Saturday, 31 December 2016


Will Ferrell, Anchorman 2, Whorrified,
I'll be back in two days three, max.
Anchorman 2: The Legend Continues

Making New Year's Eve plans? Allow me to weigh in, because if there's one thing I know like the back of my butt it's revelling. And Ryan Gosling's naked loins, but I'm trying to keep this one family-ish. So if you're underage stop reading right now and go help your dad's girlfriend clean the house. Whatever you do, don't stay here and click on this link and ogle the boobs. (Why, you little brat!) 

There are five things I'd like to caution you against this New Year's Eve and throughout the new year, mostly because I need all of you to be alive and reading my blog in 2014 but also because I care. 
Rest assured that I will be personally observing every single one of these recommendations tonight except one of them. And it isn't No. 2. Or No. 3. Or  ... (Editor's note: Oh fer fuck's sake. They know. They know!)

1. Don't drink too much.
2. Don't forget to wear pants. It's going to be minus-yourtesticles out there tonight.
3. Don't get on a moped. Unless you only need one of your legs.
4. Don't come to Brampton. It's ugly and there's nothing here to see because the power's probably out.
5. Don't go to see American Hustle. Will Ferrell's hairy arse in Anchorman 2, that's what you need to be looking at when 2014 rolls in.

And that's about it. I may have forgotten something but I can blame that on my moron Editor later, so y'all go and have yourselves a fantastic New Year's. See you next year! *shakes tassles, opens tequila bottle with her teeth*

MORON EDITOR'S NOTE: Dear God. I can feel her hangover already.
MY NOTE: *positions bottle carefully* Here darling, have some champagne. I insist ... 

Monday, 21 November 2016


I know we all ought to be worrying full-time about the fact that a giant orange lizard is poised to take command of the White House, but the news that Kanye West has been hospitalized for a nervous breakdown just broke and now I can't think about anything else. Because in a world where Kanye West can get away with punching paparazzi, ordering the president not to speak his wife's name and literally saying the words "I am Shakespeare in the flesh" without being straitjacked and dragged away in a net, Kanye West being admitted to a hospital for excessive ranting is a huge deal. Uuuge!  

For those of you who read the New York Times or almost anything more intelligent than TMZ, let me bring you up to speed, while simultaneously wondering why the hell you're reading Whorrified (Editor's note: I'm sure they're only here for the pictures of Piggly Wiggly). 
On Saturday night in Sacramento, Kanye interrupted his own concert to deliver an epic screed in which he slashed everyone from Beyonce to Hillary Clinton. He lambasted people for not believing the bullshit story that his porn-star wife was robbed in Paris, criticized Facebook boss Mark Zuckerberg for failing to give him $53M to get out of debt (!!!), complained that Beyonce won't attend awards shows unless she is guaranteed the top prize, and said he was hurt that Jay Z didn't visit his family after the "robbery." And in case you're wondering at what point things cross the line from normal Kanye ranting to insane Kanye ranting, apparently it's begging Jay Z to spare your life. Because he then went on to suggest that Jay Z employed hitmen, saying: "Jay Z, I know you got killers, please don't send them at my head."

Of course, epic rants are about as unusual at a Kanye concert as pants falling off at a Justin Bieber concert, but this one was so beyond the pale that there are fears Jay Z may actually have him killed. As well as fears that Jay Z may actually NOT have him killed. And so, if for no other reason than to avoid being murdered, Kanye has checked into a hospital in Los Angeles and cancelled the remaining dates of his Saint Pablo tour. 

Don't get me wrong: I'm not worried about Kanye and I sure as hell don't feel sorry for him. I just find it thrilling in a deliciously schadenfreudy kind of way. And now that I've brought this crucial item to your attention, we can now get back to the second-most important task of the day: lobbying to have the Great Pumpkin impeached and replaced by the vastly more amusing and far more capable Alec Baldwin in full Donald Trump regalia. AMERICA: WE SHALL OVERCOMB!

RELATED: * Kanye West's insanity is going to need its own blog soon
* So Kanye is actually giving the President orders now

Thursday, 10 November 2016


Is this recyclables offering to your liking? 
You'll notice I took the liberty of throwing in 
some cleavage. And a hint of bra strap. If that 
doesn't work, I guess I'm just going to have to 
sleep with you!

I'm a little late getting to my blogging tonight because it's garbage night. Which means I had to spend half an hour sorting and arranging the recyclables in an attractive fashion.

Because I don't know about the garbage men in your town,  but Brampton garbage men are fucking picky. If it doesn't look nice enough, they won't take it. I had a shouting match with one of them a few weeks ago when I came out just in time to see him turning his nose up at it and starting to drive away. When I asked why he wasn't taking my garbage, he said, "Because it offends me." Well not in those words. What he actually said was, "It's all jumbled up and I can't see what's what. It looks like you've got some non-recyclables in there."

Well I was livid. "Jesus!" I huffed. "You're might picky for a garbage man!" Which of course was the wrong thing to say because although he might have been persuaded to take my messy garbage before I said that, he sure as hell wasn't going to take it now. He drove off and left me there with my unfit detritus, and I had to wait until the following week to rearrange it in a more tempting display and hope someone else was on duty. 

Then one week I put a red bow on it. Which was sarcasm, but he either didn't get it or did get it and liked it, because he took the garbage ... and the bow. 
Next week, I'm signing up for an "artful garbage presentation" class, in which we will learn to make stinky items smell better and to arrange rotting vegetable matter into happy faces. 
Holy shit, people. When did life become this complicated?

Friday, 28 October 2016


'I'M A NASCAR DRIVER' YouTube (video below)
After giving up drinking during the week, I survived a weekend of unprecedented debauchery but the drink didn't make me as crazy as I'd hoped. In fact, I'm thinking of taking up a new spirit: Novocaine. That shit's amazing. Just look at this teenager who's as high as the Burj Dubai on the stuff, which has not only taken away her pain but also somehow convinced her that she has just "won the World Series of being the fastest NASCAR driver." 

I spotted this video at work on Friday ... oh please, like you don't trawl the Internet for cheap laughs on a Friday (and Thursday, and Wednesday, and Tuesday, and Monday). We're allowed. It's practically in the Charter of Rights. Anyway, I was immediately obsessed. I sat there, tittering drunkenly at my desk, clicking Repeat, Repeat, Repeat, like a senior on a fixed income at a 25-cent slot machine, killing off a good half hour of precious work time thanks to Annie and her Novocaine bender. My favourite moment? Exactly 3:41, when Annie points menacingly at her mom and slurs: "I'm a NASCAR driver." Annie, you are the cutest little cotton-ball stuffed dental patient EVER. (P.S. If it turns out Jimmy Kimmel-toe had anything to do with this, I'm off the YouTube for good. I hear Instagram has some great Intervention knockoffs.) 

EDITOR'S NOTE: Aw, this just warms my cockles.
MY NOTE: Of your heart.
MY NOTE: You have to say "this warms the cockles OF MY HEART." Otherwise it's just friggin gross.

Tuesday, 25 October 2016


piggly wiggly, jian ghomeshi, lucy decoutere, trailer park boys, sex allegations, kevin donovan, toronto star, halloween costumes, bombay sapphire,
Just throw your best family-sized chocolate bars at us and concede trick-or-treat defeat. 

*And now, direct from the Whorrifiles, I hereby gift you with this irresistible blast from the past (below), in anticipation of Piggly's 2016 Hallowe'en outing. During which she will be dressing up as a ... well, I think I'll just pull a Donald Trump here and 'keep you in suspense.' Unlike his bullshit campaign, this suspense will be worth it! 

This. This adorable face. The joy, the innocence the sheer PIGGLY WIGGLINESS of it — this is exactly the tonic I needed after a solid week of trauma that included the funeral of a national hero and the explosive news that Jian Ghomeshi's private life is no longer a mystery, it's a horror movie. (Click here to read the latest shocking allegations, but I warn you, they are both NSFW and unfit to share blog space with a precious nine-month-old cherub. No one will compare ME to Mama June!)

This photo of my granddaughter taking her very first Halloween costume for a test drive is like a shot of overproof sunshine. It's even more adorable considering that the poor little pudding just got over her first cold … and  in the nick of time too because I am really counting on eating all the chocolate she gets when she goes trick-or-treating. 

We won't trouble ourselves with the niggling issue of just what the hell is she dressed up as (A kitten? A zebra? Big Ears Teddy?) because when your cheeks are this goddam squeezable it doesn't matter. The candy is going to pour into that trick-or-treat receptacle like Bombay Sapphire into a bucket. What? Why are you looking at me like that? Isn't that how everyone drinks it? Yes I tipple a bit but I'm an excellent grandma, you assholes! *slaps pasties onto bared drunken bosoms* HALLOWEEN! Woohooo!!! Two more sleeps, Piggly Wiggly! 

Monday, 24 October 2016


Nike, SportChek, Dri-Fit, Nike Pro, workout gear,
I foolishly assumed this Nike outfit's $200 pricetag was a gentleman's promise that it wouldn't disintegrate on the first wear.
I have a confession to make: I buy overpriced Nike workout gear. It's part of an ongoing effort to trick myself into going to the gym often enough to counterbalance a diet of constant pasta and booze and a work environment comprised of so much sitting my arse is literally starting to take on the shape of a chair. An ergonomically designed, lumbar-supporting, executive office chair, mind you, but still: a chair. Nobody wants a chair-shaped ass.

So I think I can be forgiven if, on my few precious days off, I sacrifice my wallet at the altar of SportChek so that I'll feel obliged to drag my body to the altar of GoodLife. Hence I've been treating myself to everything from mesh trainers to psychedelic track suits and venturing further and further afield to find ever more psychedelic outfits at ever more exorbitant prices until finally ... I hit the wake-up wall. 

This happened when I fell in love with a black-on-black Nike Pro Dri-Fit track suit with a fluorescent lemon-meringue-coloured swoosh. It's a little more subtle than the Nike Pro Dri-Fit track suit I got for Christmas but it has the same great fit and feel and, to be honest, the same cachet that comes with a swoosh one paid 200 bucks for. So you can imagine my chagrin when I got home, slipped into my hot new getup and heard a sound that can only be described as "rrrrrrrrrrrrrip." And looked in the mirror to see that the beloved "swoosh" had split in half and was curling up at either end like a scab. An obvious political protest to which I responded with a mix of rage and shame.

Because here's the thing, Nike: I already feel dirty enough for buying a product you paid some nine-year-old to cobble together. I already feel dirty enough paying $200 for a product that probably cost you $12. Your role in this disgusting charade is to convince me that, at some point, some major quality control honcho is brought in, perhaps even paid a living wage, someone who sees to it that the seams, the zippers and most of all THE GODDAM NIKE SWOOSH do not explode the second one of us materialistic Western mall whores tries it on. That is your job. Your only job. (Well that and, presumably, ensuring the underage Indonesians don't burn like kebabs when the shithole factory goes up in flames for the thirtieth time this year.) 

It doesn't seem like too much to ask but apparently it is and so guess what, Nike: I'm finished with you. The appalling shoddiness of your overpriced gear has, belatedly I admit, brought me to my senses. I will not EVER, I promise you, pay so much as five bucks for one of your wretched pieces of shite, even if it means I have to go to the gym in the nude. Furthermore, I'll be shipping this particular piece back to you and expecting a full refund, which I will then spend on pasta and booze, because what the hell, at least I don't have to picture Indonesian children succumbing to heat stroke while I'm enjoying it.

EDITOR'S NOTE Although, to be fair, those Indonesian kids are tougher than you might think. As this video clearly shows.

Sunday, 23 October 2016


and my sensible shoes, in my 
home office, where I  ... wait. 
Those wine bottles; I specifically 
 told him to crop those out. EDITOR!!!

It occurred to me the other day, as I took yet another tumble that I don't want to talk about but which was quite humiliating, involving vagina-flash and lying spread-eagled on a sidewalk, that we haven't had an update on my leg in quite some time.
In fact, my leg is the one that brought it to my attention.

"I'm not enjoying being attached to you anymore," it whined as my  physiotherapist mauled it like Alec Baldwin mauling a paparazzo. 
"Yeah well I don't give a flying fuck," I retorted. "You should have got better faster, you should have supported me instead of folding like a tripod in front of my very workplace and then maybe we wouldn't be going through this now."
"You could at least tell people how I'm doing," it sulked. "I'm sure they want to know."
"Shut your leghole before I kick myself down the stairs again, you wheedling little shit," I growled. And I meant it.

But let me backtrack a bit. For those of you who missed the posts about how my leg almost got blown off my body during a fun-filled vacation in Bermuda, it's been six months since the infamous mopedectomy. (You can read about it here.) I thought it would be all better by now, but it's not. It twangs with literally every step I take. 

Of course, any normal person would have admitted they needed intensive physiotherapy. Any normal person would have admitted they're not 45 anymore and don't just snap back from hangovers, let alone cataclysmic accidents, the way they used to. Any normal person would not stay up late after working a full day and write profanity-laced blogs about famewhores. So there you go. We've established that I'm not normal.

Therefore, I did not start physiotherapy until three weeks ago. After I'd tumbled for, oh, I'm gonna say "the sixth time" since the accident. (I do a lot of tripping over absolutely nothing since my leg went retarded. It's very sad.)
So there I was, getting massaged by my physiotherapist, when his eyes fell on the shoes I'd positioned neatly by the bedside.
"Wow," he said. "Those are crazy."
"I figured you'd approve," I said.

"How do you walk in them?" he asked.
"I don't walk in them," I said. "I fall. A lot." 
He looked so crestfallen I decided to stop being an asshole for a moment. "They're sitting shoes," I confessed. "I take them off if I'm actually going to be walking anywhere."

At which point my leg decided to pipe up.
"No she doesn't!" it tattled. "She walked all the way down to the cafeteria in them and had to hang on to the railing for dear life! I was really really scared!" 
Well that did it. Of course, I pretended to be calm in front of the physiotherapist (you never know who's gonna rat you out to the authorities) but the instant I got my leg alone, I gave it damn good thrashing. It's pretty much laid up in traction now and if it utters one single peep the rest of the weekend, I will be very, very surprised.

EDITOR'S NOTE: *clutches pearls* That's just vindictive!
MY NOTE: Yeah well you're next, wise guy. Don't think I didn't notice that wine bottle stunt.

Monday, 3 October 2016


Kim Kardashian would like you to know that she was robbed at gunpoint. And it's a fairly telling commentary that almost nobody believes this bullshit story.

In a story that's sounding more like a ratings ploy by the second, TMZ is reporting that porn star mother-of-the-year Kim Kardashian was robbed at gunpoint in her lavish Paris apartment. The story we are being asked to swallow is that  five men disguised as police ordered the concierge to let them in, somehow muscled their way past Kim's useless personal security guards, almost ruined her fake lips by duct-taping them shut, threw her in a bathtub and then made off with $10 million worth of jewelry that was left precisely where they expected it to be. TMZ reports the thugs knew exactly what they were doing and "beelined" for the jewels, and that Kim pleaded for her life and said she had "two babies" that needed her. Don't worry, the kids weren't with her .... hahaha, as if, you guysThose kids are being raised by nannies for good reason 

Kanye heard the news of the insurance scam catastrophe while onstage in New York and cut his concert short to fly to Paris to fire EVERYBODY ... and to make sure Kim'
 boobs hadn't been injured. You don't mess with Kanye's personal belongings, yo.  

I'm not sure what to make of this tale, except I would note that Kim skipped Blac Chyna's baby shower for this trip to Paris, so if Blac and Rob were behind this stickup, it wouldn't surprise me one bit. *gun emoji, gun emoji, gun emoji*

RELATED: This isn't the first time Kim Kardashian's trip to Paris went sideways.

Friday, 30 September 2016


Photo by George Biard/Wikipedia
Today in "Things that Oozed from Donald J's Mouth," we have Trump admitting that he found 12-year-old Paris Hilton attractive. 
The Donald belched this runny tidbit during an interview with Howard Stern. 
While Trump was discussing women he did or did not find hot (hint: not that fat pig Machado), he brought up Paris Hilton.

“Now, somebody who a lot of people don’t give credit to but in actuality is really beautiful is Paris Hilton,” he said. “I’ve known Paris Hilton from the time she’s 12, her parents are friends of mine, and the first time I saw her she walked into the room and I said, ‘Who the hell is that?’ ”

He then went on to call Hilton “dumb like a fox” and admitted that he had watched her sex tape. 

About the only thing more shocking than this is the fact that anything this talking sphincter says still has the capacity to shock us. If he hasn't crossed your boundaries by now, you don't have boundaries. So please don't vote.    

RELATED: Paris Hilton has a career again. Thanks, Lil Wayne!



Monday, 26 September 2016


Man, this 'class' thing sure starts early with the Brits. Because Prince George is what, three years old, and already he knows instinctively to recoil in politely restrained horror when a commoner attempts to touch his royal person. A video of the little scamp thoroughly rejecting our Prime Minister Justin Trudeau's various attempts at a greeting ... high-five? low-five? handshake? how 'bout daps? ... has gone viral and I can't get enough of it. I want someone to make a video of Prince George meeting and then snubbing every single world leader starting, of course, with Donald Trump. "I'll thank you not to taint me with your leathery orange pauper skin, sir!" From his head to his knee socks, this kid is totally king material.

Thursday, 22 September 2016


Chrisa Hickley/Wikipedia
So the Brangelina divorce is proceeding amicably. Wait ... *consults dictionary* ... horribly. Make that "horribly." Because until today we all thought the worst thing about Brad Pitt was that filthy hemp beard and a bad weed habit. But now it turns out he may also be a prolific screamer and kicker of children, if TMZ is to believed. (And alas, TMZ is usually to be believed. I don't know when they became the official "trusted celebrity news" source but I do know it was years before Trump became the likely next President of the United States of America, so this meltdown of the nation's soul has been going on for a while.) 

TMZ is reporting that police were called on suspicion of child abuse stemming from an incident on a private jet, during which Brad "Bad Dad" Pitt allegedly imbibed so many of his favourite substances that he mistook his kids for people he hates and completely lost his gourd on them. The fun continued on the tarmac afterwards, with a concerned airline staffer calling police. And I hope that concerned staffer also surreptitiously took photos on his cellphone, because he could retire on what TMZ pays for that sort of shite. 

This incident is reportedly the straw that broke Brangelina's back, with Angie filing for divorce the next day. Multiple news sources are now reporting that the FBI has spoken with Brad, who admits he "yelled" at 15-year-old Maddox but vehemently denies he laid a hand on him. It's all very sad, and will no doubt lead to further lawsuits because, hello! I thought weed was supposed to make you mellow? That'll teach you to buy discount pot from Chris Brown's dealer.

Read the full TMZ 'exclusive' here.

Wednesday, 21 September 2016


BRANGELINA with their six-pack of children. 
 And you can tell by Brad's "scary muttering vagrant" beard that the sheer joy of family life is already starting to get to him.

I'm no marriage expert (although I am highly skilled in divorce), but I can't say I'm surprised that Brangelina have decided to call it quits. Or more specifically, that Angelina has decided to call it quits and Brad is pretending "the commandment" was a mutual decision. You can't make an alpha male out of a lapdog. Nor can you have a relationship in which one person's vision just keeps getting deeper and more humanitarian, while the other's shrivels up to the point that all he really cares about is how long he has to wait before he can light up another doobie without having her bark: "REALLY, Cheech?" 

There are many rumours about what really caused the breakup, the most titillating but least likely of which alleges Marion Cotillard allowed filthy-bearded Brad Pitt to bed her (Cotillard: "Dude! You're about 10 years too late."). There's also my personal belief, which is actually one of the laws of the universe: that wilfully shatting on your "sexiest man alive" status by growing a stinky squirrel pelt on your face is tantamount to writing DIVORCE ME in pig's blood on your forehead. I'm pretty sure Johnny Depp knows what I'm talking about.

But the most persistent, and probably most truthful, story is that Angie has had enough of Brad's "weed and alcohol dependence" and feels it's affecting the children. (Editor's note: Uhm, Angelina: he stayed with you through cancer and you have six brats running around your house. LET THE MAN HAVE A GODDAM SNOOTFUL OF SCOTCH ONCE IN AWHILE!) Which just goes to show it doesn't matter how beautiful you are or how much money you have, if you've been together 12 years and you've got six kids and you're approaching your best mid-life crisis years, you're going to hit some potholes. The key is whether you decide to ride through them or bail out of the old jalopy and buy a new one. 

Money helps make the second option a lot more attractive, and frankly, having been in my fair share of old jalopies, bailing out isn't always the worst option. Particularly if the entire family is unhappy in the old jalopy. Which leads us to about the only thing that really matters, and that is what happens to the children. Mock Angelina's controlling, orphan-hoarding  ways as much as you want, you can't deny she seems to put her children first. And despite Brad's regrettable personal grooming habits and pot-addled milquetoastery, there is no indication that he is anything but a devoted father and a decent, if incredibly boring, man. 

So I'm fairly hopeful that their kids will come through this thoroughly Hollywood upbringing mostly unscathed. Although that's never actually happened, ever, in the history of Hollywood divorces, so I don't know what the hell I've been smoking, but it wasn't half bad and I'm going to have to ask Brad to hook me up with some more of it. It's practically legal here in Canada now. Thanks, Justin Trudeau!

EDITOR'S NOTE Well she MUST have been smoking something because she didn't call either of them a whore and she didn't use the f-word once.

MY NOTE That's because I'm off the hooch again. Don't worry. That ends tonight *checks watch* actually, right now, and then the speculations about who will turn into a bed-hopping train wreck first will commence in earnest. So far, the smart money's on Brad.

Tuesday, 20 September 2016


A thrilling moment from the royals' last visit to Canada.
 And may I just say that with the amount that one cost us, surely we could have treated them to a new red carpet. 

Depending on how you feel about the antiquated, no longer  relevant, offensively classist institution that is the British monarchy (I'd tell you how I really feel about it, but my grand-daughter is poised to marry into the family), you  may find the news of next month's tour of British Columbia and the Yukon thrilling. And if you do, it is my duty as an underpaid churl to dump clotted cream all over your joy by informing you that this fantastic little junket is going to cost Canada a bundle. Meaning that according to reports, we'll be picking up the tab for the royals' Northern exposure, which will no doubt include such historically important moments as troops inspections and Inuit greetings, to the tune of *reads number, blinks* WHAT? At that price, they'd DAMN WELL BETTER SWING THROUGH BRAMPTON! I'm not letting Piggly Wiggly marry somebody she's never even met!

EDITOR'S NOTE: *sighs* Well, judging from the size of that bottle she just opened, the mistress is done for the day, so I'll provide the pertinent information she left out: the cost. 
While the cost of the Canadian tour won’t be known until after the eight-day trip, past royal visits have yielded these patriotic price tags.
Will and Kate’s 2011 tour cost $1.2 million

A two-day visit by Princess Ann last year cost $128,000
The Queen’s 2010 nine-day tour came in at $2.79 million. 
MY NOTE: No wonder they're not revealing the cost of their tour until they're safely back in the motherland. Although if Kate pulls one of her infamous bum-flashes, it might just be worth it.