Saturday, 25 August 2012


A show of hands, please. How many of you have heard of Katherine Jenkins? No? Opera star Katherine Jenkins? No? Exactly. 

Unless he wants me to. Then maybe
I would totally sleep with Becks.


That is a problem, and Katherine Jenkins, opera star, has hit on a BRILLIANT solution: Invent a crisis. (Politicians do this all the time, but nobody cares when they do it  because Goldenballs isn't involved.) 
So anyway, this non-celebrity, left, set Twitter alight yesterday by insisting ... over and over again ... that she is NOT having an affair with David Beckham. She was adamant in her rebuttal of persistent non-existent rumours, noting: 

1) “Dear Twitter friends ... I absolutely deny I’ve had an affair with David Beckham." 
2) “The rumours are very hurtful, untrue & my lawyers tell me actionable."
3) "I’ve only met David twice...We were out in a group of friends & it was just a normal fun evening out."  
4) “Just so we are clear I have never been on my own with him and never arranged to meet up.” 

Got that? "I, Katherine Jenkins, of whom you have never heard, is not secretly schtumping Becks ... much as I might like to ... who has never heard of me either!"

Jenkins' fans were charmingly and understandably confused.
"Um, I wasn’t aware there were any rumours," tweeted one.
“Katherine, completely unprompted, has denied she slept with David Beckham," tweeted another. 

The irony, of course, is that this flurry of denials is totally going to put her on Becks' radar. So as far as tactics go, it's so stupid it's brilliant.
Speaking of Goldenballs, I would just like to say on record that I too categorically DENY ever having slept with him. I was only with him in public once, and he didn't even know it because it was basically just his face on my T-Shirt. 
And just so we are clear, I also absolutely DENY ever having a hot affair with Ryan Gosling, Barack Obama or Daniel Craig.
I swear.
I'm serious.
Okay, FINE! I maybe had a teeny tiny little affair with Daniel Craig. But I immediately completely denied it on Twitter and he blocked me two seconds later, so, like, whatever. He's obviously in love with me.

Friday, 24 August 2012


* First in a never-ending series  

Ladies, are you over 40 and single? Of course you are. There are brazillions of us out there! (Note how I just cunningly lumped myself in with the over-40s, when in fact I am over 50. If I had an intelligent editor, I could never get away with that shit!) 

That's what an empty wine glass 
will do to a woman. And you want us
 to meet you at a vegetarian restaurant 
with no liquor licence?

But back to the single ladies. Get a group of anything larger than one of them together and, within minutes, the conversation will turn to the lack of available men. 
Oftentimes, they will blame themselves.
"I'm too fat. I'm too old. They want younger women. They want blonder women. They want Asian women. They want they want they want ..." 
Which is a problem, because what I'm seeing is not a lack of single men. What I'm seeing is a lack of  good single men. 
Many of the available men out there are single for a reason.
And that reason is "loser." 

This point was potently made by a friend who is experimenting with dating websites. (They're a great place to go when you're single but don't quite feel depressed enough about it yet.) She started chatting online with some guy who keeps talking about all the fancy restaurants he dines at and how they should go out to dinner sometime.
So naturally, she thinks Big Spendah is going to take her someplace nice. There is some back-and-forthing of emails, and then she gets this one. And she immediately forwards it to me, which is what I LOVE about this woman!

"Just had to share this: so I make plans to meet this guy in TO. I tell the guy to suggest a place - this being the guy who suggested Gusto 101, nice and very expensive. So he suggests Fresh. I look it up and it's a vegetarian place with no alcohol. What happened to all that Gusto talk? I sent him a text telling him that after working all day and then driving 90 minutes to meet him, tofu and no wine wouldn't work. Haven't heard back so about to block the jerk. Can u believe it??? Single for a reason!!!"

Ladies, there are tons of dudes out there you're going to have to learn to avoid. They fall into predictable, easy-to-recognize categories. Do yourself a favour and commit these to memory. I will help by reviewing one of the many categories EVERY FRIDAY (date night), starting with this one:

1) The Cheapskate 
We've said enough about him already. Cheapskates are bad, but not as bad as next Friday's category, The Man-Whore. You'll need a notebook, and a pen to stab yourself in the heart with. 

EDITOR'S NOTE:  I'm not quite done with Big Spendah. When he realized his hot tofu date wasn't going to happen, he sent my friend a snippy email saying: "I'll have you know that Fresh has the best sweet potato fries in Toronto." Again, drive 90 minutes, no alcohol. WHO GIVES A FUCK ABOUT THE SWEET POTATO FRIES? Single. For a reason.  


You know who's the man? LL Cool J is the man. Cuz when LL's home was being burgled the other night while his family slept, LL went down the damn stairs and knocked this mutha to the ground with his bare, money-making hands! Oh yes he did. 

This ass-whuppin' was brought to you courtesy 
$27.95. Available everywhere.

Then he thumped the bejeebers out of him and held the poor stupid broken-faced barstard there while his daughter called the cops. 
"Uhm, hello, police? My dad is the shit." (Well, I'm paraphrasing, but that's basically what she probably might have said. Maybe.)

The failed thief, a 56-year-old transient by the name of Jonathan "My Face Hurts" Kirby (who is thinking, "Could my transient life get any sorrier? Apparently, yes!"),  is now facing life in prison if convicted. Prosecutors have asked the judge to set his bail at $1.1 million. Which, typically, transient persons do not have.

Meanwhile, LL looks like the biggest hero in the world. A Charles Bronson for the new millenium. A Clint Eastwood for the urban population. He most assuredly will somehow turn this into a bestselling workout book (Pump Up Yo Burglar-Ass-Whippin' Muscles Tha LL Cool J Way!) and/or rap song and/or movie.
Charlie Sheen? Feh. He's not winning. LL Cool J is winning!

* What, this wasn't enough for you? Fine. Go to TMZ, they get everything first anyway. I just make it funnier, is all ... (Click here on BAM! THAT'S RIGHT, FOOL, YOU IN LL's  HOUSE NOW!)

Thursday, 23 August 2012


No, my daughter did not actually step in this 
steaming bag of dog crap, but she could have.
Welcome to a brand new series I like to call Seriously, What is Wrong With You? In this inaugural instalment, we attempt to teach certain cloddish pet owners what ought to be instinctive: respect for hygiene, public spaces and their fellow man. I can't tell you how often I go for a stroll only to be assaulted by the sight of a freshly dropped bag of dog shit on the sidewalk. (Actually I can tell you how often. EVERY DAY.)
This one is worth extra points due 
to the extruded, stepped-on contents.

Then, this past weekend, my daughter and I went for a walk in her neighbourhood, and before we'd even rounded the first corner, there it was. 
A fresh-dropped bag. 
"Mom!" my daughter exclaimed, as if it were my fault. "Are you seeing this? I could have stepped in that!" 
I took a closer look. 
"Well somebody beat you to it," I observed. 

After that, it became a game: how many bags of dog poop will we see? (Four. Saddest game ever.) Anyway, my point is, if you are one of these dog-poop-droppers, I have news for you: You're a slob. The act of putting your dog's crap in bag does not signal the end of your commitment. You are now supposed to walk that warm little bundle the extra few steps to a garbage receptacle and get it out of harm's way. 
Thank you. This concludes the first edition of Seriously, What is Wrong With You? Stay tuned next week, when we tackle the thorny issue of men who think flip-flops aren't complete without a nice pair of white ankle socks. (Warning: Graphic images.) 

Wednesday, 22 August 2012


So this is what my friend whipped up for breakfast on Sunday. I'm talking homemade blueberry waffles, smoked maple bacon and fresh ground coffee. Just shoot me.

You know how they say you can't put a price on friendship? 
Yeah, well they're wrong. And let me tell you why.
I had a friend over last weekend, my "bestie," as the kids say. I adore this woman, we've been friends for years and have shared many a personal trial and tribulation. She's one of those people who, if you call her in the middle of the night and say "I am feeling sad," she will get in her car and drive an hour to check up on you. Because she will know just from the sound of your voice that you mean much more than just "I am feeling sad."
She is funny. She is smart. She is kind and loyal and honest and true.
There's just one problem. I may have to get a second job just to be able to continue being her friend.

See, the thing is, she's a hard-core foodie. Her idea of a fun Saturday afternoon is buying a $40 bottle of wine, a potato-grater and a bacon-smoker and making gnocchi al carbonara from scratch. Over the years, she has taken it upon herself to educate my peasant's palate. She has introduced me to gourmet coffee beans. She has introduced me to Vintages wines. She has informed me that when I say, "I used paprika in that recipe," I have to be more specific. Did I use smoked paprika? Did I use hot paprika? Sweet paprika? Spanish paprika? Am I a bumpkin from Planet 'We eat mud samwiches fer breakfast'? 

I have been introduced to so much good food, my tastebuds now speak fluent French. Which is fine, in fact it's wonderful. 
Except that now I can't drink plonk anymore. 
I can't buy canned coffee.
I can't eat store-brand brie, and I certainly can't buy  powdered parmesan in that convenient shaker thingie. I have to buy the good stuff and grate it myself, because once your tastebuds have experienced GOOD parmigiano reggiano, they throw a goddam fit if you feed them Kraft grated cheese product.

And even if I could, I couldn't do it when she's around. 
When she comes over for the weekend, I have to get a line of credit and hit Pusateri's so that she won't get cramps and have to tell the ER doctor her friend gave her food cooties. So yes, I can put a price on friendship.  But she is worth it :-)

Editor's note: Have you considered being chums with someone more of your palate calibre? I hear JWoww isn't too picky ... 

Tuesday, 21 August 2012


CORRECT USAGE OF A DRIVE-THROUGH ATM  (Note the car. That is crucial.)
 Apparently it is extremely bad form to walk through a drive-through ATM machine. If you attempt to do so, God will be alerted and your account will be shut down as well.

*Actual conversation overheard at drive-through TD bank machine in Brampton on Monday.

A man walks up to a TD bank machine in a drive-through lane and begins to do his banking. A car pulls up behind him. The driver opens the window and squawks, "Buddy, what do ya think yer doing?"

"Buddy" ignores the driver.

Driver honks.

Buddy appears unperturbed. Continues to do his banking. 
(I begin to admire his focus.)

Driver honks again. Toot! Toot! Adds, "What the fuck?" for good measure.

Buddy pulls the visor of his ballcap down and presses a few more ATM buttons. 
(I begin to wonder if perhaps Buddy is deaf.)

Driver leans out of the open window and yells, "HEY!"

Buddy gives him the merest flicker of a glance, but there is clearly a warning in it. 
(I begin to think it is FANTASTIC that I happen to be parked in a spot where I can spy on this live entertainment without being observed.)

Driver gives it one last shot, being very, very specific this time: "HEY ASSHOLE! THIS IS A DRIVE-THROUGH! You can't stand there and do your banking! You gotta DRIVE through!"

Buddy seems to have finished his banking now. He turns to walk away and the driver steps on the gas, gunning into the barely vacated spot.

Buddy continues walking, unperturbed. Then just before he rounds the corner to head out of sight, he glances over his shoulder at the driver, who is now punching frustratedly at the bank machine. "By the way, " Buddy says, "it's out of order."

And to think I was going to go to a movie theatre for entertainment tonight...

Monday, 20 August 2012


Mel Gibson, whorrified,
Wanna come to my house and model 
really, really low-cut jeans for me?
© Denis Makarenko |
Ee-e-ew! Mel Gibson has a hot new lady friend, and by lady I mean "40-odd years his junior" and by friend I mean "probably sleeping together." The miracle is not so much that this booze-sodden lech manages to trick attractive young playthings into putting up with him (I'm sure they like him for his per$$$onality), but rather that these poor creatures actually think it will help their career. 
I mean, really. 
At this point, doesn't even Pee-wee Herman have more cachet? 
In a telling aside, is reporting Mel's new squeeze, Nadia Lanfranconi, is an aspiring musician and model who "has 'F Me' written all over her." 
And that's just perfect, because Mel has "F You" written all over him! 
For a photo of this extremely classy new Gibson girl (and by girl I mean trollop-ish star chaser), go to TMZ right here.


There are a lot of things I don't like about myself. Like, a LOT. Sometimes I beat myself up about these things, because that's what women do. (Especially Catholic women. Being a woman and being Catholic is like wearing a guilt bodysuit.)

A vegan feast of slimy tofu topped with 
blandtastic alfalfa sprouts. WAITER! 
Stop kidding around and bring me a steak!

So I have days when I feel bad about myself. And I have other days when I realize, hey, it could be worse. I could be a VEGAN. Everything about that cult is creepy to me, starting with the ugly word "vegan."  I also don't like its air of superiority, like being a vegetarian wasn't good enough for them. 

But most of all I hate its food.
After my brush with uber-fit Tosca Reno (click on I'll give up breathing before I give up THAT!), I decided to treat myself to a "healthy" lunch.
And I don't know what the hell happened after that but all of a sudden I am staring at a menu where everything sounds capital "G" gross. (I won't identify the place other than to say it's popular and it's in Toronto and its food makes me gag. AVOID! AVOID! AVOID!) It's all "raw" this and "organic" that, it's stewed in "beet juice" or it's sprinkled with "eggplant dust."  

I try to be a good sport so I order a plate, thinking maybe it will look better than it sounds. But when I get it, it's just a big plate of repulsive. 
People, let me just say it: food is not supposed to be grey. If your food is grey, you should throw it out because that means it's gone bad. Food is also not supposed to have a slimy, intestinal sheen to it. Because that means it's gone bad AND it was never food in the first place. 

Then, the final, fatal error: I force myself to take a bite.
Have you ever had something really painful happen unexpectedly, like say a hammer falls on your big toe, and you uncontrollably shout out "FUCK! DAMN! FUCK! OW-OW-OW-OW!"? That's exactly what I did when I tasted this vegan concoction.
So here's what I did. I heaved it into a garbage container right there on the streets of downtown Toronto. By now I was famished, but thankfully I was headed for my best friend's house for the evening. (More on my weekend with bestie to follow.) I knew she would save me, because she is everything one could ask for in a friend. 
And by that I mean:
A) She is funny
B) She is smart
C) She is loyal
D) She's an amazing cook 
E) And most important of all: SHE IS NOT A GODDAMN VEGAN!

Sunday, 19 August 2012


Continued from: 

I can't tell if Wiz Khalifa's tongue is stuck to Amber Rose's velcro head or if he is, in fact, licking her. 

And not even sexy-licking her, but just licking her like a cat licks its own anus: in a way that clearly suggests it is not a pleasurable task, but one that needs doing

I suppose at some point I will stop being amazed at the 
trashy public behaviour of rappers who date former strippers, but obviously I'm not there yet.


Continued from:

Because here is Jennifer Morriston, an actress I've never heard of and frankly her name doesn't matter because all she really wants you to notice about her is her fetching hairdo. 
Oh, and also her ass cheeks. 

And if you thought that was gross ...

CLICK HERE for the final horror