Thursday, 21 May 2015


Yesterday I told you I was embarking on the vacation of a lifetime: to wit, spending a week with my granddaughter, one Miss Piggly Wiggly. I could have opted for pristine Caribbean beaches and endless intravenous drips of Bajan rum, but I am not Rihanna anymore. Been there, done that, got the tattoo. (Don't ask. It was ill-advised and misspelled.) But nowadays, my idea of heaven is snuggling up with a fuzzy blanket and rocking this little terrorist to sleep. "Awww, that's so swe ... hey, wait; a TERRORIST? What kind of language is that to describe an innocent baby?" you ask because you have never spent the night with this innocent baby. 

Let me just tell you this about our Piggly Wiggly: She is tiny. She is irresistible. She is (due to a fairly serious health issue) extremely high maintenance. She doesn't eat enough to keep a bird alive. She wakes up three times a night for feedings that must be administered VIA EYEDROPPER. Then she wakes up at the crack of dawn, wide awake and full of mischief and ready for the whole chain of impossible events to commence anew, as you can see from this 12-second video I recorded. I call it Piggly's "Oof, tumbled over" moment and you will notice that, like a good grandmother, I recorded first and helped later. 
And before you go getting all shirty about the "terrorist" comment let me just say that this video was recorded at the ungodly hour of 5:30 a.m. after a grand total of about 45 minutes of refreshing slumber. I believe it was Ghandi who said "Let he who is without sin judge Ms. Whorrified, for she is AWESOME." Or something like that? I may be delirious.


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 ... 


And here is K-Stew rehearsing her thesis dissertation at the Academy of Paparazzi Bashing. (I'm sure she graduated summa cum loude.)
Perhaps because I'm one of the few people on the planet who doesn't believe in vampires (thank you, Twilight, we needed to be dumbed down even more than we already were; in fact, if our dumb gets any downer it's going to need a boob lift), I am not a fan of Kristen Stewart.

Or it could just be that I don't like surly little homewrecking sluts. Yes, come to think of it, it's probably more that one.

Regardless, a new video of Kristen cussing out the devil paparazzi has surfaced, and by golly, someone has obviously been sneaking in some classes at Kanye West Charm School. I’m going out on a limb here and suggesting she majored in “F” words and flunked basic hair hygiene. 

And because I find her annoying, I’ve also thrown in this photo of what she looked like before she was famous.
Which has obviously been Photoshopped because look, she’s smiling. K-Stew doesn’t smile. She bares her teeth. She pouts. She mopes, she hisses, she spits, she contorts her face into a bilious grimace. But smiles? Uh, no. 
Click here to watch a condensed version of the little charmer spewing good karma all over a paparazzo. (I especially love that she resents him "sharing the same air" that she does. Would that be the air you sucked in whilst heavy-breathing with a married man while simultaneously dating R-Patt? That air? I just want to be clear, here ...)

Wednesday, 20 May 2015


kim kardashian, JFK airport, charlie hebdo,
If you're worried about air travel in the wake of the horrific terror attacks in France you can breathe a little easier knowing that airport security is tighter than whatever the hell Kim Kardashian's monstrous arse is swaddled in here. A slew of gratifyingly invasive Daily Mail photos show the future ex-Mrs. West being subjected to rigourous screening at JFK airport, removing  her sensible travel attire (stilettos and fur) and undergoing a full scan because any idiot can see she could be smuggling an entire truckload of AK47s in that ass prosthesis. You don't have to be a trained security officer to see that. Matter of fact, has anyone checked Kim's itinerary to see where she was in the days leading up to the Charlie Hebdo massacre? I'm not kidding. I think I'm on to something here ...
View Kim's epic journey through JFK airport here. 

Tuesday, 19 May 2015


'Hey there, you big boy. Oh yeah. Oh yeah. You know I like that. I want to spank you with my yoga mat.' How's that, director? Director!!!
Director: *snores loudly, sits bolt upright* ... Huh? What?

Holy shitballs, am I ever glad this week is almost over. And not just because everybody except Doug Ford thinks our mayor is an ass-grabbing crack fiend and it's making Toronto long for the highbrow leadership of Mel Lastman, but because the celebrity news has been even more scumsuckingly dirty than usual. 

First it was Rihanna baiting Chris Brown with strip-club tweets, then it was Lance Armstrong being ratted out as a butt-crack fetishist, then it was the super exciting news that Paris Hilton is having a relapse comeback, and now, WTF? Jennifer Aniston is a stripper. 

Yeah, no, she just plays one in a movie. But it's even harder to believe when you see the actual movie because for some reason, Jennifer Aniston is less than the sum of her parts. She's the best-looking unattractive woman on the planet. She possesses zero titillation factor. She emits the torrid allure of porridge. She puts on the hooker wigs and the lingerie and she struts around like a mechanical windup toy and sits on clients' laps (gingerly, making the Rachel face) and your pulse does this: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Whoever got the high-larious idea of casting Jen in We're the Millers needs a good swift kick in the neuticles. Just to wake them up. I've seen the trailer, below, and  just as I predicted Paris Hilton's drecktastic new song "Last Night" is going to be the summer's hit single, I'm predicting this is going to be the summer's hit comedy. There. I said it. *walks into oncoming traffic*

JEN'S EX-FIANCE'S NOTE: I'm feeling a curious stirring in my nether region. It's almost, it's like ... oh. Never mind. I just had to pee.

Watch the trailer of We're the Millers below. Warning: Will make you want to go to a strip club, just to get the awful taste of flaccid out of your mouth.


Rihanna, Charlie Sheen, Giorgio Baldi restaurant, Brett Rossi, Whorrified,
RIHANNA LEAVES A RESTAURANT after a near-miss with Charlie Sheen and the missus.  
(I assume the glasses were so that no one would recognize her. They didn't work.)

Charlie Sheen has engaged in another public pissing match, but whereas his tiger-blooded warlock spleen is usually vented on such nobodies as teachers and Ashton Kutcher, this time he's pissing on one of the bigger fish in the celebrity sea: Rihanna. (And I've just realized she'd probably enjoy that.)
According to TMZ, Charlie and Brett Rossi, his latest whore-wife oh, pardon me, "goddess"   were at a ritzy restaurant in Santa Monica when they spotted Rihanna across the room. Which wouldn't be hard because holy hooker wigs, have you seen what that girl is wearing on her head lately? So Brett asked Charlie if he could introduce them because she's a huge fan of pink hair and nipple piercings. As are we all.

Charlie sent over a request and was stunned when Rihanna had the balls to reject him. ("Since when does Rihanna have standards?" he probably wondered aloud.)
"It's not possible at this time; there are too many paps outside," Rihanna reportedly replied, which is Bajan code for "I would honestly rather stick my head in Chris Brown's armpit and inhale deeply than meet either you OR whoever your latest slut is."

This was all it took to completely unravel Charlie's tenuous grasp on sanity and he went teenage apeshit on Twitter. And I quote:
"Nice impression you left behind, Bday or not. Sorry we're not KOOL enough to warrant a blessing from the Princess (or in this case the Village idiot)." 

He then went on to mock her wig, her attitude, her songs ... pretty much everything.
To read the full rant, which I heartily recommend because it's vintage Charlie, click here.

EDITOR'S NOTE: That chick on the left is Rihanna dating her now or what, because she is in every friggin pic of RiRi ever.
MY NOTE:  As if Rihanna would be into that sort of thing. Oh. Wait.

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."