Saturday, 10 October 2015


I've spared you the full eyeball assault by providing a mere sliver of the original crop of this photo. For the full version (and many more), via the Daily Mail, click here. 

I'm not sure what happened to Vin Diesel, but if someone put a loaded Krispy Kreme to my head and forced me to guess, I'd say he's been doing lines of butter. Either that or he has a fat, chainsmoking, hairy-backed uncle who gets his jollies by posing on Miami hotel balconies and scaring the shit out of the paparazzi. "Hey, look, it's Vin Dies .. JESUS CHRIST!" (A third possibility did occur to me but was swiftly ruled out on account of its absurdity. As if anyone would sculpt a lifesized likeness of someone using nothing but lard and pig bristles. It's already been done!) In fact, I'm sure the dozens of misspelled, grammatically manslaughtered comments I'm reading on the Interwebs, where the smart people live, are right: "He's training for a role." Well I had no idea they were doing a remake of Bad Santa, but way to go, Vin Diesel. You nailed it!

EDITOR'S NOTE For the love of fatback, mistress, it's Thanksgiving! We shouldn't have to look at things that remind us, in painful 3D, of what happens when one eats too much stuffing and pie. That's just cruel. What we need is an eyeball cleanse. Something that will make us feel happy and wholesome and  thankful to be alive.

MY NOTE Unfortunately, this is; there is no such shit to be had here. If you really want something to be thankful for, be thankful I didn't inflict a picture of Coco doing the flying assclap of death on you. (Do NOT click here. You'll never eat ham again.)

Thursday, 8 October 2015


john pinette, gluten-free, thanksgiving recipes, thanksgiving, piggly wiggly,
and you can tell by the look on her face 
she had absolutely no say in the matter.
Yay! It's Friday! A day I usually reserve for cornholing hopeless romantics but today, in honour of delicious turkey, will devote to cornholing the blessed advent of Thanksgiving instead. 

I'm even more stoked than usual about this festival of gluttony because I've just learned Piggly Wiggly is coming over FOR THE WHOLE WEEKEND AND OMIGOD THIS IS THE REASON CAPS LOCK WAS INVENTED! Her mom brought her down today and we'll be spending the next few days cleaning, cooking, gossiping, watching movies and getting about zero hours of blissful sleep in between eyedropper feedings

I'll admit I'm a little terrified about how I'm going to handle the Thanksgiving menu, because not only does nobody in my family like turkey but also my daughter is, by her own admission: "special needs." As she noted in an anxious text: "Maybe we should bring our own schnibbles? We're so annoying: No pork, no mushrooms, no onions, no dairy, no gluten." (And in case you're wondering if my daughter is some sort of Birkenstock-clad, lactose-intolerant hairy-armpitted vegan, no. Piss off. The poor kid is just trying to weed out any and every possible cause of whatever the hell it is that's making Piggly Wiggly's intestines do the writhing dance of death at every feeding. She has my utmost sympathy. Even if it does mean our Thanksgiving dinner is going to taste like arse.) 

I want to give the dear little family a break and having to cook their own food for Thanksgiving while the rest of us chow down on pie and stuffing and bacon-wrapped scallops .... "Mmm, so good! Too bad you guys can't eat a single scrap of it!" ... seems the height of churlishness. And so I am, even as we speak, Googling the most ridiculous phrases, such as "gluten-free pie crust, how the fuck?" and "dairy-free whipped cream, just shoot me?" and of course, Google is delivering on every count. I'm discovering all sorts of hippie-weirdo  recipes that I will never, ever use again, but hey, it's expanding my horizons. I've learned that you can substitute coconut milk for real milk, canola oil for butter, sorghum flour for wheat flour ... and marvelous, I've just realized I'll be making a meal that nobody but Gwyneth Paltrow would enjoy.

Anyway, I have drinking things to do so let me just close by wishing every last one of the poor saps who read this blog the happiest of Thanksgiving holidays. I hope you're surrounded by loved ones and turkey and can tell the two apart. (It's not always easy.) And although I hardly know you, I insist on giving you this little gift to remember me by: a brief riff on food allergies, with apologies to anyone with an actual food allergy, by the late great John Pinette. (Baby girl, this one's for you. I love you with all my heart but this gluten thing? Holy crap.) 

Tuesday, 6 October 2015


FRESHLY DIVORCED AVRIL LAVIGNE posted these mysterious images and captioned them: "Yeehaw! Writing with Chad today!" What does it mean? WHAT DOES IT MEAN??? 
If you, like nobody in their right mind, ever, has been pining for a Chavril reunion since they announced their divorce barely more than one goddam month ago, pine no more. In fact, why don't you just go ahead and set yourself on fire? It'd probably be less painful. Because Avril Lavigne, the cunning linguist minx, has gone and got us all fired up by posting this and other teasers to her Instagram account which I'm told ones and twos of you actually follow in what is either A) a clue that the most perfect mismatch in Canadian history is reuniting or B) a famewhoringly shameless bid for attention. I leave it to you to figure out which. (Hint: It's B.)  
Please enjoy these images of ineffable artsy fartsiness and see if you can figure out what it all means. Me, I'm going to put on a hairshirt and listen to Bud the Spud on endless repeat. Say what you will about Stompin' Tom, but at least he never toyed with us like these two do, eh?

EDITOR'S NOTE Obviously Avril Lavigne has never read your brilliant opus on the dangers of being friends with your ex. 

Sunday, 4 October 2015


scott disick, khloe kardashian, kourtney kardashian, rihanna, mike ford, other people's whorrors,
SCOTT DISICK GOT SO DRUNK he took a bath with the wrong sister. 
I'm going to have to go scrub my eyeballs with Listerine now.

Lord Disick just posted this picture of himself enjoying a bubble bath with his wife's sister, which is the sort of thing one should expect of hillbillies so I don't even know why I'm surprised. The Dick has the excellent excuse of being in an almost constant state of inebriation, although I don't know what Khloe's excuse is so I'm just going to assume that incest, like everything else that is wrong with this world, is okay with the Kardashians. I'm not sure whether this picture was taken before or after the Dick was hospitalized for severe alcohol poisoning, but either way, I hope that's antibacterial bubble bath or Khloe's going to get cooties. 

In other moments of celebrity genius, we have Rihanna briefly dabbling in world politics before realizing she doesn't have a fucking clue what a Hamas is, and the new poster boy for the "Put Birth Control Pills in Toronto's Water NOW!" campaign. Enjoy your weekend. I'm off to drain my daughter's liquor cabinet on the pretext of visiting my little Piggly Wiggly. (Whoever invented grandkids is a genius!) *Clink!*

Stick to what you know, Rihanna. Meaning butt shots. Independent

V. Stiviano is too stupid to realize Drake was dissing her. Bossip
Great. Another member of the Ford family has popped up like a greasy Whack-a-Mole. HuffingtonPost

World's worst parents just made Paris Hilton want a baby to carry around in her purse. TMZ 

Friday, 2 October 2015


That wee bump is getting bigger by the day! 
(Er, but of course, it will slip out easily 
and painlessly when the time comes. 
As babies always do...)

*Monday throwback: Remember when Piggly Wiggly was on the inside of her mommy?

I took this picture of my beautiful second-born daughter's pregnant belly at a party at my firstborn's home on Sunday. (The firstborn who flatly refuses to allow me to show her face or the faces of anyone in her adorable little family on this blog due to the fact that I can't be trusted not to embarrass her. Or Photoshop her. Or both.)

As you can see, my second-born is looking very babyfull these days. Her unborn child regularly treats her to backaches, nausea, roundhouse kicks to the bladder and other things that, when you think of it, are a piece of cake compared to what's coming.
Not that I would ever tell her anything about any of that. Even if she asks. Which she does.

"I'm scared," she confided the other day. "I want you to be there for the delivery. It scares me."
"Oh pish tosh," I said. "It'll be fine." (Thanks to the drugs the nurses will give you because your screaming annoys them.)
"I'm afraid I'll tear," she said.
"Rubbish!" I said. "We're made for this!" (Although, come to think of it, the babies are getting bigger every year and the vaginas really don't seem to be keeping pace.) 
"But I don't want an episiotomy," she continued. "Even the word makes me queasy."
"You don't have to have one if you don't want one," I assured her, patting her hand. "It's your body!" (Even though it will feel more like the personal playground of Satan himself at the crucial moment.)

"Thanks Mom," my daughter said. "I'm glad I can talk to you about this."
"Anytime," I told her. "After all, it's not like I've ever told you anything but the truth about everything. Except your father. Because quite frankly, I've never really been sure who that was but it might have been the Mennonite. It was either the Mennonite or ... hey, where'd my drink go? I had a drink a minute ago."

"It might be best if you don't come into the delivery room after all."
"Oh THANK GOD! That shit scares the crap out of me!"

Thursday, 1 October 2015


It's been awhile since I Whorrified you, but as I mentioned several months ago, I somehow tricked smart people into thinking I'm worthy of their highly respectable job offer so I have to behave myself now. No using the 'f' word, no tightly cropped shots of Kim Kardashian's arse (you may know him as Kanye), or for that matter, of my own. It's like I suddenly went Catholic! (Which I might actually do if this new Pope continues to surprise and inspire me the way he has been.)

Anyway, before I accidentally lapse back out of Catholicism again, allow me to bless you with some new pics of my granddaughter, Piggly Wiggly. It's not celebrity gossip and she's no Bruce Jenner but then again, neither is Bruce Jenner —  but for those of you who religiously followed the trials and tribulations of this little darling's rough first year, they're kinda sweet. So, to brighten up your Monday and hopefully boost my hit count, please enjoy wee Piggly's first trip to the pumpkin patch. My apologies for the gratuitous cleavage and crotch shots. I've discovered I just can't help myself.

Wednesday, 30 September 2015


Whorrified, Marie Sutherland, Christians, barbecue,
SISTER MARY WHORRIFIED bends over her cheese tray in holy prayer. "Dear Jesus, please smite the dirty Christian who stole what was rightfully mine. Amen."

I had a religious experience last week, and if you know anything about me at all, you can probably guess it ended badly. As do most of my religious experiences. And all of my marriages. Without boring you with the details of how I got conned into it, let's just say I went to a Ladies' Night Church Dinner and Gift Giveaway Extravaganza and came away with a fresh appreciation for how cut-throat those Christians can be.

It all started with the prize tickets they gave out at the door. That's nice, I thought, maybe I'll score one of those knitted tea cosies the church ladies make so that the world's ugliest yarn won't feel unwanted. That'd be just my luck. (Which, in hindsight, might have been where I went wrong. Snide goeth before a fall: Proverbs 16:18.) 

There was dinner and skits and singing and then finally, the promised gift giveaway extravaganza got underway. Within minutes, I'd won a book, a box of bonbons and a tube of hand cream.
But what I really wanted was the big shiny barbecue I'd spotted amongst the giveaway loot. 
"Bless me Father for I have sinned but holy Moses wouldst I ever loveth to win that friggin barbecue," I chanted in my most virginal voice. 
And then suddenly ... praise the lord ... like the miracle of the loaves or whatever, my ticket number was called, and I rushed that stage like you've never seen a woman in six-inch stilettos rush anything. However, one hates to appear greedy (especially on one's first visit to what one has suddenly decided is going to become a regular thing), so I hesitated when I got there. "What do I do?" I asked one of the other women whose number had also been called. "Do I just pick any prize I want?" 
"Hold on a sec, honey, I'll ask Pastor Kay." (Not her real name, because holy crap, the last thing I need is the evangelicals coming after me.)
And then she turns around and she grabs the barbecue! 

I stared at her in unholy astonishment. 
"Did you just take the barbecue?" I said. 
She smiled and shrugged. "You can pick any prize you want," she said.
Lord forgive me, but I didn't want any other damn prize. I wanted to knock her down and snatch that barbecue. But then Jesus stepped in and whispered that it would look a bit sinful to start kicking good Christian women at their own ladies night, so I sullenly chose a lovely stupid cheese-serving tray and flounced back to my table.

For the rest of the evening, I tried to talk myself out of the seething resentment I was feeling, and then I went home and seethed some more. And do you think I could sleep a goddam wink that night? "Why, Jesus? WHY? WHY DID SHE TAKE MY BARBECUE RIGHT OUT FROM UNDER ME? Can't you strike her with the clap or something? You have the power ... supposedly." 
Yeah. It wasn't pretty. 

It's now been three full days and the rage still hasn't left me. Every time I look at that stupid cheese tray it courses through me like lava. I'm obviously going to have to regift the fucking thing. (Hey Liz, guess what you're getting for Christmas?) But in the end, just like pregnancy, the hours of maddening agony and communing with our Lord and Saviour yielded something wonderful: I found Jesus. And have now become his personal blogger. He actually finds me quite hilarious and, more importantly, this will give me a fantastic edge at the next Ladies' Night Dinner and Gift Giveaway Extravaganza (Monday, Jan. 6, 2014; I checked). Ha! Cheese tray, me arse! *makes sign of the cross*

EDITOR'S NOTE: I have a terrible feeling this is going to end with you being burned at the stake.
MY NOTE: That's for witches, you moron!
EDITOR'S NOTE: *hides behind wall, fist-pumps air, returns* Oh, right. How silly of me.