Saturday, 2 March 2013


 I mean look at me! I'm adorable, I'm rich
 and I accessorize like a mofo!

I watched the Daytona 500 last week but somehow missed this priceless encounter between race reporter Erin Andrews and one of rap's biggest womanizers moguls, 50 Cent. Erin was traipsing through the crowds looking for Danica Patrick (before the race, obviously, because nobody was looking for her after the race) when ... HELLO! ... Fiddy pops out of the crowd. 

And here's where it gets tricky. 
As in "Well this is awkward." 
And now I'm just going to assume she slept with him because he sleeps with anyone who's blond and also because I know "I can't get away from this dude fast enough" when I see it. It was the soundtrack for my entire marriage.

I strongly advise you to watch the video, in which Erin not only dodges 50's embrace but also scurries to escape, because after you've seen this, any awkward encounters you have will be a piece of cake.

Editor's note: Click on this link and scroll down to the second video. Otherwise you get those stupid ads. I hate ads!

My note: Dear advertisers: please don't take that personally. I plan to fire him as soon as I find someone else who is willing to take constant verbal abuse and work long hours for free. Hey! I know! I'll just have another kid!


TAYLOR SWIFT reportedly 
 hooked up with wee Eddie Sheeran 
in her hotel room. My brain refuses 
to process this information. 

Word is going around that Taylor Swift has a new man, except that the word is wrong. On all counts. 

First of all, Brit songwriter Ed Sheeran isn’t new, at least not to Taylor. They were pretend-linked before, but only because he had a crush on her and tattooed her album on his arm, which was supposed to be romantic but was just creepy. 

Now, websites from Rolling Stone to DListed are reporting that Too Swift and Hobbity had a cuddlefest in her hotel room until 4 a.m. and are "back together," but I have so many reasons to not believe this (even though it's been weeks since Taylor last chewed up a boyfriend and she's gotta be getting hungry). And I am totally guessing but my guesser is pretty well-developed. Not unlike my butt. 

But I digress…  


She totally wants me 
1) Been there done that

2) He’s a ginger-boy. Nobody likes a ginger-boy. (Unless he’s a royal ginger-boy)

3) He’s shorter than she is

4) His eyes look in opposite directions. So creepy. “Hey are you staring at that chick?” "Yes, but it’s okay, babe, because my other eye is totally fixed on YOU!"

5) He has "friend zone" written all over him

Friday, 1 March 2013


Holetown, Barbados (Or, what February would look like if it took its meds.) 

Good riddance, February! You sure made it easy to say goodbye to you this year! You could have left on a high note, breezing out the door on a mistral wind, but no. You decided to throw one last farewell fit, slamming us with freezing sleet, biting winds and more goddamn snow. No wonder they threw Valentine’s Day in the middle of your miserable little month. It’s the only thing that keeps us from wanting to throttle you with our bare chapped hands. If you were a dog, you’d be one of those hideous hairless tufted Chinese things. If you were a box of chocolates you’d be those cheap ones that don’t have ANYTHING but soft-centred pink goo inside of them. If you were a tree … well if you were a tree I’d hack you to bits with a rusty machete, you vile hateful mean-spirited ghastly psychotic . . . "*mmpphwwp!* Let me go you dirty bitch!" 

EDITOR'S NOTE: Er… Whorrified has been called away on…er…an important business matter. I will leave you with this gorgeous photograph of Holetown, Barbados, one of her favourite places in the world. It’s safe, it’s beautiful, it’s friendly, it’s got the best food, the best beaches, the best everything. Please enjoy this photo as a token of her…er…busy-ness. 


 is reportedly showing Miley Cyrus's betrothed 
what he'll be missing should he decide to stay 
with his lesbian hillbilly girlfriend. Nice of her...

So Miley Cyrus’s fiancé Liam Hemsworth, 23, to whom she refers to as her "husband" because guys LOVE IT when you do that, is probably cheating on her because everyone says he is and also, why wouldn’t he be? 

The alleged incident happened after the Oscar party on Sunday when Liam and a harlot were seen flirting heavily and then leaving in the same car. (A car in which Miley Cyrus was not present. I'm just sayin'.
The alleged harlot is Mad Men star January Jones, 35. Who is a single mother with a "fast" reputation and also, ew, she ate her own placenta. Not even kidding

Well I don’t know much about you, Liam Hemsworth, but this seems like a kind of lateral move… 

Thursday, 28 February 2013


I was really feeling bummed out this morning. Because it’s February and it’s cold and slushy and dreary and I have to cut this sentence short or I’m going to jump out of a window. (Right after I finish my coffee with Bailey’s. Just because I’m depressed doesn’t mean I have to waste the best liquor ever invented.) So. I started reviewing the day’s celebrity news and I see there’s this thing going on, there's a facebook page, there's a whole Why Do We Hate Anne Hathaway movement that’s enjoying a surge of popularity in the wake of her nipply Oscars appearance. 

What? Why, I suddenly feel so much better! I’ve been hating Anne Hathaway for some time now and I was sure it was just me. I want in on this! I have the chops, I have the bile necessary to qualify me for a superior position in this movement. I’m not usually one to brag (except when it comes to my hair) but by God, nobody is better at wanting to kick this woman right in the cervix than I am. Seriously, when she won the Oscar for best supporting actress and burbled and nippled her way through her acceptance speech I had to physically restrain myself from crapping my pants. 

Anyway, the subject of her hatefulness has been covered off by everyone from Gawker to Joan Rivers, so there’s no reason for me to weigh in … except that I WANT to. So here, in point form, is my list of reasons why people can’t abide Anne Hathaway. 

  • She's boring.
  • She has jazz hands.
  • She's a try-hard: she shaved her head for Les Mis! She ate nothing but oatmeal paste for weeks! She is so amazing! Just ask her!
  • She actually said "It came true!" when she won her Best Supporting Actress award. In a way that implies we were all in on this secret prayer to God: Please let Anne Hathaway win! 
  • Does there have to be a reason?


The Gashlycrumb Tinies by Edward Gorey

It’s a jolly good thing my kids are grown up and out of harm’s way. Because I am not the sort of mother who is on trend these days. I drink too much, swear too much, wear the wrong things, say the wrong things and above all, I do the wrong things … usually while drinking and swearing. (I may have a lot of bad habits but by God they are beautifully co-ordinated!) 
My worst sin, by today’s standards, is that I hate how we overprotect our kids. I hate how we mollycoddle them. I hate how we sanitize their lives so thoroughly that alarms go off and the police appear at your door if you let your kid watch Bugs Bunny and The Roadrunner instead of The Care Bears Save Kittens. 

One of my proudest moments as a mom was the day my firstborn’s kindergarten teacher put up a gallery of the children’s paintings: there were flowers, frolicking lambs, clouds, stars … and a blood-soaked tableau of a Doberman and a wolf locked in fang-to-fang combat. My baby! So proud! (Say, if you ever need a babysitter, I’m good with kids. And crafts!) 
Anyway, now that I’ve set the table it will come as no surprise to you that I used to read Edward Gorey’s The Gashlycrumb Tinies alphabet book to this little lass. And she loved it. LOVED it. Just as I loved it when I was a child. Oh how I longed to be Zillah, who died in the best way of them all! By today’s neutered standards, Gorey's books are borderline child abuse. By mine, they are brilliant. I’ve reprinted the fabulous alphabet poem below. Now that’s what I call literature.

A is for Amy who fell down the stairs

B is for Basil assaulted by bears

C is for Clara who wasted away

D is for Desmond thrown out of a sleigh

E is for Ernest who choked on a peach

F is for Fanny sucked dry by a leech

G is for George smothered under a rug

H is for Hector done in by a thug

I is for Ida who drowned in a lake

J is for James who took lye by mistake

K is for Kate who was struck by an axe

L is for Leo who swallowed some tacks

M is for Maud who was swept out to sea

N is for Neville who died of ennui

O is for Olive run through with an awl

P is for Prue trampled flat in a brawl

Q is for Quentin who sank in a mire

R is for Rhoda consumed by fire

S is for Susan who perished of fits

T is for Titus who flew into bits

U is for Una who slipped down a drain

V is for Victor squashed under a train

W is for Winnie embedded in ice

X is for Xerxes devoured by mice

Y is for Yorick whose head was knocked in

Z is for Zillah who drank too much gin

Wednesday, 27 February 2013


Britney Spears has dyed her hair dark 
and now her fan can't even find her.  

Britney Spears had to be escorted out of a Target store in L.A. by security because she was being mobbed by nobody. Absolutely nobody batted an eyelash at the sight of a drab, sloppy-looking Brit, who was buying a pack of gum. 

Because this is the sort of banal task you suddenly have time to do yourself when your career's heart has stopped beating and your eyes have taken on that dead, glassy stare that may mean you are tired or may mean that the gum is to help with that constant, meth-addictish urge to chew your own fingers off. 

I don't know, I'm just guessing, because like the hordes of non-existent fans, I wasn't there. 
Click here to see pix of Britney and her security escort and tell me, which one looks more bored?

Editor's note: Well, you mean bitch! The reason Britney wasn't being mobbed is because she is UNRECOGNIZABLE with her new hair colour.
My note: And yet a pair of monster sunglasses, a wig and a Goofy hat aren't enough to throw Beyonce's fans off the scent. Weird.

Tuesday, 26 February 2013


 Us city folk sometimes forget that this is the way God intended us to spend winter weekends.

I don't even know how this happened. One moment I was stopping in on a friend and his new bride and his army of dogs to check up on my enchanted lakeside cottage (you remember, I talked about it here), the cottage that will one day be mine because he totally promised it to me when he was out of his mind on peyote. Or maybe it was vodka. I can't remember because I can't listen to people who are on peyote unless I have had an entire bottle of wine. That's my translater. I run gibberish through it and intelligence comes out. It's the weirdest thing.

And the next thing you know, they're inviting me to stay for dinner.
And then a few drinks. 
And then night falls over the enchanted lake and we throw some logs on the fire and more people with more dogs stop by and the three bottles of wine and eight bottles of beer that seemed excessive an hour ago suddenly don't seem like enough, so my friend's new wife, though she has been in this country less than three months, proves she's a fast learner because she suggests a run to the Licker Store before it closes. (Even more impressively, she has learned all the key curse words and run them through her own translater, so that they come out like this: "They try to cheat me, those suckcockers!") 

This is definitely not the way 
God intended us to spend 
winter weekends. Nevertheless ...
And I don't recall anyone leaving the cottage, but something clearly happened because the next time I turn around, the kitchen counter has impregnated itself with a shiraz-filled turkey baster and given birth to a litter of Hypnotiq and Courvoisier. I decide it would just be RUDE to leave now. I am nothing if not a sensitive and well-mannered friend.

Next thing you know, our host has the music cranked up in a way only people who live in remote areas can crank it and it went on and on until it was tomorrow. Rinse. Repeat. Another tomorrow. I have now been here for three days and if I don't show up for my court-mandated gynecologist appointment tomorrow someone please have Puslinch Lake dredged because it is NOT like me to miss a gynecologist appointment.  
Unless there's a party going on at an enchanted lakeside cottage.  


Just look at that rosy glow. The are only 
two reasons a man ever looks like this: 
1) he's pissed to the eyeballs, or
 2) he's made of ham. 
Paul Smith/Featureflash

Well this is huge news for vodka distillers: permanently blotto screen great Gerard Depardieu has been officially registered as a Russian resident. His new address in the city of Saransk is 1 Democracy Street, which is almost as drama queen as the tax spat that was his reason for disowning his homeland of France in the first place. 

Workers at Stolichnaya are reportedly apoplectic with glee. "Just think of all the overtime we'll get!" they crowed. (And my Russian is a little russki rusty, but I believe that would sound something like this: "отравления алкоголем!")

Editor's note: There really should be some sort of international law against ever allowing Vladimir Putin and Gerard Depardieu to live within mingling distance of each other. This isn't going to end well.

My note: I'm not sure what you're implying, but whatever it is, my money's on Vlad.

Monday, 25 February 2013


 (If you can call Forest Hill the bottom.)
Canadian rap superstar Drake has released a sizzling new video that puts Toronto squarely on the "cool" map. It's kind of embarrassing and yet also kind of wonderful how excited we get when we see it for the first time.
And by "we," of course, I mean "I." Yes I actually did squeal "OMIGARSH! That's Shoppers Drug Mart! Look! That's Forest Hill! Holy crows is that Drake's real MOM, in front of his real HOUSE?" Yeah. Don't pretend you didn't do the very same thing. 

Click here to watch the video for Started From the Bottom. I'll give you five hundred and zero-ty bucks if you don't feel a little thrill of recognition.

Editor's Note: I auditioned for the part of the guy who films those two girls butt-dancing, but they said my hands were too shaky.