Saturday, 10 November 2012


This, apparently, is how the under-18 crowd spread the news that the bestest prepubescent couple in the whole entire world has broken up. For the adults in the room, we're talking about Selena Gomez dumping Justin Bieber. The news is lighting Twitter up like a slot machine on "Jackpot," and while it is not surprising that kids that age and in that business have decided to part ways, the two were unusually steadfast for a long while. 

It seems the Biebs' performance at a Nov. 7 Victoria's Secret fashion show might have had something to do with it. Apparently the poor tyke went stark-raving mad at the sight of all those 7-foot-tall, half-naked goddesses and was like a puppy uncontrollably peeing all over the floor in excitement, running around after them and asking them for phone numbers and mostly striking out ... presumably on account of he's about 12 and also, hello, ever heard of playing it cool, dude?
Anyway. Biebs. Gomez. Over and out. Tragic. Moving on . . . 

Friday, 9 November 2012


You were trying to hold his hand! 
That's it; this friendship is over!
And from our "Oh, The Irony" files, we have Katy Perry shunning her former best friend, Rihanna. The two are not only "barely talking," but Katy did not attend Rihanna's huge Halloween bash and Rihanna was a glaring no-show at Katy's 28th birthday party.

What's behind this sudden freeze? Katy does not approve of Rihanna's reconciliation with face-biter Chris Brown. 

Which is certainly understandable, I mean who in their right mind would approve of that? But it's a bit rich for Katy to be playing Mother Superior. This is, after all, a woman who married creepy sex addict Russell Brand. And then moved on to serial womanizer and all-around arsehole John Mayer. And then dumped him because he was treating her like ass and then took him back again. And who now hangs around with RPat and KStew, because their reconciliation is obviously so much healthier.

Listen, nobody is going to defend Rihanna's decision to take Chris back. (Although "take him back" is a bit of a misnomer, since he appears to be dipping a toe in quite a few other puddles, if you know what I mean). But for Katy to pull her friendship at a time when it is probably going to be most needed says as much about her as it does about RiRi. For starters, it says, "I will only like you if you do what I want."

Anyway, Rihanna has gone and showed Katy because she's found a new girl to be besties with. And if Katy thought Chris was a bad influence, wait till she sees the good clean fun Rihanna has been getting up to with her new pal Kate Moss. Click here on Who Needs Clothes When You're This Hot?


Good lord. Is it just me or does this guy look  EXACTLY
 like Big Moose, the "special" football player in
the Archie comic books? 
Photo: CreStock
So, the secret's out. Multiple sources have leaked the hot news that People magazine will crown Channing Tatum, or Tatum Channing or Tanning Scrotum or whatever the hell his name is (I can never remember it because it sounds like a stupid made-up 1950s porno name), the Sexiest Man Alive. 

Well first of all, hell no. 
And second of all, who did they ask? Not me, that’s for sure. Because I would have given them the same answer I'd have given them last year, had they asked, when the real sexiest man alive was passed over yet again by the completely blind panel of sexless old men who chose Bradley Frigging Cooper. (I’m not being crude, that’s actually his middle name.) 

People is sticking to its buzz-generating principles and refusing to confirm or deny that Channing is the chosen one, coyly noting we’ll just have to wait until Nov. 14 to find out for sure. 

Uh-huh. Well I'm already sure.
Ladies, say it with me: The sexiest man alive is RYAN GOSLING! I'm sorry, Channing, it's nothing personal. I know you have abs that could grate a block of parmesan, but I just don't find great dull hunks of charmless meat-head sexy. What I find sexy is Ryan Frigging Gosling. People magazine, please adjust your magazine cover accordingly. Or else...

Thursday, 8 November 2012


 "Hi Dia… Ow. OW! Fer fuck’s sake, you’re hurting my face! (Geez, is she drunk again!?)" 

 Photo: CreStock

So the big, perhaps the biggest, question in the wake of Tuesday's presidential election is: WTF? Was Diane Sawyer drunk, on meds, or just, as ABC is desperately insisting, really tired?
The legendary TV anchor, who has interviewed everyone from Fidel Castro to Whitney Houston, was in particularly fine form for Tuesday night's election coverage. She was slurring her words, she was rambling, she was making weird non-sequiturs, she was ... well, she was going a pretty dang good impression of a drunk, is what she was doing.
Her bizarre behaviour did not go unnoticed, and within minutes, Twitter was ablaze with speculation. ABC moved swiftly to tamp down the damage, with various sources assuring various other sources that Diane was jober as a sudge, noting: "Diane’s fine, she’s exhausted." 

Rrrrrright. Because when I'm exhausted, I talk like thisss, verrrry shlowly, and I sshay sshilly thingsh and I . . . WHOOO! . . . I hang on to the floor to keep from falling off! Because . . . people in China are watching, and . . . and we need music! Where is the music?

Of course, Diane's not talking, probably because she's sleeping off her exhaustion, so we'll just have to decide for ourselves. What do you think, folks? Watch the video below and tell me, is Diane Sawyer drunk, doped, or just "tired?"


You want me to save the planet by paying for plastic bags?
Fine. But I'm going to get my money's worth . . .

Dear grocery store clerk: I know I was a bit snippy with you yesterday. I want to apologize but I also want to explain. See, when I asked why your store still charges me for plastic bags when Toronto has scrapped the tax (Remember? That one time Mayor Rob Ford accidentally got something right?), you could have simply said, "I don't know, I'm just a teenager." 

Instead, you decided this was an opportunity to climb onto your high horse and enlighten me. 
"It's for a good cause," you said. 
"What cause, the store's profits?" I retorted. 
"No, you're saving the environment," you said. 
And that propagandic platitude is what did it.  
"No I am NOT saving the environment," I hissed. "I am still getting the goddamn bag, only now I am paying you for it instead of you giving it to me for free!" 
"Well they don't decompose," you persisted.
"Well then why are you selling them?" I said. "I'll tell you what, when Exxon Mobil stops spilling a gajillion gallons of oil into the sea and UAE airlines stops flying jets the size of Cuba hither and yon perhaps then I'll do my bit by not buying this piddling five-cent bag!" (There may even have been spittle. I actually am sorry about that part. That's just gross.)

At which point the poor bastard who agreed to come grocery shopping with me started tittering nervously and saying "Oh she doesn't mean that, she's had a bad day, she's tired, she's off her meds..." and so forth until I turned to him and said, "Don't YOU start!" and the two of you froze and looked at each other in an "Is she gonna go postal on us here?" kind of conspiracy. 

And at that point I came to my senses and realized this is not your fault. And that you looked uncomfortable. And that you are probably about 16. So for that, I apologize. But I forewarn you, I will be back next week. (Your prices really can't be beat.) And the next week. And the week after that. And every time, I will be buying the five-cent plastic bags ... and probably complaining about it. 

Editor's note: She usually comes in on Mondays. You might want to adjust your work schedule.


Jennifer Lopez, Whorrified,
Jennifer Lopez would like the great unwashed to know that the persistent rumours about her being a diva are hurtful and untrue. You may have heard about that maid who was fired from her job at the German hotel J Lo was staying at simply because she had the dirty nerve to asked for J Lo's autograph? That is pure, unfortunate coincidence.

True, the maitre d'hotel did receive a complaint that J Lo was "disturbed" whilst being fabulous in her gazillion-dollar room. 
True, the maid was summarily sacked for said disturbance
True, the maid was also summarily crestfallen and inconsolable, explaining to German newspaper Bild: "I cleaned on her floor. And I am an incredibly big fan so I took all my courage and rang the bell to get an autograph." (Well that'll teach you, hey, domestic peasant? You think life is a Maid in Manhattan movie? Ptooey!)

However, you have to remember: J Lo is a goddess. Not a diva, mind you; that is something sort of  not really entirely different. So how can we expect her to understand that it took every ounce of nerve that maid had to knock on the door, knowing that her shimmering, bronze-flecked idol lurked within? That perhaps she might not only get an autograph but also . . . oh, dare to dream! . . . the chance to personally scrub her toilet? Instead, she was met with two goons in J Lo's employ, who gave her the bum's rush.  

In J Lo's defence, when the news broke yesterday that she had complained about the maid and got her fired, she took to Twitter to insist she had nothing to do with it, then signed off with the hashtag #hurtful. And if she thinks THAT'S hurtful, imagine how the unemployed maid feels.

Oh well, there's nothing J Lo can do about it now. It's not as if she could pick up the phone and with one simple request have the poor chit pardoned and reinstated.
Because to do that, she would have to be a diva or something. Which she is not. Obviously. 

Wednesday, 7 November 2012


Gisele Bundchen, Rumer Willis, Whorrified,
Gisele Bundchen, seen here before (and this is crucial)
she was nine months pregnant and looking like a 
seedpod that was about to burst. This Gisele? 
Sure, this Gisele can wear a bikini. 
Photo: CreStock

I'm a little short on time and patience today, having spent a feverish day at work yesterday, so I'll cut right to the chase. Bikinis ... they're for attractive people. 

I am terribly sorry about the intrinsic unfairness of that fact, but if you have cottage-cheese thighs, if you are pregnant, if you are recovering from a nasty bout of pernicious anorexia or if you are Lady Gaga, please note: Bikinis are not your friend or ours. You need to wear a one-piece, also known as a maillot. Which sounds sexier, if that helps.

Despite the fact that I'm being unusually blunt, some of you still won't "get it," so I'm including some visuals to hammer my point home. Please follow the links so you can see for yourself how JUST PLAIN WRONG it is to stuff 180 pounds of inappropriateness into a bikini that reveals 178 pounds of it.

RUMER WILLIS: There is some kind of mean-spirited gene genie at work in Hollywood, cruelly ensuring that children take after their less-attractive parent. Which is why Rumer Willis looks so creepily like Bruce Willis in an ugly granny-bottom bathing suit. Please. Stop. Click on Rumer bikini.

DEMI MOORE: No more bikinis for this former extreme hottie. At least not until she puts some meat back on those bones. Where's me arse? 

COCO: Way too much of everything. And that G-string? No one's ever gonna get that thing out of there. It's gone forever. Cocoloco

GISELE: Yes, I'm talking about the crazy-hot Brazilian supermodel. This is just a temporary pregnancy-bikini fatwa, because this pic of her looking like a tumour-infested praying mantis, all stick legs and stick arms and a big bloated breadbasket, creeped me right the hell out. Pregnicky-icky-icky

LADY GAGA: Make up your mind, Googoo, are you trying to be a sexpot or a gangster? My eyes are so confused! Lady Gag Gag

KELLY OSBOURNE: Yes, no, what the ... what? Sorry, I'm trying, but I'm just seeing Ozzie Osbourne. 30 years ago. In a bikini. Ozzeek!

KEITH URBAN: In a man-kini. OK, that does it. Uncle. Uncle! UNCLE!!!!  Borat-esque

Tuesday, 6 November 2012


 Without even realizing it, a hurricane-rattled Katie Holmes
reverts to the old TomKat days and makes the secret 
L. Ron Hubbard-summoning hand gesture.
Photo: CreStock

That Katie Holmes, she's real people. When Hurricane Sandy blasted the Eastern seaboard, smiting some people more equally than others, it did not spare Katie or little Suri, and Katie braved it like a trooper.  

The Huffington Post reports that her luxury building in NYC lost power Monday night, forcing its wealthy residents to make do with whatever Egyptian albino beeswax candles the maids could find. Katie was a good sport about that, although when the water shut off and you couldn't even flush a toilet, she decided it was time to "abandon her home and find temporary housing."

And when I say "temporary housing," I don't mean that Katie and Suri went to a rec centre filled with sweaty displaced normal people. I mean they got into a chauffeured limousine and checked into the ultra-exclusive Mark Hotel. ("Hello, room service? Suri's hungry but we don't want her usual favourite. We're playing "Just Like Poor People" today, so I was thinking maybe some weiners and beans? But could you make sure the weiners are made from grain-fed spring lambs and the beans were picked by Third World artisans making a living wage? We're playing, but not that much ...")

Now before you get all huffy and snort, "Who the hell does she think she is?" just remember, Katie is real people and she did not escape unscathed. A "building insider" (my money's on the doorman) told Huff Po that once she had made the decision to bail, she and Suri had to contend with a terrifying darkened staircase. "They had to walk from the 12th floor, with no lights, like everyone else,” the insider said.
Of course, if she were still of the coven, Katie could have been transported from the 12th floor by sheer Xenu mind-waves, but then she'd have had to go to another of those damn meetings and wear that weird headwire thing that gave her bad dreams for days afterwards, so obviously, even in the wake of a hurricane, she knows it is far, far better to be real people.

Oh, hang on, I'm hearing something ... Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! "Room service? Suri upchucked the weiners and beans. We'll take her usual pressed duck terrine with chanterelles after all..."


For 8.5 hours I strutted around in these  
suede vice grips, pretending the pain 
wasn't shooting flaming daggers into me
The second I left the office, I tore them off  
like they were made of poison.

I know it's hard to believe by looking at these spiky six-inchers, but I twisted my ankle in my favourite shoes today and it kinda hurts. I whined about it to a co-worker and she snickered. 
"Really? They look so comfortable," she said.

"F*ck off, bitch," I retorted.
(Well no. I didn't. Because I love her. But it flashed through my mind like a laser for one brief satisfying moment.) 

Anyway, you know what this means, right? 
It means it may be time for me to stop stop wearing killer stilettos and start wearing comfortable, age-appropriate flats.

Hahaha, as if! That is the stupidest sentence I have ever written! For the record, I will go to my GRAVE in shoes like this, people. As God is my witness, I will.

Monday, 5 November 2012


Naomi Campbell is determined to bag her a billionaire. 
To do that, she'll have to keep a lid on her legendary temper
and try very hard not to bash the bejeebers out of anyone.
 But hey, if she can survive bulimia, she can survive this. 

Photo: CreStock
I'm back, having paused to observe the blessed Sabbath (from a distance, of course; I haven't darkened the doors of a church for quite some time now. I tried to darken them a few months ago but one of the ushers recognized me from the Forbidden Infidels poster and shooed me away. Way to hold a grudge, buddy. That heckling incident was YEARS ago!). 

Anyway, my point is I read some news Sunday that could be interpreted as a minor miracle. I refer to the one and only Naomi Campbell. Many of us know her as that spoiled supermodel who thinks her exotic beauty entitles her to snort coke till she goes fit-throwing mad and beats the crap out of her personal assistants. 
Which, of course, she is. 
Or rather was.

According to Britain's Mail Online, Naomi has settled down and "put her cocaine, phone-flinging days well behind her." What brought about this remarkable transformation? Well, she discovered Kabbalah and healthy eating. Oh, and also, she's trying to bag a billionaire husband. Naomi is dating Russian moneybags Vladislav Doronin, a clean-living health nut whose idea of a good stiff drink is a cup of Gyokuro tea. A coke-addled crazy who uses her BlackBerry as a set of nunchuks? Not going to be taking that to the altar, thank you. 
So shrewd Naomi is making nice. Very nice. One might say creepy nice. 
Not only has she has she sworn off the mood-altering stimulants, but she has taken to signing her emails "love and light" and posting homespun philosophy on Twitter. Thursday’s thought for the day was: "Minds are like parachutes — they won’t work unless they are open."  

Yeah-h-h-h, that's nice. I really admire bullies who turn their life around and start quoting homilies at me. But I tell you this, I don't trust them for one dang second. It's only a matter of time until this billionaire does something that ignites her hairtrigger temper and his face winds up on the receiving end of the most expensive cellphone on the market. 
Taking bets right here, right now. 

Editor's note: "Minds are like parachutes, they won’t work unless they are open." That's deep.
My note: *makes spitting sound* You know what else is like parachutes? Billionaires' wallets. 

Sunday, 4 November 2012


EXCUSE # 2: 
Well I WOULD ... if I didn't have 
this exciting three-hour date with a 
A few months ago, some friends and I met up for beer and wings. One of the friends started talking about his exciting new relationship. There was just one problem, he said. "She's so busy, I hardly ever get to see her."
A female friend and I exchanged a knowing look. We women can do that. We can exchange a half-second look and have an entire conversation without saying a word. And what we said was this: 

"Poor bastard. He doesn't get it. 
I know, right? 
She's too busy to see her new boyfriend? 
Please. Oldest excuse in the book!
You should tell him.
No YOU should tell him.
Well someone's gotta tell him..."

In the end, I told him. He immediately began making excuses for her, but within weeks the "relationship" had ended. In truth, it had never really started. It is commonly believed that women are the worst self-kidders in this regard, so much so that an episode of Sex And The City, a movie and a bestselling book (He's Just Not That Into You) were built on it. The message was this: The reason he hasn't asked you out is that he's just not that into you. Stop kidding yourself and move on.  
Simple, brilliant, liberating.
But there's a version of that advice for men, too, and that is: "She Just Doesn't Want To." Since no one has written that book yet, here's a guide to the excuses women give and what they really mean. 

What she says: "I'm super busy right now."  
What she means: "I just don't want to."

What she says: "I have a hair appointment that day."  
What she means: "I just don't want to."

What she says: "I don't want to ruin our friendship."  
What she means: "I just don't want to because I'm not sexually attracted to you."

What she says: "I really have to clean my house."  
What she means: "Please stop asking. I am running out of excuses."

There are, of course, situations when women aren't interested in dating ANYONE, but most of the time, she's not accepting the date bait because she doesn't like that flavour of bait. Sorry. We would tell you using our silent "eye contact" language if we could, but none of you speak it. Oh, and the friend I mentioned at the beginning? He's happily dating someone else now. Someone who DID want to, and said so the first time he asked.

Editor's note: So all those excuses you gave me . . .

My note: "I'd rather boil my own head and eat it" is not exactly an excuse, though, is it?