Friday, 15 February 2013


Rapper 2 Chainz was arrested in Maryland yesterday for marijuana possession by two cops who have a crush on him. Because after he was pulled over for speeding, had his van and a backback that wasn't his searched, police found a grinder and trace amounts of weed and hauled him into the station. And then asked him to pose for a photo like two lovestruck Tiger Beat readers. After being released, 2 Chainz posted the photo to Instagram, noting: "Locked me up and then Wanted pictures." 
I think the expressions here say it all: 
Cop on left: I'm not sure this is a good idea. 
Cop on right: Look what we caught! 
2 Chainz: Man just let me outta here so I can go smoke a fatty.


Oh you think you're having a bad day at work, do you? You think your job is tough? Well suck it up, you pathetic, self-absorbed whinge bag! Nobody has it as tough as swimsuit model Kate Upton. 

This twice-blessed young beauty recently completed a photoshoot in the Antarctic for Sports Illustrated, and hearing her story makes me wish I knew how to play the violin. Because I would be playing that sucker the WHOLE TIME you are reading this blog!

I mean, just listen to her plaintive words (I took the liberty of removing all the "ums" and "likes," or we'd be here till Thanksgiving):
"I'm from Florida so it was freezing cold... My body was shutting down. I didn't think I could do it, but I didn't want to let my team down... They gave me a coat and I thought that was a miracle... And I saw these cute little penguins walking around and I thought, "If those little fuckers can slide around nekkid well so can I!" 
(Wait. What? She didn't say that last part! Cuz they actually had more clothing on than she did and were pissing themselves laughing at the stupid human with the massive lifejackets posing ON METAL POLES in nothing but a bikini.

Kate: Brrrrr! Why did you guys have to pick such a cold place? 
Photographers: Heheheh, yes we can see that you're cold. It's awful, isn't it?
Kate: Well can I get a blanket or something? My breasts are getting frostbite!
Photographers *leering*: They are? Here, let me see ... Darn! Where is that blanket?

Yes, Kate Upton, forced against her will to suffer subhuman conditions, baring her bosoms with nothing but thousands of dollars, dozens of heaters and a small army of leering, blanket-bearing assistants to see her through it. Is there a Nobel Prize for selfless nudity? Because there should be. By God, there should be!

Editor's note: I don't quite like the tone of this post. It sounds like you're mocking this poor waif. This poor, stunning waif. This poor, stunning, practically naked *wheeze, gasp* . . . well here, just click on this link to the video of the shoot and see for yourself. 


(Or maybe I was sleeping and dreamed that Brampton actually looks like this.)

It is no secret that I loathe the city of Brampton. That in fact when someone says the words "City of Brampton," my ears hear "pustule-encrusted tainthole of the GTA." The sprawling upchuck of the 'burbs, the barren meanness of its strip malls...oh, I could go on and on, but you'd only say "Well why the f*ck do you live there then?" Because. Um. Because I ... OH BUGGER OFF! Actually, I moved here to be closer to family and to work and because I found a townhouse whose location tricked me into thinking Brampton was pretty. (Now I know how drunk guys feel when they think they've picked up the hottest chick in the bar and wake up to find they may have impregnated Carrot Top.)

So imagine my confusion the other night when I got off the bus from work a few stops early so I could enjoy a stroll home. I turned a corner, stumbled onto this picturesque scene, and flew into a panic. Skating? Happy laughter? Starry lights twinkling in postcard-pretty park? "SHIT! I got off in the wrong city! Where the hell am I?"

This momentary panic was eased when, as I began to cross the street, I saw a deeply inebriated citizen lurch off the sidewalk and round a corner, where the ensuing sounds made it clear he was thoroughly relieving himself. "Whew," I thought. "I'm in Brampton. Cool."

Wednesday, 13 February 2013


Well here is something completely expected: it's Valentine's Day ... and I am celebrating it with myself. (Double entendre not intended, although come to think of it, it'd be one of the better gifts I ever got.) As anyone who reads this blog with any regularity knows, I am not a fan of the "love" thing. Not a fan of the relationships. Above all, not a fan of the compromising, which explains the first two.  

And I have a sneaking suspicion, based on things my dear friends told me in complete confidence (editor's note: never tell secrets to a woman who has a gossip blog; it's like giving a steak to a rottweiler and saying "Watch that for me, will you?") that I am not alone. Because it has come to my attention that some of you ... all right, a lot of you ... okay ALMOST EVERY GODDAM ONE OF YOU ... are attracted to the wrong men. The bad boys. The rebels. The thugs. Whatever your generation calls them, they are all the same thing: Chris Brown dangerously alluring.

What you do not realize when you're young is that this allure is designed for their benefit, not yours. Those pheromones that get your pulse racing are the same pheromones that will render them unable to A) hold down a job B) be faithful to you C) ever make enough money to provide the lifestyle you deserve. Or even pay the cable bill on a consistent basis.This does not make for future happy Valentine's days. Or future happy anything.  

Here is a poignant anecdote that reveals the exact moment my life went off the rails: A top-secret number of years ago, I went to university with a quiet, nerdy young man who wore his pants too high around the waist. I instantly dismissed him as "boring." 
I preferred the rogues, the rebels, the shit-disturbers who, had I been a psych major instead of a Lit and Fine Arts major, I would have immediately recognized as jerks destined for a messy life requiring a steady, dependable enabler.
That nerdy young man went on to become known as Mike Lazaridis, blazillionaire inventer of the BlackBerry. (*Hi Mikie! I'm available now!*) I went on to become an increasingly bitter yet strangely irresistible double-divorcee. 

Don't get me wrong, in the end I emerged victorious. Maybe even fabulous. But it was a long and bumpy journey. So, to spare your heart and your bladder that bumpiness and to ensure you are in your right mind for the deadly Valentine's charade, here's a test to help you figure out where you stand on the Jerk Detector scale. It's very simple: 
  • If you find ANYONE in the top row of photos attractive, you are doomed. 
  • If you find MOST of the men in the bottom row attractive, there is hope. 
  • And if you find the photo at the top of this blog attractive, well congratulations on your excellent taste but don't hold your breath. He's mine. All mine. 




And from our "Who Told Granny About Instagram?" files, Madonna was obviously eavesdropping on Lourdes' sleepover last weekend because suddenly she has opened her own her account. And I'm really happy about that because there weren't enough celebrities flooding Instagram with selfies of their boobs, butts, cleavage and so forth. Madonna kicked off her debut with a creepy photo of a sinewy, Absinthed alien drinking a martini and a closeup of her cleavage oozing cougar sweat, with the caption: "Cheers motherf***ers. I'm on Instagram!" So it's official. Instagram isn't cool anymore.


Featuring Beyonce, who appears to be made of 
a different kind of skin than the rest of us.

Everybody, please sit down and remain calm. You may even want to kneel. Because you are about to hear the Gospel according to Beyonce and you may very well be slain in the spirit. 
Yes, Queen Bey is back, big-time. She was gone for a while, but in the third year she rose again and is sitting at the right hand of Hov.

Within weeks, she has blown us away at Obama's Inauguration, the Super Bowl and now, whew, on the cover of Vogue. The accompanying interview makes it clear that Beyonce is still amazing, in fact more amazing than ever, which totally excuses that slight whiff of Oprah complex. (Oh, you didn't know? Oprah thinks she's Jesus.) 

Here's a taste, and it is a testament to this woman's mojo that she can say shit like this and still be so lovable: (In discussing her self-directed Life is But a Dream HBO documentary ABOUT HERSELF) "My story has never been told. No one really knows who I am . . . This movie has healed me in so many ways. It makes me want to cry." 

EDITOR'S NOTE: Well I haven't seen the documentary but I have seen the Vogue photos and I have to say her easily offended publicist must have vetted them thoroughly because there is not one single "fierce" photo in there. Nothing but luminous skin, doe eyes, sweeping curves and stunning "God Loves Me Best" beauty. CLICK HERE to see the photos anyone's publicist would stamp with the biggest rubber doohickey she could find. 


Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. There is NO place like it.

Last month, I gifted you with a photo of a beautiful woman who looks EXACTLY like me lollygagging in a pool in Mexico. I figured we all needed to see something sunny and exotic, and Mexico just happened to be in the background. That was before last Friday, when the worst storm in years dumped its guts all over us and reminded us that THIS.IS.FEBRUARY.B*TCHES! 

Clearly, more intensive therapy is needed, so today I am gifting you a picture of the motherland: Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Copacabana Beach, to be exact, complete with Sugar Loaf mountain looming in the background. I will spare you the picture of my perfectly bronzed buttocks strolling this beach in a size XXS thong bikini, partly because such a picture does not exist but also because I think anything more than what you see right here is just gilding God's lily. 
Soak your eyeballs in this image whenever you're about to snap, reapply as needed. And remember, February may be a bitch, but it's a short bitch. 

Tuesday, 12 February 2013


People are trying to enjoy a nice plate of eggs and ... "Hey, WTF, is that b*tch taking our picture?" (Yes.)

Many women I know suffer from a terrible condition called Deep Denialitis. They appear to be most vulnerable between the ages of 18 and death, when it strikes in its most virulent form by attacking women who are dating or married to assholes.
This affliction renders women unable to REALLY SEE the person they are dealing with, the lies he is telling her, the money he is mooching off her, and the many other ways in which he is simply not good enough for her. (This is not to be confused with a similar condition, Maternal Deep Denialitis, in which a mother cannot see that she has given birth to the world's ugliest baby.)

I've had my own brushes with this debilitating affliction, so it is difficult to restrain myself from offering my "wisdom" to younger women, strangers, even, when I see that they have developed this condition. That in fact they are riddled with it.
Recently, for example, while having breakfast at a Brampton restaurant, I sat near two young women. The place was packed, thereby enabling me to eavesdrop while pretending to be deeply absorbed in my toast points. 

The young women were feverishly discussing their boyfriends' bad behaviour: one of them had "sexted" a co-worker and then accused his girlfriend of snooping  when she found out, the other was pulling the old "I'm not ready to commit" thing after five years of living together.
"Uh-oh," I muttered to myself, while fake-surveying the contents of the jam basket. "One of those. Abort! Abort!"

"Yeah so I'm gonna give him an ultimatum," the young woman said. "I get a ring for my birthday or I'm gone."

Well I'll tell you, I was seized with a "healer" moment. I felt duty-bound to butt in and tell this woman she was making a terrible mistake. "Ladies," I said, "I couldn't help overhearing. And I have to say, No! No ultimatums! It weakens your position!"

The two looked at each other and then at me, as if I were a freshly laid cat turd that had suddenly decided to speak.
But I was in for a penny now, so I kept going.
"Seriously," I said, "if you really want him to want you, you have to make him think he can't have you."
Again, they exchanged looks. They were practically playing eyeball ping-pong, these two. But they were listening.
"Well how do you do THAT when you're living with the guy?" the ultimatum-giver asked.
"Well," I said, "what you do is, you move out."

The first woman rolled her eyes and turned her attention to her phone. The other one huffed, "Yeah last time I tried that, he asked his buddy to move in. Dude had his bags packed and everything."
"Well it sounds like he has no respect for you at all," I replied.
For one chilling moment, I actually thought the woman was going to slap me. "Sorry," I said. "I could be wrong."

I'd like to say they that we then pulled our tables together and became great friends and are currently filming Sex And The City: Brampton, but at that point the conversation ended. Instead, I wished them luck and excused myself awkwardly while they looked on in stony silence.
As I walked away, I heard one of them say, "Well he IS kind of an asshole."
That's close enough to "healing" for me ...



Some people are loving the unseasonably warm, rainy spells we are having lately. "Hey, it's better than snow!" they chortle, while I simultaneously fantasize about inserting their face into a puddle of it and saying, "How do ya like it now?"

Because for women with hair like mine, the dry air of a normal winter is our friend. Rain, on the other hand, is the Enemy. It can take a beautifully tamed head of silky, straight hair and turn it into clown frizz within minutes. 
As it did yesterday, when I missed my bus and had to stand out in the dank for half an hour while the humidity molested me like it was Hulk Hogan and my hair was his neighbour's wife.

When I finally got to work, I burst into the office with Medusa hair, soggy clothes and a denuded, rain-washed face. And the entire room fell thuddingly silent.
Finally a co-worker said: "Oh. Your hair . . . "

Which, considering that he could have said "SWEET MOTHER OF CHRIST, IT'S THE BLAIR WITCH!" was really nice of him. So naturally I lit into him like it was all his fault that it was raining and I missed my bus and now I looked more like a madwoman who should be out pushing a doll in a human baby stroller than a respectable office worker.

"Yeah, well this what I actually look like, f*ckers!" I raged. "That girl with the straight shiny hair and the even skin tone and the six-inch stilettos? She's an illusion! She doesn't exist! At least not without about $200 worth of spackle and a hairstylist!"

After I'd had a chance to calm down and reapply makeup, I felt a lot better. Especially when I saw the forecast: colder with a chance of flurries. Maybe even a blizzard that will shut the entire city down for two days and make your life a cold, living hell.  
What? Pop the corks! Praise the lord! Probability of good hair: 90 per cent!

Sunday, 10 February 2013


Katy Perry paves her passageway to hell
by flaunting the Grammy ban on exposed breasts
and "under-curvature of the breasts."
The Grammys 2013, brought to you by the Taliban, are over and I hope you were watching because there were some valuable lessons and interesting moments contained therein. I'll keep this short because I'm nursing a painful twitter-finger injury. (Remember the old days when you could just WRITE stuff, and not have to tweet, instagram, facebook, BBM, IM and WTF as well? I miss those old days.) Ready? Listen and learn:

1) The underboob fatwah was completely ignored by Rihanna and Katy Perry and politely observed by Beyonce and Jennifer Lopez. Rihanna and Katy looked fantastic. Beyonce and Jennifer Lopez looked like crap. Ladies, you need to go out and get you an underboob dress.

2) And speaking of looking like crap, Adele got sat on by no less than four people who confused her for a chesterfield every time she stopped moving. Absolutely true. 

3) Prince, the artist formerly known as weird, is still weird. And also appears to have had work done. 

4) I don't know where the hell John Mayer got that ugly purple velvet smoking jacket, but I am missing an ugly purple velvet sofa cushion. And now I don't even want it back.

5) Drake's barber was unavailable so he let his friend's cousin, a sheep shearer by trade, have a go at him.

6) What the . . . ? Did no one else see that homeless dude impersonating Johnny Depp? Security!

7) And lastly, my favourite Grammy moment: When Jennifer Lopez's oldest child boyfriend Casper Smart was asked on the red carpet who his first love was. COMPLETE PANIC. Then he was asked, well how do you feel about your current love? COMPLETE PANIC plus STUTTERING. The man was scared shitless. (You just know he's going to get a time-out when he gets home.) Casper, remember this important tip for next time someone asks you a really tough question: The answer to everything is "J LO."