Saturday, 22 December 2012


You may remember last night when I sent out a community alert that I would be going to a party. Which in hindsight was almost quaint in its naivete, because it turned out to be more of a Code Orange, citywide-siren situation.
So it started out as a lovely gathering of attractive and intelligent co-workers celebrating the festive season at a downtown bar. (A few unattractive and stupid interlopers tried to sneak in but were quickly seized and neutered by security. One must protect future generations from bad breeders.) The food and the liquor were plentiful and refreshing, but as the night wore on, everyone seemed to forget there was food there at all. At the end of the night, we all kind of wandered over to the groaning buffet table and were like, "The hell? Look at all this food! That was there the whole time? I think I'll have another beer!"

Anyway, I think everyone got home safely since I haven't heard otherwise on the national news, so I'm going to resume soaking my whole head in a bowl of liquid Advil and let photos tell the rest of the story. Note to photos: Pls tell quietly. Head feeling a bit throbby...

THERE WERE CRAZY WOMEN (that's my identical twin sister, Shmarie...)

THERE WERE SHARP DRESSERS (If I told you what that bow tie was made of, 
you might call Peta. Or you might want one. Or both.)

(These two are saying "We've had a few. . .")


And after that, the music got louder and the drinks got drinkier and everything seemed HILARIOUS and everybody's face looked like this:

So, yeah. Pretty much best party ever.
Note to photos: GODDAMIT! Did I not just ask you to talk softly????


Any day now, this Brampton homeowner is going to inflate his decorations. Maybe.
You've been wondering if and when I was going to shame any more of my neighbours' Christmas decorating efforts, haven't you? Well wonder no more. This photo clearly shows that I am on duty day AND night. I've been watching this home for more than a week now to see if this tangle of deflated carcasses is just a temporary setback or if, in fact, this is as far as their decorating is going to go. And it looks like the latter. I think the sentiment they're trying to convey here is, "Christmas: Who Gives a Shit?" Nice.

Confused child: Daddy, why aren't our decorations blown up yet?
Dad: Because we can't afford air. We're that poor.
Confused child: I'm going to ask Santa to bring us some air!
Dad: That's a great idea, son. *Thinks: 'I just saved myself a FORTUNE on presents.'

Friday, 21 December 2012



Ashton Kutcher has filed for divorce from Demi Moore, one full year after cheating on her and then dumping her. So why didn't he file sooner, you (and Demi) may well be wondering? Oh, that. Well, sources close to Ashton say that was Ashton being thoughtful. He was giving her the chance to file first, "it was a dignity thing." Right. Dignity. Yes, that's what cavorting with young tarts while your former beloved dives nose first into a can of Reddi-Whip says to me: dignity. That's what groping and smooching new girlfriend Mila Kunis in public says to me: dignity. And more than anything, that's what serving divorce papers mere days before Christmas absolutely REEKS of to me. Dignity.
That Ashton. He is such a nice man.


They are ONLY available to women who 
wouldn't eat a carb if it rolled itself in chocolate 
and inserted itself into her mouth while 
singing an Enrique Eglesias song. 

Been wondering how ridiculously beautiful women whose abs look like they were Photoshopped celebrate winning the Miss Universe title?
Well let me help you with that.

What they do is, they go on a frickin' eating binge, gorging themselves on moderate amounts of REAL FOOD and keeping their fingers firmly out of their throat the entire time! reports that after months of going carb-less, Miss Universe 2012 Olivia Culpo treated herself to a no-holds-barred pigout after her victory Wednesday night. And because we didn't have enough reasons to hate her yet, here is what was on the out-of-control menu, summoned to her room at Planet Hollywood Hotel in Las Vegas:
  • One giant portion of penne pasta with chicken and "red sauce" (hello! anyone who eats on a regular basis calls it marinara sauce)
  • Bread (crushed to powder and snorted, junkie-style)
  • Half a cupcake (Half? Not a quarter? Call the fat police! Girlfriend's gone all Nutty Professor on us!)  

Editor's note: Well that's not much of a pigout, is it?
My note: If I agreed with you I would be instantly disqualified from ever becoming a Miss Universe contender.

Editor's note: Right. Because other than that, you'd be IN!

Thursday, 20 December 2012


Watch out, Lindsay Lohan. There's a new badass in town and his name is Sam Donaldson. Facing mounting ageism as he shuffles closer and closer to 80, the ABC news veteran is under intense pressure to prove he's still a hip and swingin' guy. So he went out and got tanked to the furry eyebrows on eggnog and got himself BUSTED for DUI. (Officer: "Say, aren't you . . ." Donaldson: "That's right, baby! I'm a badass!") Sam, age 78, was pulled over last night in Delaware and officers "determined he reeked of booze had been drinking." At the badass hour of 8 p.m, or, as Donaldson calls it, bedtime. He was given sobriety tests which may or may not have included having to successfully repeat "Donaldson drives drunk in Delaware" five times and to answer such trick questions as "Were there or were there NOT flush toilets in the year you were born?"


But Jen, there are people here . . . 
But Jen, I ... 
*Sigh* Fine. "Jennifer Aniston, I am going 
to marry you." Now can we go eat?


I know I should like Jennifer Aniston. She's pretty, she's funny, she's wholesome and down to earth. She has never thrown diva tantrums or got herself arrested for DUI or assault, not even when she could have got away with beating Angelina senseless with a yoga mat for stealing her husband.

But as God is my witness, if I am asked to feel sorry her one more time, I'm gonna throw up.

Watching Jen's failed attempts to get married and/or pregnant has become a nauseating little game that feels like watching the class bully beat up the class wimp. Over and over and over again.
Yet here I am being set up to watch another shit-kicking. 
As we all know because magazines went apeshit when it happened, Jen has finally met "the one" and he has given her a big fat ring. So we should all ignore the nagging suspicion that we're being fooled again and be happy for her. 

Which, okay, fine, I could have lived with. I am not an ogre. 

But then, within weeks of that blessed news, we were being told that not only has she successfully achieved engagement, but JEN MAY BE PREGNANT! 
And then we were told Jen may be pregnant ... WITH TWINS!  
And tomorrow I fully expect to read Jen may be pregnant with twins ... AND ONE OF THEM IS THE BABY JESUS!

Blech. Listen, here's the deal, people. Jennifer Aniston is NEVER going to get pregnant. Ever. Frankly I have my doubts she will ever even get married. Because until the reverend says "You may kiss the bride," she is not married, she just has an expensive ring and a guy who says he intends to marry her. 

So I would like to issue a request (which I am fully aware will be totally ignored on account of no one outside of Brampton, Ontario, has even heard of me) to the gossip rags of America to desist with these queasy-making reports until they have both a video of Jen's wedding night AND a photo of the baby exiting her actual birth canal.
Because even though it is almost Christmas, I do not believe in miracles. And I am so, so tired of being sad.


Dec. 20/2012: Calypso Hut, Brampton )

It's funny how a hot car is called a "chick magnet." Because that has never been my experience. In my experience, cars are guy magnets. Like the time earlier this week when I visited one of my favourite Brampton haunts, Calypso Hut. (Guyanese food so delicious you would sell your virginity for it ... if you still had it to sell.) As I pulled in to the parking lot, some old feller in what I would charitably describe as a rustbucket pulled in beside me. And out of nowhere, men started getting sucked into its orbit. 

They were literally leaving their lunch AND their women behind and exiting the restaurant to circle the car and ask its delighted owner, "Hey, bud, what kind of car is this?" And engaging in a good half hour of excited, masturbatory conversation that was audible even from inside the restaurant where I was gorging myself on far more interesting topics (pepper shrimp, fried green beans with black bean sauce, roti ... ooooh, are those fried chicken wings? Well maybe just one or two ...) I learned a lot about that car over lunch. If you are a guy and you give a shit, here's what I learned: It's a 1933 Chevy,150 series. There were only three models made. It's "fully restored, underneath and everything." They still make original parts for it. Dude's been workin' on it for years. And also blahblahblahblahblah. 

If that car had run me over in the street the very next day, I would not even have recognized it. That, folks, is the nugget, the kernel, the ESSENCE of the difference between men and women. Do not ever get it twisted. We are different from birth, and all it takes is one vintage rustbucket to prove it.

Wednesday, 19 December 2012



It looks like Rihanna is getting a big box of Breezy-B-Gone for Christmas. Which is perfect, because that's just what both of them needed. Chris "Breezy" Brown has been in particularly fine form lately while on tour in Europe, generating headlines and photos that suggest it should be spelled "on twhore." But RiRi reached her breaking point with his latest asininity (partying with scantily clad women in Paris). She slapped back via Instagram, posting a racy R-card that tells him exactly what she would tell him in person if he ever had the balls to come home and face her. Well may I just say: Merry Christmas, Rihanna. Pretty much every woman on earth supports you on this one.


Janice Dickinson at (and I love this) 
a benefit for "women in recovery." 
Yeah. How long do you figure before 
that poor 67-year-old fiance of hers 
has a heart attack? 
Be careful, people. Love is in the air and it looks like it's contagious. Just says ago we reported that Deadmau5 and Kat Von D and their 800 tattoos got engaged. Now we learn that barking-mad Janice Dickinson has decided, as most women do at around age 57, to settle down too.  

Her betrothed is one Dr. Robert Gerner, and I have to say I hope the poor sod knows what he's getting himself into. The guy hardly looks like a cougar-tamer ... in fact in THIS PIC he looks kind of terrified ... and Janice clearly intends to go at him hammer and thong. She tells the UK Daily Mail that she has nicknamed him Rocky and plans to make him "the happiest man alive for the rest of his life." (Which isn't much of a commitment, since he's already 67, but it does imply a level of sexual energy that I'll bet "Rocky" only dreamed of before he ran into this hellcat.)

And when Janice Dickinson tells you she plans to "make you happy," this is what you should know: she has had some practice in that regard. Here's a partial list of her past lovers. You should read it carefully, because your name might be on there: 
Warren Beatty, Sylvester Stallone, Jack Nicholson, Liam Neeson, Mick Jagger, Ronnie Wood, Kelly LeBrock, Prince Albert II, Roman Polanski, Dolph Lundgren, Grace Jones, Bruce Willis, Frank Zappa, John Cusack, David O'Hara and Jon Lovitz. 

Editor's note: What, no Arnold Schwarzenegger? That has to be a mistake.

Tuesday, 18 December 2012


The Kardashian-Jenner clan's 2012 family Christmas card  
Clockwise from left: Kylie, Kim, Rob, Lamar, Khloe, Kris, Kendall, 
Kourtney with Penelope, Scott, Mason and Bruce.
Photographer/Nick Saglimbeni
The Kardashian clan has released their annual Christmas card. Thank heavens. I was getting worried. Were you getting worried? Cuz it just isn't Christmas without this mob flaunting their unfathomable wealth and mind-boggling mediocrity. 
I don't have too much to say about this card, which basically speaks for itself, but I couldn't help noticing a few things. Let's walk through it together, shall we? 

For starters, Khloe and Lamar (centre, right) couldn't be there for the shoot because they were fighting, but were digitally added afterwards. It's good to know that's doable, because Lamar may need to be digitally subtracted someday.

Poor (now dead) little Mercy, the kitten Kanye gave Kim and Kim gave to an assistant, makes an appearance. In a box rather than in Kim's arms. Because Kim would rather hold almost anything than a stinky cat.

Rob Kardashian, third from left: Who?

Kendall (far right) has been pointedly marked as the next Kardashian pimp project: note the backless dress and carefully posed and exposed legs. They say "LOOK AT ME, AMERICA! I AM YOUR NEXT KARDASHIAN (even though my last name is Jenner)!"

Bruce Jenner (centre) probably requested to be seated as far away from Kris as was possible without inflaming the rumours of marital discord. (Bruce to photographer *whispering*: "That woman scares the shit out of me!")

Scott Disick, seated at front: Ostensibly Kourtney's husband. Sockless. Smileless. Charmless. Shameless. The word "man-whore" suddenly springs, unbidden, to mind.

And lastly: But I thought white was the colour of virginity? 


Heather Locklear, Ava Sambora, Kris Jenner, Georgia May Jagger, Whorrified,

in boots and a leather jacket, holds up 
pretty little Ava, 15, who hasn't quite
got the hang of heels yet. 
Photo:Paul Smith/Featureflash

There's simply no denying that once a woman reaches a certain age, she's no longer sexpot material. (With a few very rare exceptions such as myself.) And if her entire career has been built on sexpotting herself out for dollars, this can have a devastating effect not only on her psyche but also on the style of living to which she has become accustomed. 

When this happens, the smartest thing a woman can do is to have a nubile young daughter of pimping-out age. Or even not quite of pimping-out age; you'd be amazed what you can do with a pair of heels and some lipstick. 

Nowhere is this phenomenon more obvious than in Hollywood, where sexpotting for dollars is practically a religion. From Judy Garland to Goldie Hawn, we've seen this trend play out for decades. Here are some examples of the latest crop of mothers who saved themselves from certain oblivion by delivering unto the flesh-starved lens a virgin. 

Heather Locklear: A B-grade actress whose career reached a dubious pinnacle with T.J. Hooker. Saving grace: Daughter Ava Sambora, 15. This pretty little blonde no one even knew existed last year is now being trotted out for the cameras with astonishing regularity. And just in the nick of time! Because if Mommy had to say, "No, it was a police show, there weren't any hookers in it" one more time at a party . . . Pedigree: Sired by Richie Sambora.

Kris Jenner: The queen of girl-baby mills. Kris is an industry, for God's sake. But the sands are shifting: Kim's gone rogue, Khloe and Kourtney are clearly never going to reach Kim's level, but lookie here! Kendall Jenner's got her period and her pimps have cleared up, so put on them heels, girl. Time to start helping the family out! Pedigree: Sired by Bruce Jenner. Which is amazing because he doesn't even look like he has a penis anymore.

Jerry Hall: Aging former model who endured relations with a whoring rock icon long enough to get a stunningly beautiful child out of it. Unlike some celebrity offspring, Georgia May Jagger hit the genetic jackpot and got the best both parents had to offer. Take a look here at Georgia May's winning look. Pedigree: Sired by Mick Jagger, whose stud services once rivalled those of Osama bin Laden. 

Joan Rivers: True, Joan was never a sexpot, but still, Melissa did make a convenient entrance at a time when Mom's red carpetability was waning. It would be better for both of them if Melissa were a little hotter and a lot stupider, but still. She's young and she has a famous name. That, in Hollywood, is currency.

Pamela Anderson: What the ... Pamela, didn't I just tell you you're not on this list? (Pamela: "Goddamit! WHY DID I HAVE TO HAVE BOYS?")


while I was Christmas shopping. I can't wait to see the look on my face 
when I open it on Christmas morning!

If there's one thing I hate about Christmas, it's the shopping.
I mean, I capital "L" love my loved ones, yet I have been avoiding shopping for them as assiduously as if it were a date with the deep-tissue proctologist, because malls at Christmas time are just so damn depressing. Everybody looks grim and hunted and no one is happy and everyone is thinking about the money they can't afford to be throwing away. It's just like being in a casino. Except that nobody wins.

So I'd been watching the days tick by with a dark, growing dread, until finally I realized that Christmas was one week away. On that day, the panic hit me like a fist. On that day, I turned to my boss and said, "I won't be in tomorrow. I have to buy some stuff for my kids. I've only got a few good years left, and if I don't play my cards right, they're going to dump me off at the shitty nursing home, the one where the nurses pinch you when no one's looking and you only get one diaper change a week. I don't want to go out like that, man!"

The next day, I hit the mall, brimming with coffee and determination. There was a brief moment of distraction when I stopped to say hi to my hairdresser and decided, what the heck, may as well get my hair straightened, but the second that was done I dove right into the shopping.
I had my list with me, I had my route planned out, I was ready. 

And then I saw the cutest knee-high, laceup winter boots. Which I happen to really need, because I hear we might actually get snow this year.
And then I saw a beautiful stained-glass candle-holder the EXACT colour of the cushions in my living room and a book I've been meaning to read forever and the cutest little brie baker and it is just a damn shame that no one on my list asked for any of those things.

When I got home that evening, I found I had crossed three items off my Christmas list for other people. But I had purchased seven things for myself.
So tomorrow I'm going to give the Christmas shopping thing another whirl. 
And this time, I'll make sure to buy a package of Depends. Because I am so going to that shitty nursing home.

Sunday, 16 December 2012



Hey, ladies, put this news item in your "Good to Know" file if you ever plan on smuggling narcotics out of countries known the world over as drug trafficking hubs. Do not, repeat, DO NOT, try to smuggle them in your breasts. I was deeply distressed last week to learn that one of our sisters did just that, thus ruining a lovely trip to Barcelona and mutilating a pair of perfectly good new implants as well. 

Spanish authorities released a picture of two bags containing nearly three pounds of cocaine that were removed from the suspect's chest. According to CNN, the woman was travelling from Colombia when a nosy and quite possibly lesbian female officer noticed during a lovingly thorough pat-down that she had bloodied bandages under one of her breasts. 

The suspect reportedly gave vague answers as to why she and her mammoth three-pound breasts were in town. Police promptly booked her and took her to a hospital. (They don't mess around in Barcelona. "Why are you here and why are your boobs bleeding?"  "I ... uh..."  "Guards! Seize her!")

There, a medical team extracted a prosthesis stuffed with $50,000 worth of cocaine from each breast. The woman was immediately jailed on drug trafficking charges and this, I'm guessing, is what her first postcard home said: "In jail. Just effing great. I went from being a cocaine-packing double-D to being a flat-chested criminal. Worst. Trip. Ever. P.S. Send pesos."

Editor's note: Well if you're going to be a killjoy, you've at least gotta give the ladies some options. Here are some substances you CAN fill your implants with that won't land you a tenner in the penitentiary. A) Sambuca B) Gin C) Dishwashing liquid D) Tapioca E) Hummus F) That gooey stuff they put in Cadbury Easter Creme Eggs G) Cocaine (No longer available.)


and Deadmau5 are engaged! Which is right, wrong,
 funny and creepy, all at the same time.
I know this will be hard to believe but tatted pipsqueak Deadmau5 (who's Canadian, but let's not brag about it) has proposed to tatted amazon Kat Von D and it was totally tacky from start to finish.
For starters, he popped the question on friggin Twitter. I know. Who does that? Actually I hear it was going to be even worse ... he was going to get WILL YOU MARRY ME KAT? tattooed on his butt cheeks but, well, if you've seen this little fella, you know he could never get all those words on that wizened arse.

So he settled for the intimate method of tweeting, with the words: "Can't wait for Christmas so .... Katherine Von Drachenberg, will you marry me?" Accompanied by a PICTURE of a ring. Which of course is what every girl dreams of getting. It's right up there with getting a charcoal sketch of a husband and a mouth-painted rendering of a baby.

And then . . . *presses fingers to temples, winces* . . . there's the ring.
If you asked me to design a cheesy cartoon biker gang engagement ring, I would begin with skulls. One on each side of the diamond. And the diamond would be black. And then I would take a cheesy picture of this cheesy ring BEFORE IT IS EVEN FINISHED and post it on Twitter with the words "Sorry for the jpg; they'll be finished the actual ring soon I hope." Click here to see the ring.

Lastly, and most damningly: Deadmau5 couldn't wait one more week and propose on Christmas like you're supposed to . . . because he was just too excited. He's a premature proposer! (And you know what that means.)

Editor's note: Gross. The biggest moment in the man's life and he can't hold himself till Christmas?
My note: He's not a man. He's a mau5