Saturday, 15 August 2015


and my sensible shoes, in my 
home office, where I  ... wait. 
Those wine bottles; I specifically 
 told him to crop those out. EDITOR!!!

It occurred to me the other day, as I took yet another tumble that I don't want to talk about but which was quite humiliating, involving vagina-flash and lying spread-eagled on a sidewalk, that we haven't had an update on my leg in quite some time.
In fact, my leg is the one that brought it to my attention.

"I'm not enjoying being attached to you anymore," it whined as my  physiotherapist mauled it like Alec Baldwin mauling a paparazzo. 
"Yeah well I don't give a flying fuck," I retorted. "You should have got better faster, you should have supported me instead of folding like a tripod in front of my very workplace and then maybe we wouldn't be going through this now."
"You could at least tell people how I'm doing," it sulked. "I'm sure they want to know."
"Shut your leghole before I kick myself down the stairs again, you wheedling little shit," I growled. And I meant it.

But let me backtrack a bit. For those of you who missed the posts about how my leg almost got blown off my body during a fun-filled vacation in Bermuda, it's been six months since the infamous mopedectomy. (You can read about it here.) I thought it would be all better by now, but it's not. It twangs with literally every step I take. 

Of course, any normal person would have admitted they needed intensive physiotherapy. Any normal person would have admitted they're not 45 anymore and don't just snap back from hangovers, let alone cataclysmic accidents, the way they used to. Any normal person would not stay up late after working a full day and write profanity-laced blogs about famewhores. So there you go. We've established that I'm not normal.

Therefore, I did not start physiotherapy until three weeks ago. After I'd tumbled for, oh, I'm gonna say "the sixth time" since the accident. (I do a lot of tripping over absolutely nothing since my leg went retarded. It's very sad.)
So there I was, getting massaged by my physiotherapist, when his eyes fell on the shoes I'd positioned neatly by the bedside.
"Wow," he said. "Those are crazy."
"I figured you'd approve," I said.

"How do you walk in them?" he asked.
"I don't walk in them," I said. "I fall. A lot." 
He looked so crestfallen I decided to stop being an asshole for a moment. "They're sitting shoes," I confessed. "I take them off if I'm actually going to be walking anywhere."

At which point my leg decided to pipe up.
"No she doesn't!" it tattled. "She walked all the way down to the cafeteria in them and had to hang on to the railing for dear life! I was really really scared!" 
Well that did it. Of course, I pretended to be calm in front of the physiotherapist (you never know who's gonna rat you out to the authorities) but the instant I got my leg alone, I gave it damn good thrashing. It's pretty much laid up in traction now and if it utters one single peep the rest of the weekend, I will be very, very surprised.

EDITOR'S NOTE: *clutches pearls* That's just vindictive!
MY NOTE: Yeah well you're next, wise guy. Don't think I didn't notice that wine bottle stunt.


And now from our "Covered in Wintry White" files, I bring you the most surprising news of the day. It's the kind of news that shouldn't be surprising because it's just nature taking its course. It's the kind of news that makes you say, "How lovely!" while a voice inside of you hisses, "It's so cold! It burns. IT BURNS!" It's the kind of news that makes you think Solange Knowles might actually be a little bit sane after all, because somehow she convinced some poor sap to bind himself to her in holy matrimony.

Haha, psyche! You thought this was going to be about the snow that blanketed Ontario's nether regions overnight, didn't you? No, it's about the nuptials that came out of nowhere, in which Solange married Alan Ferguson, a much-older music producer (she's 28, he's 51) that few of us ever heard of let alone even knew she was dating. You'll observe that he has one of those Allahu Akbar beards all the kids are wearing these days because they want to make sure no one gets through airport check-ins in under three hours, and that Solange ordered everyone to wear white. Even the photo props. Because nothing says virginal like Solange Knowles ... and of course, snow. 
Except that snow eventually melts and apple blossoms and baby bunnies and warm warm sunshine takes its place. Call me a pessimist but I highly doubt that's how this is going to end for Alan Ferguson.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Mistress! Not one single joke about that time Solange "Ray Riced" her own brother-in-law? I'm proud of you! 
MY NOTE: Too cheap, too easy. It'd be like shooting fish in an elevator. 

Friday, 14 August 2015


romeo beckham, david beckham, victoria beckham, burberry, piggly wiggly,
to Burberry's Christmas campaign.

Romeo Beckham, the gold-flecked spawn of David and Victoria Beckham *spontaneously genuflects* is a model now. The Daily Mail reports that the ridiculously good-looking fruit of Becks' loins *spontaneously curtsies* has been signed to represent none other than British icon Burberry *spontaneously inhales entire platter of crumpets and clotted cream* for its Christmas campaign. Which would have been shocking six months ago but then Kim Kardashian's kid came along and changed the game by scoring a six-figure modelling gig before she could even walk, so now a kid being pimped out at the ripe old age of 12 seems adorably old-fashioned rather than verging on child exploitation. And since the die has already been cast, I can't help wondering why Piggly Wiggly doesn't have a modelling gig yet. Honestly. What are we waiting for? The kid has teeth and everything! 

piggly wiggly, david beckham, romeo beckham, burberry,
for gluten-free cupcakes or something. Nothing big. There's no need to rush into things.

Monday, 10 August 2015


yellow roses, editorspick, whorrified,

Aw, look. Someone gave me flowers! And he wasn’t even trying to make up for something he’d done wrong (which is good because flowers wouldn’t have helped). It was a lovely gesture that I promptly rewarded with my own special brand of bitching positive reinforcement, the end result of which was an argument. It was an unfortunate turn of events no one could have foreseen except everyone who knows me.

So what happened was, this poor sap surprised me with a bouquet of fresh roses on his way to work and you could tell by the look on his face he was pretty pleased with himself.
“Flowers? How sweet!” I said. “What’s this all about?”
“No reason,” he said, beaming.
“No reason?”
His smile began to twitch under the strain. “No, no reason. Is that a problem?”
“It’s not a problem, it’s just not like you. Let me get a vase.”
He watched as I arranged them, and then we both stood back and admired them.

“So you like them?” he asked. (Jesus, I thought, he’s really making me work for these things.)
“They’re gorgeous,” I said.
“I’m not a huge fan of roses myself,” he said.
“Yeah, they’re not my favourite,” I agreed.
“They’re too perfumey. And the thorns!”’
“I know!” I held out my finger. “They drew blood!”
“I wasn’t sure what colour to get …”
“Red is nice. Or pink.”
“But not yellow?”
“Well it’s very bright and cheery. It’s just …
“You hate the colour. Just say it.”
“No I don’t hate it, I just don’t generally like yellow flowers. Or orange ones, either, for future reference.”

He had the decency not to shriek “THERE’S NOT GOING TO BE A FUTURE YOU UNGRATEFUL WITCH!” but he did pout, which is never a good look nor is it conducive to healthy discussions.
“Maybe you should tell me the colours you DO like,” he said, in what was coming perilously close to cheekiness, in my opinion. But he did spontaneously bring me flowers, so I let it go. This time.
“Um, well to be honest, I’m not crazy about flowers in general. They don’t last long and they drop petals all over the place and the water gets funky … chocolate is probably a better way to go.”
“Yes, but only dark chocolate. Milk chocolate is gross. And of course, wine is always appropriate.”
“Should I be writing this down?” he asked, and there was no mistaking the cheekiness now.
“No, you should bend over so I can tattoo it on your arse,” I said. But not out loud. C'mon. I'm not that much of a bitch.

“You don’t have to get huffy," is what I really said. "I was just trying to be helpful."
“Well I was just trying to be sweet and look where that got me.”
"Oh for God's sake," I huffed. "I told you I liked the damn things, can't we just drop it?"
"Fine! We're dropping it. I gotta go, I'm going to be late for work."
"Fine, go," I said to his retreating back. "Have a nice day AND THANK YOU FOR THE PRICKLY STINKY YELLOW FLOWERS!"
I know. Sometimes I actually think I need professional help.

EDITOR'S NOTE: I'm pretty sure you're never getting flowers from anyone ever again until you die. And then you're getting yellow roses. A whole roomfull of them.
MY NOTE: Fortunately I plan to make sure you die before I do, so that little plan of yours won't work. But go ahead and cling to it if it cheers you.


michael brown, darren wilson, ferguson, grand jury,
THE STREETS OF FERGUSON LAST NIGHT AFTER THE GRAND JURY basically declared open season on unarmed black kids.  

*Note: This post is from the Whorrified files. Because so much has changed since Michael Brown's murder. Oh. Wait. "Nothing." I meant nothing has changed.

 I don't usually venture into politics unless it involves crack pipes and mayors who speak fluent patois, but something so egregiously, historically horrific has happened that I feel compelled to acknowledge it. 
Unless you live under a rock or have had your cable cut off due to nonpayment, you have by now heard that a Missouri grand jury has gone retarded. That's right. It somehow examined the blatant evidence that a white Ferguson police officer straight-up murdered an unarmed black kid and concluded, "That seems reasonable." Although in fairness to the grand jury, George Zimmerman did set a helluva precedent when he was pardoned for shooting an unarmed black kid wearing a terrifying hoodie, so who am I to question justice? It's wiser than all of us. And by all of us I mean Snooki. It's wiser than Snooki. Slightly.


Meanwhile, the streets of Ferguson have turned into an inferno as citizens rage against the injustice and riot police close in all around them just itching to pepper them full of buckshot. Respect their authority, you guys! Calm yourselves. Try to look white. And whatever you do, DON'T PUT YOUR HANDS UP! That's like waving a red cape in front of a dimwitted bull who answers to the name of Darren Wilson (but only after he has gored you).  

I've been following the chilling Twitter images for hours (particularly those of @TefPoe) and my wish for Ferguson tonight is that everyone gets through this safely and that Michael Brown's parents hearts can somehow, someday, mend. I want to believe that law enforcement will learn from this tragedy and that change will follow. One must have faith; it's what separates us from the animals. *opens newspaper; reads "Cops fatally shoot 12-year-old black child holding toy gun"; dives headlong into traffic*

Friday, 7 August 2015


Jennifer Lopez, Booty video, Kim Kardashian, Chrissy Teigen, Prince Harry, Ascott,
and it's everything you'd expect it would be.  

Things might be a little light around here for the next day or two. I'm working on a special project in partnership with the Illuminati and they're really being dicks about it, so in the meantime, please nibble on these tidbits about twerkers, relapsers, flashers and this random but adorable pic of my wee Piggly Wiggly, who's getting some treatment for that feeding issue I told you about last week. It's been very upsetting for all of us, although my own mother reminds me that back in her day, they'd simply slip a little whisky into the baby's bottle and everything would be fine. (Editor's note: That explains so much.)
Now, to begin:

Thanks to the nonstop terrorist butt-selfie attacks by Kim Kardashian, Rihanna and her ilk, Jennifer Lopez has released a new a song called Booty even though she swore she'd never sing a song about her booty. (It's called selling out. Don't act so surprised.) EOnline 

I'm not usually a fan of gingers but dammit, hot Prince Harry in a top hat! LaineyGossip

Mother of the year Kim Kardashian walking around with her udders hanging out in a photo shoot for Holstein Breeders Monthly. Fishwrapper

So that's why we haven't heard anything from rapper Eve lately. TooFab

Perhaps another round of Rebieberhab is in order, Selena Gomez? TMZ 

Here's Lindsay Lohan forgetting that she uses that hand to eat with. TheSuperficial 

Anybody want to see Chrissy Teigen walking her dog in her underpants? HuffingtonPost


angela george/wikipedia

The more intelligent among you may remember how, several months back, I announced I was putting Whorrified on hianus because I got a real job. One that pays actual money with the legally binding proviso that I wear clothing to work and refrain from drinking vodka from a bowl. (I came this close to telling them to shove their job offer. I mean, really, who can work under those conditions?) 

But apparently Fate does not like being bossed around. Meaning something so Whorrifiable has happened that I was basically commanded by God to post, and so here is a super-special Whorrified instalment, gifted upon you at the behest of all the Whorror addicts out there who begged me, LITERALLY BEGGED ME, to return because Justin Theroux and Jennifer Aniston somehow pulled off a surprise wedding today. (And I can guarantee you nobody was more surprised than Jennifer Aniston.)

"Ha!" one faithful reader chortled. "And you said Jennifer Aniston would never get married!" 
"In fact," I retorted, "what I said was Jennifer Aniston would never have a baby." Although now that hell hath in fact frozen over it appears there's a chance even that might happen. I'm willing to bet that Jennifer of the Dusty Ovaries is at this very moment perusing the "Celebrity Guide to African Orphans" brochure while her groom pretends to be fast asleep so he can fantasize about Angelina.

Jen: Hon? You awake? *thrusts brochure at 'husband'* I really like the one on page six. What do you think?
Justin: *reads fake text message he furtively sent himself* Well isn't that my dumb luck! Barack Obama just sent me a message ordering me to report for duty in Vietnam!
Jen: But ... that war is over, isn't it?
Justin: Oh. *re-reads* Kazahkstan. It says Kazahkstan. I better go pack ...

EDITOR'S NOTE He's never coming back, is he?
MY NOTE Good lord! I thought you were dead!
EDITOR'S NOTE Ha. You weren't the first to lace my puffer with strychnine and you won't be the last. I didn't inhale!