Monday, 26 September 2016


Man, this 'class' thing sure starts early with the Brits. Because Prince George is what, three years old, and already he knows instinctively to recoil in politely restrained horror when a commoner attempts to touch his royal person. A video of the little scamp thoroughly rejecting our Prime Minister Justin Trudeau's various attempts at a greeting ... high-five? low-five? handshake? how 'bout daps? ... has gone viral and I can't get enough of it. I want someone to make a video of Prince George meeting and then snubbing every single world leader starting, of course, with Donald Trump. "I'll thank you not to taint me with your leathery orange pauper skin, sir!" From his head to his knee socks, this kid is totally king material.

Thursday, 22 September 2016


Chrisa Hickley/Wikipedia
So the Brangelina divorce is proceeding amicably. Wait ... *consults dictionary* ... horribly. Make that "horribly." Because until today we all thought the worst thing about Brad Pitt was that filthy hemp beard and a bad weed habit. But now it turns out he may also be a prolific screamer and kicker of children, if TMZ is to believed. (And alas, TMZ is usually to be believed. I don't know when they became the official "trusted celebrity news" source but I do know it was years before Trump became the likely next President of the United States of America, so this meltdown of the nation's soul has been going on for a while.) 

TMZ is reporting that police were called on suspicion of child abuse stemming from an incident on a private jet, during which Brad "Bad Dad" Pitt allegedly imbibed so many of his favourite substances that he mistook his kids for people he hates and completely lost his gourd on them. The fun continued on the tarmac afterwards, with a concerned airline staffer calling police. And I hope that concerned staffer also surreptitiously took photos on his cellphone, because he could retire on what TMZ pays for that sort of shite. 

This incident is reportedly the straw that broke Brangelina's back, with Angie filing for divorce the next day. Multiple news sources are now reporting that the FBI has spoken with Brad, who admits he "yelled" at 15-year-old Maddox but vehemently denies he laid a hand on him. It's all very sad, and will no doubt lead to further lawsuits because, hello! I thought weed was supposed to make you mellow? That'll teach you to buy discount pot from Chris Brown's dealer.

Read the full TMZ 'exclusive' here.

Wednesday, 21 September 2016


BRANGELINA with their six-pack of children. 
 And you can tell by Brad's "scary muttering vagrant" beard that the sheer joy of family life is already starting to get to him.

I'm no marriage expert (although I am highly skilled in divorce), but I can't say I'm surprised that Brangelina have decided to call it quits. Or more specifically, that Angelina has decided to call it quits and Brad is pretending "the commandment" was a mutual decision. You can't make an alpha male out of a lapdog. Nor can you have a relationship in which one person's vision just keeps getting deeper and more humanitarian, while the other's shrivels up to the point that all he really cares about is how long he has to wait before he can light up another doobie without having her bark: "REALLY, Cheech?" 

There are many rumours about what really caused the breakup, the most titillating but least likely of which alleges Marion Cotillard allowed filthy-bearded Brad Pitt to bed her (Cotillard: "Dude! You're about 10 years too late."). There's also my personal belief, which is actually one of the laws of the universe: that wilfully shatting on your "sexiest man alive" status by growing a stinky squirrel pelt on your face is tantamount to writing DIVORCE ME in pig's blood on your forehead. I'm pretty sure Johnny Depp knows what I'm talking about.

But the most persistent, and probably most truthful, story is that Angie has had enough of Brad's "weed and alcohol dependence" and feels it's affecting the children. (Editor's note: Uhm, Angelina: he stayed with you through cancer and you have six brats running around your house. LET THE MAN HAVE A GODDAM SNOOTFUL OF SCOTCH ONCE IN AWHILE!) Which just goes to show it doesn't matter how beautiful you are or how much money you have, if you've been together 12 years and you've got six kids and you're approaching your best mid-life crisis years, you're going to hit some potholes. The key is whether you decide to ride through them or bail out of the old jalopy and buy a new one. 

Money helps make the second option a lot more attractive, and frankly, having been in my fair share of old jalopies, bailing out isn't always the worst option. Particularly if the entire family is unhappy in the old jalopy. Which leads us to about the only thing that really matters, and that is what happens to the children. Mock Angelina's controlling, orphan-hoarding  ways as much as you want, you can't deny she seems to put her children first. And despite Brad's regrettable personal grooming habits and pot-addled milquetoastery, there is no indication that he is anything but a devoted father and a decent, if incredibly boring, man. 

So I'm fairly hopeful that their kids will come through this thoroughly Hollywood upbringing mostly unscathed. Although that's never actually happened, ever, in the history of Hollywood divorces, so I don't know what the hell I've been smoking, but it wasn't half bad and I'm going to have to ask Brad to hook me up with some more of it. It's practically legal here in Canada now. Thanks, Justin Trudeau!

EDITOR'S NOTE Well she MUST have been smoking something because she didn't call either of them a whore and she didn't use the f-word once.

MY NOTE That's because I'm off the hooch again. Don't worry. That ends tonight *checks watch* actually, right now, and then the speculations about who will turn into a bed-hopping train wreck first will commence in earnest. So far, the smart money's on Brad.

Tuesday, 20 September 2016


A thrilling moment from the royals' last visit to Canada.
 And may I just say that with the amount that one cost us, surely we could have treated them to a new red carpet. 

Depending on how you feel about the antiquated, no longer  relevant, offensively classist institution that is the British monarchy (I'd tell you how I really feel about it, but my grand-daughter is poised to marry into the family), you  may find the news of next month's tour of British Columbia and the Yukon thrilling. And if you do, it is my duty as an underpaid churl to dump clotted cream all over your joy by informing you that this fantastic little junket is going to cost Canada a bundle. Meaning that according to reports, we'll be picking up the tab for the royals' Northern exposure, which will no doubt include such historically important moments as troops inspections and Inuit greetings, to the tune of *reads number, blinks* WHAT? At that price, they'd DAMN WELL BETTER SWING THROUGH BRAMPTON! I'm not letting Piggly Wiggly marry somebody she's never even met!

EDITOR'S NOTE: *sighs* Well, judging from the size of that bottle she just opened, the mistress is done for the day, so I'll provide the pertinent information she left out: the cost. 
While the cost of the Canadian tour won’t be known until after the eight-day trip, past royal visits have yielded these patriotic price tags.
Will and Kate’s 2011 tour cost $1.2 million

A two-day visit by Princess Ann last year cost $128,000
The Queen’s 2010 nine-day tour came in at $2.79 million. 
MY NOTE: No wonder they're not revealing the cost of their tour until they're safely back in the motherland. Although if Kate pulls one of her infamous bum-flashes, it might just be worth it. 

Sunday, 18 September 2016


MEL'S DELIGHT I CAN UNDERSTAND, but why the f*ck is his 26-year-old girlfriend smiling? 

Mel Gibson LOVES children. He loves them so much he can't stop having them — or dating them. You may recall that Mel had seven kids with his first wife, Robin Moore, during their 31-year marriage because he is a good Catholic. Then he went off the Catholic thing because it's boring being with women who get old, so he divorced Robin and hooked up with Russian "singer" Oksana Grigorieva, 46, and for awhile they had so much fun that she wound up pregnant with Gibson offspring no. 8. But then she, too, started getting older, plus she had an unpleasant habit of loudly alleging that he beat the shit out of her on more than one occasion, so, clearly, Mel had no choice but to put a big wad of money in her mouth and send her packing. 

Well it would be enough to put any normal man off women, but Mel is no normal man. Clearly. Because here's Mel, at age 60, expecting offspring no. 9 with his latest sperm receptacle, Rosalind Ross who is 10 years younger than Mel's oldest child. (That'll be fun at Thanksgiving get-togethers!) And I don't know how to spell retching sounds so I'll just go with the other word that immediately comes to mind when I think of a 26-year-old woman allowing a stinky old bearded madman to put a baby in her: GROSS. 

Saturday, 17 September 2016


Whorrified, granddaughter, Marie Sutherland,
Shit! *spills martini* You startled me! Caught me red-handed, selfie-ing, which isn't hard to do since taking selfies, tippling and trawling for Justin Bieber news is pretty much all I do. (Here's one of my earlier selfie faves. The answer to the question you just muttered under your breath "Will that woman ever grow up?" is 'No.' ")

Anyway, this one is of me heading out for another uninvited babysitting stint with my newborn grand-daughter. It just screams "maternal instincts," doesn't it? She's not my first grandchild, but my eldest daughter took one look at my blog when it launched a year and a half ago and said “Please refrain from ever telling anyone we’re related,” so naturally I respect her wishes. Thusly. 
And although I’ve been doing this granny thing for awhile, having a third baby has really fired up my mothering urges. I’ve been cooking and cleaning like a maniac and taking special care with my wardrobe. Because in my world, a world in which gossip is a career, men are mere playthings and time is marked by the number of empties in the recycling bin … “Crap! It’s six mickeys past Merlot! I’d better get a move on!” … grandmothers don’t look like Mother Teresa, they look like Cher. (Try telling her to grow up; I dare you.)

So while I lecture my daughter about the importance of not worrying about losing the baby weight or stuffing one's self into the pre-baby skinny jeans, I parade around looking like this. You all should be very glad I’m not your mother. Although I might have had a go at your father. You never know. I can’t keep track of these things but I can tell you this: if he was cute, young and rich, you should be worried. Or even if he was just cute.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Look, your grand-daughter is adorable and all, but if you keep this up you're going to have to rebrand yourself as a mommy blogger.
MY NOTE: Well I'm not her mommy and also I drink. A helluva lot. So if there's such a thing as a hooch-swilling nanny blog then sure, brand me. Why the hell not?

Viewing this on mobile? Scroll to bottom of page and click on View Web Version for more Whorrors!

Sunday, 28 August 2016


club abstract, marie sutherland, kitchener clubs, piggly wiggly,
You would not believe how many attempts it took to get this very average shot of us. Police believe alcohol was a factor.

I went out with my girlfriends Friday night. This qualifies as a huge friggin deal because although there was a time in the not-too-distant past when I was a certifiable party girl who went out every Thursday, Friday, Saturday and sometimes Sunday night (and occasionally Wednesday, but I'd feel sheepish about it), I have somehow become a workaholic homebody who considers a Friday night cuddling Piggly Wiggly the most fun you can have with your clothes on. 

Liz: "Omigod. It's blurry as fuck!"

My slightly younger girlfriends, who have not yet experienced the indescribable ecstasy of grandchildren, are fairly tolerant of this madness. But sometimes they put their foot down and say "Listen, woman, put that goddam baby down, we are going OUT tonight!" Last Friday was one of those times. 

Marie: "Omigod. It's blurry as fuck!"

One of my dearest friends was in dire need of a night out and none of my usual excuses were getting any traction. 
"I'm tired. I'm broke. I hate bars. Boys piss me off. It's my brother's birthday on Saturday; I can't stay out late." 
My friend had an answer for every one of them. "You're always tired. You're not broke, you're cheap. Everybody hates bars. Ignore the boys, they'll only try harder. Your brother's birthday? Woman!!!"
The naked truth is that I really just wanted to spend my day off with my baby. (Yeah I know: "She's not your baby." Piss off; she totally is. If you could see the way that kid looks at me. "Are you my mother?" Yes, dear, of course I am!)

Liz and Marie: Omigod. You cut our heads off!

Anyway, the punchline is that once my friends physically detached me from Piggly Wiggly, I actually had a helluva good time. I'd forgotten how amazing it is to submerge oneself in delicious repartee, delicious food (my friend is kind of an amazing cook) and crazy-good wine, followed by a night on the town. The best part? The photos we recorded for posterity. It took us about a bazillion tries to get one that was even close to average honestly, we must have spent half an hour in Liz's foyer trying to get something presentable and we hadn't even gotten into the hard-core boozing yet!
As for the rest of the festivities, I won't bore you with the details other than to say "Club Abstract: Avoid," but I will tell you this: I can't wait till our next night out. 

EDITOR'S NOTE: Broad hint clumsily delivered, please confirm receipt of same. 
LIZ'S NOTE: Let me check my schedule.

Marie: Aaaaaaaaarrrrrgh!