" 

We stood there in awkward silence for a few moments before the rain slowed ever so slightly and I made yet another dash for it, this time not even making it half a block before it gathered steam again. 
This went on for close to half an hour before I finally made it home and burst into the powder room to survey the damage. 
"Maybe it's not as bad as it feels," I thought, but one look in the mirror and that thought died a watery death. 
Where there had formerly been smooth, glorious straightness there was frizz and bedraggled curls clinging limply to drenched skin. It was utterly ruined, and I was inconsolable.
Indeed, about the only comfort to be taken was the fact that I don't have to worry about keeping my unkeepable "I'll behave" promise to You-Know-Who. And I don't even know why I just called Him that: HE'S OBVIOUSLY NOT EVEN LISTENING!

EDITOR'S NOTE: You realize this entire post makes it sound like you actually think God has you on his "Must Watch" list?
MY NOTE: Yes and here is why. I don't expect you to get it.

Monday, 11 August 2014


Robin Williams, Good morning Vietnam, celebrity overdoses,

Monday was my day off so I spent it overeating, drinking, getting my hair done and assiduously ignoring the news. Which came back to bite me in an epic way when I logged on at 11 p.m. to find that comic legend and manic genius Robin Williams died of an apparent suicide at age 63 while I was holding a frosty tumbler of Grey Goose; the tragic irony after a lifelong battle with depression and alcohol addiction. During his decades-long career, he spoke openly and often about the fearsome pressures of fame and the coping mechanisms he and so many others turned to. It's not a world many of us can related to, but the fact that it has also seduced such monster talents as Philip Seymour Hoffman, Whitney Houston, Amy Winehouse and a less-recent list too long to even think of reciting should tell you everything you need to know. So very very sad. Words fail me. So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take my leave so I can immerse myself in the happier memories of Robin Williams' greatness, that being, in my humble opinion, Mrs. Doubtfire, Good Morning Vietnam and Good Will Hunting. Rest in peace, Robin. Our loss is heaven's gain. 

EDITOR'S NOTE: It's pretty bad when The Mistress's forked tongue gets tied, so I'm going to take it from here and leave you with these nuggets of Robin Williams deliciousness to remember him by. You can also read this touching memorial for a recap of his struggles and his glories.

Mrs. Doubtfire

Good Morning Vietnam

Good Will Hunting