Thursday, 18 December 2014


mariah carey, piggly wiggly, mennonite, daughter, moron editor,
Sorry about the clutter in the foreground, but hey, it was a gathering that involved my mother's presence. It's a miracle I'm not completely obliterated by vodka bottles.

Whorrified's note: Today's guest post is brought to you by my daughter, who wrote this in the wee hours of Christmas Day while she was being held hostage by one wide-awake Piggly Wiggly and her projectile vomit. She had tried to reach me by phone earlier but I was offline because what is Christmas Eve if not a perfect excuse for bacchanalia? It's what Jesus would have wanted. By 2:30 a.m. she was getting worried and yet also fairly certain I was just up to my old tricks, so she decided to send me this special message of love. She wrote it in the dark, on her cellphone, while sleep-deprived, yet it's hilarious because she is not only sweet and lovely but also smart as a whip. And while the whole thing is a pack of lies (except for the part where she says I'm beautiful), as a work of fiction it's fairly amusing so I thought I'd share it with you. Plus I'm too hungover to write my own post. Enjoy!

We interrupt our usual celebritardity to bring you this Whorrifying news: the "spiced" eggnog had its way with your favorite harlot last night and she will be offline for a few days. Let's just say I haven't seen her this incapacitated since that time she discovered "all-inclusive" meant she could drink 'til the resort paid her to leave. 
By suspicious happenstance, she gave her editor Christmas Eve off. I'm sure she had something wicked planned for her devoted reader and with the moron out of the way, I quiver to think what she might have inflicted on you if the eggnog hadn't KO'd her. (See photo, below, and prepare to go blind.) 
But God doesn't make mistakes, friends. This was pure fate. I knew one day I would have my revenge!

You see, being the daughter of a toothless Mennonite is bad enough, but try being adopted by a diva the likes of which makes Mariah Carey look like an amateur.
This is the woman who made a name for herself by sharing the personal details of raising three teen girls — let's just say we got a weekly roasting via her "blog" (before the era of blogs) — in our local newspaper.
This is a woman who encouraged me to shave my head and then allowed me to get the words "YOKO" carved in what was left of my hair. (If I recall, her exact words were "Short is really in right now; you've got the perfect face for it!")
This is a woman who is 5'8" and yet has the cajones to wear 6-inch stilettos while grocery shopping. 
A woman who is half a century old and by God looks younger every bloody decade.
If you're under 30 you can't trust her near your closet, your makeup, your man ... come to think of it, you'd best not even open the door. (I hear garlic works for such a woman.)
I can't think of a single day growing up that I didn't have to ask "Do you have to exercise in your bra and panties, Mom?" or "Did the neighbours really see you in your 'workout gear'? Does this mean we're moving again?"

 My mother's idea of suitable grocery-shopping attire.
I could go on, but as I think on it more, I see that there may just have been a method to all her madness. I'm beginning to realize that many of the values I hold as pillars in my life were learned by watching my creator. She taught me to be tough, to speak up for yourself, to take care of yourself, to work hard for the things that matter to you, to use what you've got to get where you want to go, to forgive and forget, to always put your family first and that no matter what happens to you in life, no matter how much of a pickle you're in, you can always count on your mom to be there for you.

A few other noteworthy attributes I can thank her for:
Thanks to her gene-math I am 125 per cent Brazileira 
My temper is shorter than my pinky toe
Sarcasm pretty much runs through my veins
I'm obsessed with fitness. Yes, I too have fallen victim to the bra-and-panties workout gear. I totally get it now!
I'm a career woman and proud of it
I've been told I look just like her. Obviously I am stunningly beautiful. *flicks hair*

Most of all, I am whole, complete and comforted in knowing that I have two wonderful parents who, although they did not raise me in the same home, provided me with as much if not more love than a "normal" nuclear family. There are no presents to give a mother to show her how much you appreciate her, all I have is time, love and words. So, Mom, this is my gift of words to you. Merry Christmas and thank you for being you! (P.S. Turns out Mom is a fantastic Glama, too. Piggly Wiggly pretty much dictated this whole post! "Love you Glama, you're my guardian angel xoxo!" P.W.) 
And now let's all bow our heads and pray for what really matters ... a speedy recovery for Madame Whorrified. This site is way more fun with greasy arses and twerking hillbillies.
 (Oh stop it. You know goddamn well I'm the one at left.)