Saturday, 13 October 2012


Now available in Canada. You've been warned.
Who wants some mystery meat-filled 'za? Yeah, that's right. Nobody.

Great news! No, wait, disgusting news! No, wait ... oh forget it. I'll just let you decide for yourself. (You'll find out where I stand on this issue in the very next sentence.) The "hotdog-stuffed crust," a horrifying Pizza Hut creation that had until now been safely quarantined in the UK, has come to Canada. I'm not sure whose bright idea it was to bring it here when it so obviously should have been shipped directly to Honey Boo Boo's dinner table, but nevertheless, it's here. I came face to face with this abomination yesterday when someone brought one in to work for us to snack on. Glowing with colours and textures not seen since the days when everything was made of either melamine or plastic, the thing was so weird it was fascinating. But appetizing? Uh, no. 
I mean, my co-workers will eat anything, and yet NONE OF US would touch this thing. Oh, we circled it. We peered at it. We said things like "Eeew, it's got that weird cheese on it," and "Gross! There's a weenie in the crust!" The accompanying "drizzle," a vile honey mustard sauce the exact colour of squished bug guts, pretty much sealed the deal.
I didn't even bother to Google the nutritional information, because really, how good can it be if it's got Cheez Whiz  on top and a friggin' hotdog in the crust? 
The only mitigating factor is that this is a "limited engagement" food horror: it's only here until Nov. 25. After that, we'll be safe again ... until some genius decides to bring Scotland's beloved haggis-stuffed crust across the drink.

Friday, 12 October 2012


Yeah, I love this. Bobbi Kristina can 
marry her g.d. BROTHER but I can't 
 marry Ryan because he might be 
my 19th cousin thrice removed. 

I'm a big believer in letting sleeping dogs lie. And also in not probing one's heritage too deeply, which is sort of the same thing but not really. What I'm getting at in my scattershot way is that has done some research into the background of Canadian celebrities and found that, basically, they're all related. And they're all French. And they're all going to die of some horrible inbreeding-related disease. (That last one was just a guess, but it could happen. I know this girl who married her cousin; their three-eyed child is nice enough but very hard to look at.)

So what has discovered is that pretty much any Canadian celebrity of any stature is related to Justin Bieber. They've been sniffing around his roots (er, so to speak) for about a year now and they've determined he is related to Avril Lavigne, Celine Dion and Ryan Gosling, all of whom have ancestors who came to Quebec from France and immediately started breeding future superstars. 

The good news is that, having spent my early formative years in Quebec, there appears to be a good chance that I'm related to someone famous. (In fact I'm on RIGHT NOW, checking to see if I'm related to Wayne Gretzy, Shania Twain or Kiefer Sutherland. Because if I am, I am hitting my cousins up for a big fat loan!)
The bad news is that there also appears to be a chance I'm related to Ryan Gosling. Which means our lavish wedding, which I have already booked and which will happen the instant he dumps that harpy Eva Mendes, may well be illegal. 
Click here to see the full ancestral story at


Nick Gordon with his sister-wife, Bobbi Kristina.  
(Bobbi, hon, you're going to need
a MUCH bigger cross...)
Paul Smith/Featureflash/crestock photo

The good news: The late Whitney Houston’s only child, 19-year-old Bobbi Kristina, is engaged to be married.
The bad news: To her brother . . .

So let's see, how many kinds of wrong is this? First of all, the girl lost her mother in a most tragic and shattering way barely eight months ago. So maybe this is not a good time to be making life-altering decisions. 
Then there’s the fact that Bobbi Kristina, who inherited a whopping $20 million, might very well look like a flashing “JACKPOT!!!” sign to all the wrong people.
Third, did I mention HE’S HER FRIGGIN BROTHER!?!

Ok fine, he’s her adopted brother. But they were raised together as brother and sister and the only thing that could make this creepier is if Woody Allen officiated at their creepy wedding and said, “Mazel tov, and I hope you have a beautiful daughter some day so that I can marry her!”

Not surprisingly, news of the engagement isn't sitting too well with Bobbi's family. Apparently they frown on kin marrying kin, and also on future husbands who tweet photos of themselves brandishing a gun (click  HERE to see the pic). Belatedly realizing his lapse in judgment, the brother-groom moved swiftly to redeem himself by tweeting a pic of a huge sapphire engagement ring that he might have stolen at gunpoint.
Now, some of you might be wondering "but what about Bobbi Kristina's dad, Bobby Brown? Could he not intervene?"
Well, he could, except that they're not on speaking terms. And he is currently booked on a world tour of crackhouses. And he is probably even more of a concern to the family than the brother-groom is. So the answer to that would be "no." But it was sweet of you to at least try.

Editor's note: I'm sure it is pure coincidence that the Houstons are poised to debut their new "reality" show, The Houstons: On Our Own. It airs Oct. 24 . . .  and if I were the Kardashians, I would be shaking in my $5,000 Italian kitten-skin boots.  


That's right, everybody line up. Nice 'n' orderly-like. Yes, folks, you will all get a paid seat on the bacteria bus, where your seatmate and virtually everyone else on this tube of doom will commence hacking, sneezing and nose-blowing the very second the doors close. This has been my experience all week long. There are several virulent bugs making the rounds in the Toronto-area, and they ALL ride public transit. I can accept that one (or all 60) of my bus-mates might be under the weather. What I cannot accept is that many of them apparently DID NOT PASS KINDERGARTEN and still haven't learned to cover their holes when they cough or sneeze. Dis-friggin-gusting. Because this has been my "reward" at the end of every long workday this week, today, more than any other Friday, I really mean it when I say "TGIF."

Thursday, 11 October 2012


Mariah Carey, Nicki Minaj, Stevie Nicks, Whorrified,
Sheryl Crow, left, with Stevie Nicks at Blockbuster Ent Awards/Photo: Crestock
But I'd feel a lot better if you just maybe 
didn't have your hand so close to my neck . . . 

Well this fake Nicki Minaj-Mariah Carey feud just gets better and better. Now, dinosaur diva Stevie Nicks is weighing in. (Kids, she's an amazing singer from a band called Fleetwood Mac that was big in your mom's day. Rihanna may have stolen her name from one of their songs, if that helps put it in context for you...)
I don't know about you, but the first thing I thought when I heard about this feud was, "I wonder what Stevie Nicks thinks about all of this? If, that is, she's still alive."

And it turns out that was a pretty good question, because what Stevie Nicks thinks is this: "If I had been Mariah, I would have walked over to Nicki and strangled her to death right there." She told reporters in no uncertain terms that if Minaj had verbally attacked her like she attacked Carey, "I would have killed her in front of all those people and had to go to jail for it."

Whoa! That's some seriously gangster smack talk! She's not talking girlie slaps, she's not talking finger-wagging, she's not even talking hair pulling. She's talking prison justice. She's talking stone cold "death by strangulation."

I tell you, this makes me want to listen to my old Fleetwood Mac records all over again, to see if maybe I missed something. 
Anyway, Stevie may have already received her first death threat from Nicki's crew, because she's now apologizing for her statement (boo, hiss, stick to your guns, girl!). She notes she was exhausted after a long day of interviews and that it was "very out of character" for her.
"I feel very protective toward Mariah Carey, who has gone through many difficulties in her life, and I spoke without thinking," Stevie said.

Yeah, well, whatever. But the fact is that she let the cat out of the bag and if Mariah's people were smart, they'd be making a deal with Stevie RIGHT NOW before the American Idol people hire her to fire up their ratings. Because security doesn't get much better than a crazy broad who's willing to strangle someone to death on live TV!


THE MORTAL SHAME: My poor, butchered lawn by morning light. Observe the bald patches, the long swaths of grass that got missed, the entire south end of the lawn that didn't get mowed at all (because the *x*$#@7&x*  lawn mower clogged). Haaaate landscaping!

I finally mowed my lawn today. I simply couldn't ignore it any longer. Honestly, it was like a pasture back there. I mean, the grass had sprouted tassels. It waved in the breeze like a wheat field. The other day three Holsteins wandered in and started grazing and when the farmer came to retrieve them he looked around and said, "Geez, lady, can ya blame them?" 
Yeah, I'm exaggerating a bit for effect ... there were no tassels. But the point is, I so hate mowing that damn tiny yard of mine that I let it go too long. I tried to bribe some neighbourhood brats, but what's with kids these days? Who turns down $25 to mow a teeny tiny lawn?
So I finally borrowed a neighbour's gas mower and went at it. 

True to my established lawn-care form, I waited till dusk ... why start doing things right this late in the game? ... and didn't even make it to the end of the first row before it bogged out. The sheer volume of cut grass coming at it choked it dead. 

Actually, no. I tried again and learned 
that, hey, when you mow your lawn
 in daylight it turns out better! 

For a long moment, I stared at it stupidly. "What? You're a LAWN MOWER! You should be able to take this shit!" But of course that got me nowhere and the light was fading fast, so I wheeled out my old push mower. It needs oil and it shrieked like a small vicious rodent the entire time, but I was determined now. I hacked and I sawed, I whirled and spun in all directions, chopping and butchering and gasping as sheaths of cut grass flew up all around me. 

It was pretty much dark now so I was doing it by sheer intuition, feeling my way around the yard, bat-like. At some point I must have come to my senses because the next thing I remember, I was sitting at my kitchen table, moaning, "What have I done?" I knew that when morning came, I was going to have to face the murdered greenscape formerly known as my backyard. 

To make a long story short, morning came. And it was bad. There were bald spots, there were tufts of 8-inch grass, there were uprooted chunks of sod. I'm sure my neighbours looked out while enjoying their morning coffee and muttered, "Well that settles it. She is completely bat-shit crazy."
And I could NOT go out like that. 

So I sparked up the gas mower one more time and evened things out a bit. 
Then I raked and raked and raked until I was soaked with sweat, then I heaved the mounds of cut grass over the fence for the deer to enjoy. 
And then I went inside and poured a stiff drink and thanked the very heavens that it is mid-October. Which means I will not have to endure this gruesome ritual again until spring. Or until I sell the house. Or until I find some teen who realizes that the desperate lady in Number 5 will actually pay FIFTY DOLLARS if it means she doesn't have to go through that again.

Wednesday, 10 October 2012


Suddenly I'm feeling kind of Montego Bay. 
Handler, take my jacket and fetch my 
personal dreadlocks-installer . . .  
photo: markwaters/dreamstime

Yeah so it's pretty much official: Brad Pitt has lost his marbles AND his personal adviser.
How else to explain his bizarre new look: "Brad with messy dreadlocks"? Jah Rastafari! Click on the link to Toofab to see Brad's new look. 

Be sure to tune in next week, when Toofab will be featuring pix of Angelina with her hair in corn rows. (That woman does not like to be upstaged.)

Dreadlocks? Please. At my age, 
spiritual pursuits are what matters. 
"Here, my homeless brother, take 
my money; I have far too much of it. 
You're not homeless? Well you 
look homeless, so take it anyway."

photo: carrienelson1/dreamstime

In other celebrities-go-off-their-meds news (but this time in a good way), we have George Clooney being kind to panhandlers, as opposed to telling them to "get a job" the way the rest of us do. In fact, when George was solicited by a homeless man after he and Stacy Keibler exited a restaurant in NYC, he handed the guy ten bucks, then patted him on the shoulder and told him to "Have a nice night." 
Man. I take back every mean thing I ever said about George Clooney. (I hate it when I have to do that.)

Click on the link for the video of George giving loot to a homeless man while Stacy beams as if she has just witnessed a beatification: St. George of the blessed street people.

Tuesday, 9 October 2012


Katy Perry, John Mayer
 But then I realized I'm gorgeous and he's a turd! 
So I think everything's going to be okay.

Photo: Carrienelson1/dreamstime

Aw, this is so sad. Actually, no. I'm not even going to pretend. It is friggin FANTASTIC that Katy Perry has kicked man-whore John Mayer to the curb. 
After giving him the key to her home a month ago, Katy was reportedly hoping to take their relationship "to the next level." Meaning to get him to settle the fuck down and be monogamous. 

But of course, you can't take the John Mayer out of John Mayer, and within weeks he was up to his old tricks, disappearing for days at a time and then showing up for "booty calls" and promising to behave. 
Which lasted two, maybe three days, and then he'd be off a-whoring again. With whom, I cannot say or even imagine. It is literally unfathomable to me how he continues to rope in pretty, talented women who are far too good for him . . . or any women at all, for that matter . . . when it is well-documented that he is a full-blown, stage-3 creep. (Past girlfriends he has traumatized include Taylor Swift, Jessica Simpson, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Jennifer Aniston and Minka Kelly.) 
His "fear of committing" is the stuff of legend. As is his inability to be faithful, his penchant for blabbing his girlfriends' "sex secrets," his high opinion of himself, his apparent aversion to haircuts and bathing . . . well, I could go on but I'm afraid I'll retch all over my keyboard.
It should be noted that this is the second time Katy has kicked the Mayer of Slutsville to the curb. Hopefully this time it will take.

EDITOR'S NOTE: I did like that one song he did, though . . . what was it called? 
MY NOTE: It was called "I'm the biggest mistake you'll ever make."

EDITOR'S NOTE:  No it wasn't.
MY NOTE: It was called "A dirt sandwich is better than I am."

EDITOR'S NOTE:  No it wasn't that, either. You're being silly.
MY NOTE: Fine. It was called "Your Body is a Wonderland." (But it should have been called "And you'd be CRAZY to let me touch it!")

Sunday, 7 October 2012


"I can assure you that my breasts are 
not wearing ANY MAKEUP whatsoever!"

I have to tell you that I really struggled to come up with a good Thanksgiving themed post for you guys. Something that wasn't treacly, cloying or derivative. 
And then I stumbled across some pix that basically delivered it to me in a gift-wrapped Tiffany's box. 
Thanks to these pix, I can now say in all sincerity that what I am thankful for is MAKEUP. When you click on the following links, you'll be thankful for it too. 

A word of caution: do not click on the links until AFTER you've enjoyed your Thanksgiving feast, because I swear, some of these are going to put you off your dinner. And yes, I know, it's wrong to get such visceral pleasure out of these images, but let's face it,  I AM NOT TO BLAME for Kate Hudson's mutant bat ears! OK, conscience salved. Moving on . . .

Pamela Anderson: First of all let me just state the obvious: boobs don't need makeup, so they look great before AND after. But the face? Ay, dios mio. Click on Eeek!

Kate Hudson: I've already made one bat-ears comment. No need to make another. Unless you want me to . . . Click on Kate 

Oprah: Yeah. Well who friggin cares what she looks like without makeup, she's still richer than all of us put together. "You don't like the way I look? Fine. I CAN BUY ANOTHER HEAD! You! Naomi Campbell! I want to buy your head!" Click on Oprah 

Rihanna: Looks perhaps slightly more crazy without makeup, but still undeniably pretty. Although I think being 24 should automatically disqualify you from the Stars Without Makeup game. Because if you can't look good without makeup at that age, there's no hope for any of us. Click on Rihanna

Snooki: On the fence about this one. She kinda looks like a wholesome Italian kid. And yet also like something not ... quite ... human. Click on Snooks

Teri Hatcher: Not too bloody bad. But is it just me or does this seem a titch "staged" for a candid shot? It's just me? Fine. You guys suck! Click on Teri

Honey Boo Boo: Yeah, I know. Should be an automatic underage-disqualify. But I friggin LOVE this kid! Click on Smudgey Boo Boo

Lady Gaga: Hello-o-o! Cheating! What part of Stars WITHOUT Makeup did you not understand? Click on Googoo Gaga

Whorrified: Yes, and if Gaga's not wearing any makeup, then neither is our next celebrity. Yeah, that would be me, with no makeup. Click on, well you don't have to click on anything. Just look! Totally not wearing spackle. None. For reals!

Editor's note: Except for blush, lipstick, eyeliner, mascara, face powder and freshly blonded hair. Natural. Like polyester.