Saturday, 2 February 2013


PASSENGER: Stewardess, I do NOT want
to sit beside that little bitch.
KRISTIN: Her name is MADDIE!
PASSENGER: I wasn't referring to the dog.
Kristin Chenoweth has launched a public shaming campaign against American Airlines for giving her a hard time about bringing her emotional support dog onto a plane with her. Although she had all the appropriate paperwork, she says, they scolded and berated her and made her cry. Eventually all was resolved and the mutt was allowed to sit in the people seats, but Kristin later lashed out by tweeting: "@American Airlines: Dallas flight attnt supervisor: Ms Kidwell. Abuse not ok!" 

And I think she wants us to be outraged at how American Airlines treats people who travel with dogs. But all I got out of this was: Kristin Chenoweth has an emotional support dog.That is probably the most nauseating celebrity affectation I've ever heard of. "@Kristin Chenoweth: Your stinky dog sitting beside me on plane? Not ok!"


Editor's note: In case you're wondering wtf an "emotional support dog is, and really, why wouldn't you be, here is the official definition: An emotional support animal (ESA) is a U.S. legal term for an animal which provides therapeutic benefit to its owner through companionship and affection. (Or in other words, a pet. It's just a friggin' pet.)


So you can pretty much start the bidding now. 
Hmm? Yeah, start high. I mean we put Kendall 
out there way too low and it just didn't take.
What's that? No of course I won't tell Bruce! 
He doesn't even know she's pregnant! 
Hahahaa! Love you too!"

Today in major headlines: 
Hillary Clinton steps down as Secretary of State.
Hackers take down 250,000 Twitter accounts. 
Kim Kardashian's baby bump is showing.
Holy crap. What? That last one should really be the first one! Maybe even the only one! 

Yes, folks, Kim Kardashian's baby bump is showing, which of course calls for an Instagram. What's weird about this Instagram photo, aside from everything, is that it inadvertently sets the stage for Baby Bump's lifelong second place-ism.
"Yes, Kim's baby bump, you're cute 'n' all, but you will never be as plump or as popular as Kim's butt bump. Or her boob bumps. So many bumps! You'd really have to be octoplets to compete with them!"

"Also, be careful of Auntie Khloe, left. She would like us to believe that she is not sick with envy, but you get the eerie feeling she and her empty uterus can't wait for Kim to get fat and veiny, and that she is secretly hoping you turn out looking like Kris Humphries. I'm sorry, baby bump. It's not your fault your daddy isn't Javier Bardem."
Ooo, speaking of which...

Today in babies whose father I lust after: Penelope Cruz is pregnant with her second child by Javier Bardem. You selfish bitch. You know perfectly well I am sitting here waiting, waiting, waiting to be impregnated with my FIRST child by Javier Bardem. Climb off of the man and give him some space, will you? 

Friday, 1 February 2013


Mmmm, my future husba ... ARGH! WTF is wrong with me?

Whoa. My whole world view has just been knocked sideways. It doesn't even make sense anymore. It's like I got bitten by a tiger. A tiger named Charlie Sheen. And now I've got tiger blood in my veins, I've got a fever, and the only prescription is more tiger. I gotta have more tiger! Because I just watched an interview with my favourite creeper and I somehow came out of it thinking, "That Charlie Sheen, I kinda like him!"

This is especially terrifying given my disastrous dating history. Seriously, it's bad. The only thing that has saved me from fleeing the country and living in a hut in remotest Borneo is the fact that I have STOPPED dating because I don't trust myself to choose a normal partner anymore. 
And now look! I am finding Charlie friggin' Sheen attractive! This is clearly a relapse. Next thing you know I will be finding some flirty homeless dude irresistible. Someone, please, wrap me in duct tape and ship me to the veterinarian to be spayed. Right now!

So what happened was The Sheen was on Jay Leno the other night, looking eerily scrubbed and pink and human, and he was all kinds of amusing. And I started out thinking "Idiot," and then moved on to "Hmm" and then to "Hahaha! That was funny!"
Where he really won me over was when he bashed the bejeebers out of my new favourite creeper, Lance Armstrong. And I don't know what Lance did to piss Charlie off, but you've gotta know that when even Charlie Sheen thinks you're a "douche," you might actually be a douche. 

Click here to watch a clip of the video, in which Charlie does everything but challenge the one-testicled doper to a duel. And then tell me I'm not the only one who thinks this is funny. Right? You thought it was funny too, right? Oh please say, "Right." Even if you're lying.

Editor's note: "Right."
My note: Fer feck's sake. Not you! You're as bad as The Sheen!

Editor's note: Well then allow me to book you a flight to Borneo.


I don't know about you, but when I encounter sudden and unexpectedly dangerous 
driving conditions, what I do is I look away from the road for a moment, rummage around 
the passenger seat for my camera ... "Oh, look! A mint!"  ... and take a photo. 

What. The Hell. Is going on here? Yesterday it was so warm people were jogging in booty shorts. This morning I woke up to find the temperature had plummeted. I went to the gas station, went inside to grab a coffee, came outside and WHOOSH. Blizzard. Not even kidding. A car and a minivan did a 360 right in front of me on the flash-frozen road, while a pedestrian went arse-over-teakettle on the sidewalk. My mom, who lives 15 minutes away, emailed that there'd been a brownout. No computer, no television, no lights, no fridge or stove. When the power came back on briefly, she immediately dashed to the kitchen and boiled water for tea in case it went out again. Because once you've got a pot of tea, the entire western hemisphere can slide off the edge of the planet and you'll still be okay. 

The experts say this is global warming. Which is a polite way of saying what it really is: Mother Nature being a mad, menopausal bitch. This is hormones, baby. Trust me, I am a woman; I know these things. Tomorrow, you can expect hail the size of ostrich eggs followed by a heat wave and a total lunar eclipse. Hormones. I'm tellin' ya.

Thursday, 31 January 2013



In a stunning reversal of everything,  Rihanna has put on actual clothing, ditched the attitude and opened up for a candid interview with Rolling Stone, in which she says is finally ready to go public about her reunion with Chris Brown. She speaks openly about how their relationship must look to others, admitting "it's not the cutest puzzle in the world." 

But she insists Chris is different now, and by "now" I assume she means before he punched out Frank Ocean and then compared himself to Jesus Christ Our Lord. (Click here to see an original Chris Brown masterpiece, which he posted on Instagram with the caption: "Painting the way I feel today. Focus on what matters!" And I don't know how I never saw the similarities between Chris and Jesus before, because they are so obvious! You didn't know Jesus was a wife-beater? Well you have NOT been reading your Bible, people.)  

But back to Jesus's girlfriend, Rihanna.
"You think you know" how it is with her and Chris, she says, "but you don't." So what is it that we don't know? Well, for starters: Chris Brown is sorry for what he did. He is disgusted by what he did to her. He has changed. He values her more now. He knows he is on his last chance with her and he is determined to behave.

There's just one problem with all of this. The one who needs to be saying it is Chris Brown. Because until he says it, all we've got to go on is what he's showing us, which is chronic, unrepentant, egotisical shitheadism with lashings of God complex. And I think Rihanna deserves better than that. Even if she doesn't think she does.


porn star ron jeremy, ron jeremy heart, whorrified,
Though he looks the picture of health an
maintains a spartan lifestyle, apparently 
little Ronnie is a mere mortal after all.  

Legendary porn star Ron Jeremy is in critical condition after suffering an aneurysm and driving himself to the hospital, using his legendary appendage to man the steering wheel while he clasped his chest with both hands. (I made making that part up. He used his feet.)  

And I really want to make fun of this but I'm afraid the poor bastard is gonna die, so I won't. ... Hmm ... OK just this one thing: I don't know why I find Ron Jeremy's medical emergency so amusing but I'm sure it has something to do with the fact that his porn name is The Hedgehog. Which pretty much tells you everything you need to know about what he looks like naked. 

Editor's note: Er, yes, well, best wishes for a speedy recovery, Hedgehog. I'm a huge fan of your work. 

Tuesday, 29 January 2013


A scantily clad mermaid who bears an uncanny resemblance to me glides up 
to the swim-up bar. "Just one more tequila sunrise, por favor. Last one, I promise."

The problem: January.
The solution: Mexico.  
Sunshine. Salt water. Azure skies. Swim-up bar. Palm trees sighing in the warm Caribbean breeze. Tequila. Bikinis. Barbecued shrimp on the beach.Tequila.
Just thought I'd share this image with you. Remember this when you cannot stand even one more second of winter. Relief is just five hours and two shot glasses away . . . 

Editor's note: You said "tequila" twice. In the solution part.
My note: Will you please bite me.  

Monday, 28 January 2013


 Miley Cyrus's Cosmo cover is so hot you could fry two little eggs on it!  

Welcome to the very bowels of January. The bitter, wizened sphincter of winter, when people are freaked out because Christmas is way over and spring is way off and all that's left are the bills and the boredom and the relentless grey grey GREY of it all. It can make a man go barking mad. Speaking of barking mad, I thought it might cheer you up to hear how the craziest of the Hollywood crazies are handling the January blahs. (Hint: Not well.) The upside here is that it will make whatever you are going through seem like a whipped cream rub-down with a velvet loofah. 

To begin, we have:
Miley Cyrus wasn't getting enough attention with her weird haircuts and piercings and strip-club visits, so she decided to amp it up by proffering mid-boob for her Cosmo cover shoot. In this issue, Miley reveals not only her still-developing breasts but also her potty mouth, inserting the "f" word into every blessed sentence whether it belongs there or not. (Click here if you would like to be irritated beyond belief.)
Miley, dear, what some people do is, they rely on their talent to get attention. I know. I know. It's boring and it takes so much more work. But just give it a shot, will you? Otherwise you may one day be remembered only as The Mullet-Wearer's Daughter. Who swore a lot...

Moving right on to:

Hulk Hogan's grasp on sanity is tenuous at the best of times. When the meds wear off, it's straight-on roast cuckoo with lashings of inappropriate horndog. His latest "eeew" moment: tweeting a photo (left) of his daughter Brooke's "sexy legs" and urging everyone to have a look. ("Whoa! Eh? Looka that, eh? Whoa-ho-ho!")
What next, rubbing his own daughter's bare butt down with suntan oil? 
Oh, wait. He actually did that. Click here for the pic in which Hulk goes for the Father of the Year award.

And in closing, I give you:
Take Chris Brown. Please! (Ba-dum-boom.) This young waste of space is stepping up his bid to make everyone forget he has talent by schtupping anything with a vagina and also by flying into fist-flailing rages over the stupidest shit imaginable.
I refer to his recent "beef" with singer Frank Ocean. Chris and Frank crossed paths in a recording studio parking lot yesterday and Chris held out his hand. But instead of shaking it, kissing it, or better yet, falling to his knees and crying, "My liege, I am not worthy, but only say the word and I shall be healed!" Frank merely snickered. 
An explosive fight broke out and the police were called. Chris reportedly fled the scene, but TMZ says a witness alleges Chris swung first. Which I would have guessed anyway. 


Alert. Alert. Do not adjust
your screens. This is an emergency community alert. Repeat, this is an emergency community alert for the hairdressers of the Greater Toronto area: Please brace for a massive tsunami of clients descending upon your place of business this week. They will all be demanding bangs. "Give me bangs! I want BANGS, goddamit!"

This development can be traced back to a publicity still issued yesterday by Whorrified, taken by herself in her bathroom, like a weirdo, of her new bangs. (And may I be the first to publicly say they look awesome.)

First Michelle Obama, then Jennifer Lopez and now Whorrified. This officially makes it a trend. Bangs, people. You know you want them. 


Suddenly realizing they are in for a night of damn good tracks instead of line dancing 'n' karaoke, an excited crowd begins to gather around DJ Brucy Bruce (left).

Well it's not quite the parting of the Red Sea, but it is a minor miracle. Remember that post in which I verbally buggered Brampton senseless? In which I said it was a charmless, bulging goiter of a city that's about as much fun as a case of the clap? In which I described your options for fun as A) watching the cops chase shoplifters through Shoppers World or B) staying home and sticking pins in your eyes? Yeah, that post. (Read it here.
Aside from Brampton's Mayor Susan Fennell, who will soon be offering me a one-way ticket out of town which I can choose to A) accept or B) accept, people seemed to like it. Since then, however, I've had to back off a little because I accidentally found something good about Brampton, that being the best Indian restaurants this side of Mumbai. 
Then last night, another happy accident. 

It started when surprise guests arrived on my doorstep with the perfect hostess gift: a 60-pounder of vodka. Which would last most people a week but most people don't have friends with wine flasks instead of stomachs. When that ran out, we all sat there and looked at each other like, "Well now what? I can't put up with you people if I'm sober!" 
So we summoned a cab and made our way to TeeJay's Local Bar and Grill, thinking we'd have some wings and listen to strangers shrieking bad karaoke, because that's a good Saturday night in Brampton. And then we walked in the door and . . . wow. 

The group I was with instantly snapped to attention and started yipping like excited coyotes, because we had somehow wandered through Harry Potter's Platform 9 3/4 and into a magical world of good, in fact amazing, music.  The DJ (Brucy Bruce, every Saturday from 10 p.m.) was tucked away at the back of the room, where he relentlessly spun track after track of fantastic old-school, house and hip hop. The music was so good we ordered a round of beer to celebrate, then had some wings and a game of pool and a large pitcher of laughs. Best night I've had in Brampton since, oh, ever.

Editor's note: I notice liquor plays a starring role in most of your "best nights ever." 
My note: Excuse me, who . . . do I know you? Am I paying you? I should stop doing that.