Friday, 8 March 2013

SARAH THOMSON CRIES WOLF, GETS TREATED LIKE A DOG

Sarah Thomson with Toronto Mayor Rob Ford
Facebook photo


If you're going out tonight, here's a foolproof magic trick to impress your friends with. Divide a room full of people right down the middle with a single question: "Where do you stand on the alleged 'Rob Ford grabbing a fist full of Sarah Thomson's ass' incident?" (Be sure to use the word "alleged." Toronto Mayor Rob Ford and LAWSUIT go together like ham and gravy!

You will be shocked by how visceral, and how divided, the reactions are. 

For those of you who aren't on Facebook or Twitter ... well first of all, welcome Cro Magnon! I didn't think you still existed! ... here's the background. Formal mayoral candidate Sarah Thomson was at a party last night and says Rob Ford made a suggestive remark and squeezed her backside when she greeted him. She then posted a photo of herself standing beside Ford, who appears to be melting from the inside out, with the comment: “Guess where his hand was in this picture? I must go shower.” She added: “Is grabbing someone ass assault (sic)?”

Within moments, the photo-allegation went viral. It's all anyone can talk about today; Sarah has consented to and been taken apart in at least three interviews and it's not over yet. (Interestingly, Rob Ford has not agreed to a single interview, though he issued a firm denial via press release.)

What has been fascinating, and also depressing, to witness is how the tide has turned as the day wears on. A scandal that started out making Rob Ford look bad (not a difficult task these days) has somehow morphed into an all-out attack on Sarah Thomson's credibility, motives, judgment, reputation, even her attractiveness.

  • "But you are smiling in that picture!"
  • "But Rob Ford has never been accused of touching anyone inappropriately!"
  • "Why you didn't go to the police?"
  • "Had you been drinking?"
  • "Why did you post this picture on Facebook?"
And so on and so on and so on.
Because that is what always happens when women go public with allegations of sexual assault. 

I'm not saying Rob Ford did grab Sarah's ass. In my personal opinion he appears to be seven different kinds of slimeball who has lied about having a DUI, who has been known to become drunk and belligerent in public,
who inappropriately solicited funds for his football team and who commandeers city buses for personal purposes. But maybe he draws the line at ass-grabbing. I don't know, I wasn't there.

I'm not saying Sarah Thomson didn't make this up. In my personal opinion, if she is telling the truth, she ought to have gone straight to the police. But I've been sexually assaulted before, as have most women, to some degree or another, and I know that many of us never report it.
Largely on account of the shit-kicking we know we're going to get if we go public. (I told my lawyer about one of the incidents and he laughed. I kid you not. So imagine what kind of blowback a woman would get if, say, the perpetrator was Arnold Schwarzenegger.)

Anyway, my point is not whether or not this actually happened, because we'll probably never know for sure. What matters here is how the allegation is being handled, on International Women's Day, ironically. 

We've come a long way, baby. Or have we . . .

THE REAL REASON SKINNY KELLY OSBOURNE COLLAPSED

Kelly Osbourne/CreStock
Kelly Osbourne was rushed to the hospital yesterday after she collapsed during a taping of Fashion Police. She reportedly felt faint, turned to cohost Melissa Rivers and said, "JESUS CHRIST, I'M STARVING! Give me half a low-fat wheat thin, will ya!?" before sagging to the floor in a heap. 

Okay, she didn't say that, and yes, I am a bad person who is going to hell, but I'll worry about that when I get there. And so will they. 

What she actually said was "I don't feel good." But any idiot can see that, even though the official word is that Kelly is "exhausted," she is in fact starving. And very likely on weight-loss pills, some of which I consider to be only slightly less dangerous than crack cocaine. 

So let's please stop saying drastic weight loss is marvelous and that every woman is meant to look like Victoria Beckham, because it is not healthy and it is not true. Ladies, give yourselves a break today and have that piece of red velvet cake. Because if Kelly Osbourne had done that, she might be sleeping peacefully at home in her OWN bed tonight.

Editor's note: Well this isn't what I had in mind when I suggested an International Women's Day message, but it'll do.

RIHANNA WANTS TO HAVE A BABY WITH ... WAIT. REALLY?

FUTURE MOTHER OF THE YEAR 
 RiRi practises her morning-sickness coping skills. 
(She took to this one like a duck to water!)
Rihanna as seen in Rolling Stone 
 
As repeatedly stated by Rihanna, Chris Brown is all better now. In fact his violent temper has healed up so nicely she feels it is now safe to expose her uterus to him.

That’s right, Rihanna, who must have smoked a gagger the size of a Denali before this interview, tells Elle UK she wants to have a baby with Chris. Which is totally amazeballs, isn't it? This is exactly what this blessed union needs: a shrieking, wailing, pooping infant that demands every waking second of its mother's attention, because violent psychopaths LOVE it when that happens! This is going to be so great!

Especially now that Chris doesn't flip out anymore. 

I mean there was that one incident two days ago when he exploded on a parking valet at a bowling alley, but let's face it, that dude was asking for it. Trying to extort Chris Brown for an exorbitant $10 parking fee. Please. Celebrities are hurting just like the rest of us! Chris went ballistic on the guy, cursing, screaming, refusing to hand over the "funky ass ten dollars" and threatening to unleash his breezy fists of fury. But other than that one incident, Chris is fine. He's fine! 

In fact, the only problem I can foresee here is that Rihanna is going to have to part with her virginity. That is going to be very difficult for her, I think.

Editor's note: I'm sure Chris will be an outstanding sperm donor. Just . . . maybe don't let him take the kid bowling. Cuz that seems to be a trigger.

Thursday, 7 March 2013

IT'S THURSDAY! WHO WANTS TO OGLE MY SAGGY LINKS?

THREE THOUSAND BUCKS IF YOU CAN GUESS WHO THIS RAGING SEX PISTOL IS. 
Haha. Just kidding. I don't have three thousand bucks, but I bet I just made you feel a lot better about the state of your own ass. (Hint: Don't Hassel the Hoff!)


Several readers complained about the "political nature" of some of my recent posts, here and here. Hel-lo! Trying to crawl out of the gutter here, people! Give me a hand up instead of a push down, will ya? 
Anyway, to help get the offensive taste of erudition out of your mouth, I decided to offer up a buffet of completely fluffy, flabby and very likely surgically enhanced titillation today. I present to you, courtesy of The New York Daily Times, a gallery of photos of celebrities taking their sheepish bodies to the beach. You think YOU look bad in a bathing suit? You won't after you peruse this smorgasbord of fleshy disasters. Please get your fill of Quentin Tarantino's arse and Judge Judy's midriff, because tomorrow I'm going to be writing about Noam Chomsky, world's most BORING intellectual. I might be kidding, but you won't know that till tomorrow, so for today, boobs. And Rod Stewart in a Speedo. Click here and enjoy. 

Editor's note: Several readers also complained about the "missing" link, above. All fixed now, thanks for kvetching!

E FIXE! THREE-QUARTERS BRAZILIAN . . . AND GROWING

My daughter Mini Me and her then-boyfriend. 
(It soon became obvious there was 
a Brazilian elephant in the room ... )

A goodly number of you (editor's note: three) have written to ask what my nationality is. This amuses me, because I thought it was obvious: I am 100 per cent heterosexual. (Editor's note: No, they mean ... My note: I know. I'm being difficult. It's who I am.)

Anyway, it's funny you should ask because this is a topic of some consternation in my family. Since I was knee-high to a caipirinha I've been telling people I am three-quarters Brazilian. This used to drive my father nuts. Dad was born and raised in Brazil, and married a Canadian of Irish descent. How I got "three-quarters Brazilian" out of that never ceased to annoy him. 
I tried to explain to him that I felt connected to my Brazilian heritage on a spiritual and a cellular level. One of my brothers felt much more connected to his Irish heritage. It's not a choice one makes, it just is. (And also, I suck at fractions. There's a reason I became a writer and that reason is math = yuk.)

What's really great about this bloodline is that it is growing purer with every generation. One of my daughters, the one I call Mini Me for reasons that will soon become obvious, got herself into quite a pickle when she met a boy and told him she was 100 per cent Brazilian. She who has never set so much as a three-quarters-Scottish toe on Brazilian soil. 
"You've gotta back me up if he asks!" she told me one night in a panic.
"Honestly, Mini Me!" I scolded. "I do not know where you get this fibbing streak from!"
"Well I didn't think I'd ever see him again and now we're going steady!" she wheedled. "Please? Please tell him I was born there?" 
"Fine. Let's rehearse our story . . . first of all, you didn't tell him my real age, did you?"

Well this charade eventually had to be put to a confusing death when the young man proposed to her, and I sure hope he doesn't read this blog because he has now just discovered that his beautiful bride is in fact only five-eighths Brazilian. Which is still tudo legal . . .

 

Wednesday, 6 March 2013

THAT'S THE KIND OF JOKE THAT'LL GET YOU KILLED

Facebook photo posted by a co-worker with a shoe fetish and a death wish.

I am a woman who cherishes her shoes. In fact they are as dear to me as my children, except that my shoes will never grow up and leave me and remind me of all the times I served burnt marshmallows and cubes of cheese on skewers and called it dinner. (So guess what? When I die, the shoes get EVERYTHING!) Therefore you can imagine my horror when I logged on to facebook on my day off yesterday and saw this image. Of my favourite child shoes, my siren-red suede stilettos, on the brazen harlot feet of a co-worker who found my hidden shoe stash and penetrated my babies with her striped-socked feet. And then posted the image with the words: "If you get bored at work, put on a co-worker's shoes on her day off." 

She might as well have couriered a severed horse's head to my front door. There are no words for how violated I feel. Except all the words I just used here. 
My only consolation is imagining her catastrophic, humiliating and possibly even fracturating tumble when she tried to stand up and take more than two steps in these bad boys. Girl, this friendship is OVER!

Editor's note: I ... uhm. 
My note: What. WHAT?
Editor's note: I have to confess, I was the one who told her where you hide your shoes.
My note: Well now I have two people whose coffee will be getting poisoned.

CHARLIE WANTS TO MAKE AN HONEST GODDESS OF LILO

"I LOVE CHARLIE SHEEN SO MUCH!"
 I could just kiss him! But not sleep with him.
 Because I've never slept with him.
At least not that I can recall ... 

Photo/CreStock

And from our "What An Awesome Idea, Why Didn't I Think of That?" files, we have Charlie Sheen offering to save and mentor wee Lindsay Lohan. 

Yes, according to TMZ, from whom I scoop so much news I would actually consider paying them royalty fees except that I like to think I make their scoops better, Charlie says he's worried about the troubled young snortlet. He says he developed a "kinship" with Lindsay over many long nights of pipe-sharing  Scary Movie 5 and says she "clearly needs a mentor, whether she wants one or not. (Ominous?!?) If she listens, she'll win. If she doesn't, that's on her."

He also notes, with suspicious a propos of nothing-ness, that he has never slept with her and in fact "never laid a finger on her that wasn't on film." Which instantly makes me think, "Eew, he filmed it?"

Editor's note: Signs you've hit rock bottom: Charlie Sheen offers to mentor you. 
My note: Why are you being so mean? That's my job.

PINK PUTS ALL THE OTHER NEW FATHERS TO SHAME

WHAT'S PINK AND HARD AND TATTED  ALL OVER? 
Singer/new mom heats up Miami beach while her 
cunning body double (background) acts as a decoy.
Hey look! It’s a man in a bikini! 
That is so cool! I mean, why shouldn't he? He's like, "Who cares about gender rules, it's 2013! I can wear a boykini if I want to!" 
He's ... it ... oh. Wait. Never mind. 

Editor’s note: Whatevs. She is SO jealous of Pink’s rock-hard abs and boyish hips she can barely think straight.
My note: Fortunately, thinking straight is not a requirement for this blog. In fact it’s an impediment.

AND POOF, TERRENCE HOWARD BECOMES A MORON

"OOH I LUV ME SOME PLUS-SIZE LADIES!"
Terrence Howard, star of Hustle and Flow, 
Iron Man and Crash, has been outed 
as a dish who is best served mute.
Photo/CreStock 

 
What’s the word I’m looking for here? Ah yes: Gross. Terrence Howard, for whom I previously had neither respect nor disrespect on account of he generally manages to stay off the pap radar, has plummeted directly to the bottom of the trash barrel with his comments on working with Oprah in The Butler

In an interview with Movie Fanatic, Howard actually said the best part of filming a love scene with Oprah was those “tig ol’ bitties.”  
Eeew. Nice to know he respects one of the most powerful women in the industry on such a glandular level. This is Oprah Winfrey we're talking about, not Mama June, you fucking idiot.

Editor's note: Mind you, I am suddenly very curious to see that love scene.
My note: Whereas I am suddenly feeling the urge to vomit. That is the difference between men and women, right there, in a nutshell. 

Tuesday, 5 March 2013

HOW TO TELL YOUR FRIEND HER MAN IS A DOUCHEBAG

THE REIGNING QUEEN OF DOUCHEBAG DATERS
And I'm not judging because we've all worn
that crown at one time or another. I myself have  
occasionally worn it, although this is not the time
or place to talk about the many douchebags
who never had any money or who flirted
with other women right in front of my face.
Photo/CreStock



I had an upsetting experience recently that left me in a position every woman can relate to: wanting to tell a friend her boyfriend is a douche. It’s a prickly situation, and yet so incredibly common there really ought to be a guidebook on how to handle it.
And it turns out there is.

Because while randomly trolling the Internet for hot deals on toilet paper (is it just me or has the price of EVERYTHING gone berserk lately?), I stumbled across a website devoted to how to tell your friend her boyfriend is an asshole. That’s right: an entire website. Which is necessary because A LOT OF NICE WOMEN DATE ASSHOLES, or maybe it just seems that way, in the same way mothers always think their son's girlfriend is a whore.
Anyway, this website goes to a lot of trouble detailing the best way to tell your friend her boyfriend is a douche, complete with profiles of the various types of douche, tips on how to handle that particular type of douche, how to deal with the aftermath, and so on.

And here's the sad thing about it: All that work was for nothing.
Because in my experience (having been on both the giving and the receiving end of the "your boyfriend is a douche" conversation), telling your friend the hurtful truth does exactly ZERO good. None. Nada. Zip. Zero. Stingy with dineiros. (Sorry. Just lapsed into Jay-Z lyrics there, that was random.) 

Because here’s what usually happens:
If he’s really a douche and she isn't ready to see it, she will get mad at YOU for saying so. 
If he’s really a douche and she's waffling, she’ll tell him you said so. And then they’ll both be mad at you.
If he’s really a douche and she is ready to see it, she will get mad at you for adding to her humiliation. 

No matter which option you choose, you wind up looking like the douche. 
So, here's my advice on how to tell your friend her boyfriend is a douche: Don't.
If he's really a douche she will usually see it for herself eventually. And eventually always comes faster when well-meaning friends just get out of the way.

Editor’s note: As much as this entire piece sounds like it was directed at Rihanna, I can personally attest to the fact that it was not. Which is good because Rihanna just got a brand new butt tattoo (of the Tibetan word for “lover,” see it right here ) that one can only assume was meant as an endorsement of Chris Brown’s excellence in every regard.
My note: Wouldn’t it be funny if her Tibetan tattooist was a prankster and it really says “MY BOYFRIEND IS A DOUCHE”?

Monday, 4 March 2013

A MOMENT OF SILENCE FOR MY DEAR FRIENDS



Whorrified is in mourning mode this evening. Some very dear friends got some very sad employment news today and I just don't feel like spinning piffle as if nothing had happened. 

Thinking of all you, my sweet, funny, talented and hard-working friends, and praying that the good things you deserve will soon find you.

In closing, I leave you with a Winston Churchill quote one woman posted on Facebook in condolence: 
"If you're going through hell, keep going." 
("He was right," she adds, "and he won a war.")

Sunday, 3 March 2013

DO BLONDES REALLY HAVE MORE FUN?

This is me, un-naturally blonde. It's not a bad way to be . . .

My hero Cher once said: "I've been rich and I've been poor. Rich is better."
Which reminds me of my sentiments about hair colour. Because I've been brunette and I've been blonde. Blonde is more fun.

I conducted a little unintentional research on this theory several years ago, when I wanted to change my natural brunette shade but wasn't sure which hair colour to go with. So I test drove wigs in various colours and styles, and what I learned was that you can go from tepid to traffic-stopping with the flip of a lid. Quite literally.

Growing up, I learned that my natural dark hair got only moderate attention. There were no double-takes, no instant sparks of interest. So when I tried out a sleek red wig with long bangs and long straight hair, the effect was startling. 
Complete strangers made sexual advances. One guy said as I passed him on the sidewalk, "Wow! What does it feel like to be an angel that fell out of heaven?" Another walked by, stared, then turned to blow a kiss. AND HE WAS WITH HIS GIRLFRIEND! 
It was the weirdest thing I've ever experienced. Let me tell you, if you decide to go red, you'd better be able to take the heat.

Next, I tried a blonde wig. And when I say blonde, I mean platinum. Suddenly, I was a bimbo. And also a tart. At least that's how men treated me. I got whistles, I got catcalls, I got winks, I got propositions. Basically I got treated like a stripper. Had I worn the pair of clear heels I actually do own I'm sure I could have made some serious cash.

My favourite blonde story: I went to an awards banquet wearing that hot blonde wig. An older gentleman became drunkenly smitten with me and followed me around the room like he couldn't wait for me to stop moving so he could Velcro himself to my leg. I was aghast. I had no idea who he was but I thought he might be Ezekiel. He was that old. 
Weeks later, I started a new job. I got into an elevator, wearing my natural brunette hair. And who gets in with me but Ezekiel! He looks at me and then looks away. Not a clue, not a flicker of recognition. I passed him many times in the weeks afterward and it soon became obvious he didn't realize that I was in fact the blonde that had almost given him a stroke. To him, I was just some boring brunette. (I've since toned the blonde down a few shades and find life a lot more manageable.)

So, do blondes have more fun? Well, it depends on what you mean by "fun" ... but they sure as hell have more opportunities.

Editor's note: Interesting experiment. I personally believe that during the quality time a man spends with himself, the object of his fantasies is blonde.
My note: Thank you for that information. And now I am going to go dye my hair gorilla black.